Page 74 of He Should Be Mine
I swallow. I debate telling him. But no good will come of that. Ignorance will not protect him. And Isabella was kind enough to warn.
“It’s Isabella,” I say weakly. “She says…” I pause and decide not to paraphrase. I’ll simply read the text out to him. “She says,I’ve put something in Rick’s coffee that will give him a limp dick. Warn your boy.”
Molly’s blue eyes widen. The flash of fear I see in them tears at my soul. He doesn’t ask why Isabella has done this. He can tell from meeting her once that she’s not the type of woman to meekly accept that her husband is sleeping around.
He understands it was nice of her to give him a warning. Because we all know Riccardo will be enraged. He will feel humiliated. He is going to be frustrated and furious.
And we all know who he is going to take it out on.
Chapter twenty
Dario
Molly’s bright blue eyes stare back at me as we both digest the implications of Isabella’s warning. My phone is in my limp hand, motionless in the air between us like some kind of beacon of doom.
The light in Molly’s eyes changes. I’m watching him bury his fear, pack it away like the useless thing it is.
He shrugs. A graceful roll of his still naked shoulders. “Limp dicks are an occupational hazard. I know how to handle men when their masculinity is challenged.”
His words are like jagged shards of ice striking me in the heart. I hate the thought that he was in danger in the past. History is a place I cannot reach, it is not something I can fix, make better or save him from.
“This is Riccardo we are talking about,” I say hoarsely.
I’m not sure if this is something I can protect him from, either. I’m useless. I’m even more impotent than Riccardo.
Molly winces slightly, a barely-there creasing at the corners of his eyes. “It’s fine.”
But it’s really not.
My gaze flicks up to the camera. I’m so glad it doesn’t record sound. All Riccardo will see, if he looks, is me and Molly standing by the sofa having a chat.
“What if you ply him with drink, get him really drunk?” I suggest. If he passes out before attempting anything, there won’t be any failure to get enraged about.
A strange look passes over Molly’s face. “He…” he pauses, as if he doesn’t want to tell me the next bit. “He usually wants to get straight to business.”
Molly looks away. The very lightest tinge of color runs along his cheeks. That’s not like him. He doesn’t do shy or embarrassed. He gleefully throws his lack of shame in people’s faces to make them squirm.
I hope I haven’t said or done anything to make him feel awkward. I don’t care at all that he is a sex worker. I only care that it is Riccardo, and that’s only because the man is a cruel, sadistic asshole.
And he is not me.
I have to admit that. I’d hate anyone who Molly belonged to. But I don’t begrudge the boy his trade. It suits his free spirited nature. Even though I strongly suspect there were many times when it wasn’t much of a choice at all.
Like when I brought him here and handed him over to Riccardo.
My grip on my phone tightens. My other hand curls into a fist. I try to fight it. The past is the past and there is a very real present problem to face.
“Make yourself ugly?” I say, even though I doubt that is possible.
Molly scrunches up his nose.
“Say you are sick?” I blurt. I’m running out of ideas here and I started by clutching at straws.
“He is a bit of a germ phobe,” Molly says thoughtfully, as he tilts his head to the side.
I grind my teeth. It is completely irrational to hate the fact that Molly knows things about Riccardo. It’s a stupid thing to be jealous about. Of course Molly knows the man he belongs to. It is his job.
“You might be on to something there, Duckling!” He smiles.
