Page 116 of Velvet Cruelty

I grit my teeth. “Fine.” I get a bunch of stupidly expensive yellow roses and January does a decent job of looking bored as she picks her nails at my side. She should really be on her phone, but I’m not giving her one. She can buy something when she gets to where she’s going. It’ll be safer that way.

“Here,” I say handing her the roses. “All yours.”

The corner of her mouth twitches. “Thanks, dad.”

As we make our way to the elevator, I think of her father, Nicholas Whitehall. He gave in to cancer without stopping his viper of a second wife from doing whatever she felt like after his death. He knew what she was, warned her not to meet with Parker, but he never took steps to protect his daughter.

If I was January’s father, I’d have sold off my foreign properties and tied up the money in trust funds the stepmother couldn’t touch. I’d have sent January to a Swiss boarding school to grow up in the snow and soft skies. Made sure she came into millions as soon as she turned eighteen. But that’s rich idiots. Always thinking nothing can hurt them, even once they’re dead.

When we’re in the elevator I hit the button for the sixth floor. Zia Teresa is in room 612. As the elevator moves, I hear January’s shallow breathing and think about her sprawled in bed, my tongue between her legs. She was under me, moaning and seconds away from coming. All I had to do was plant my cock inside her and end it. But I couldn’t take her virginity. I don’t know why. Only that I’d have cut my dick off before I slid into her.

Maybe she’ll fuck a man as soon as she lands wherever she goes. Get rid of the thing that everyone wants. Maybe she’ll even fall in love with the guy. Some nice, normal guy who vows to protect her and give her the safe little world she craves.

I’ll still find her. I’ve tasted her cunt and watched her dance. I was the first man she offered herself to. We’re joined now. As long as she’s alive, she’s mine.

We exit at the sixth floor. January walks too fast up the hall. I yank her shoulder, make her slow down. She’s crying already. Tears splashing onto her slutty pink dress. I turn my face away. I can’t stand women’s tears. We pause outside room 612.

“Five minutes,” I repeat.

Her eyes are fixed on the door. “Of course.”

I grab her chin. “Your Zia looks bad. She might not be conscious. You scream or make any noise, I’m coming in there and shoving my hand in your mouth.”

She looks me right in the eyes. “I promise I’ll be quiet.”

I release her. “Then go.”

She keeps staring at me. “Adriano. Thank you.”

I clench my jaw and say nothing.

She opens door 612 and slips inside. I give her a couple of minutes before I stick my head in. The room is dim, with thick curtains drawn over the windows. There are cards and flowers everywhere. January sits beside the bed, her face buried in Teresa Calderoli’s sheets. The old girl looks bad. Her face is a mess of purple and both her arms are in casts. Whoever worked her over went beyond the call of duty. She’s unconscious or the stuff in her IV is helping her sleep. They’re probably more generous with meds in a place like this.

“You okay?” I ask.

She lifts her head, makeup smeared around her eyes. “Is it time?”

I want to lock her in the basement. Hide her away from everything that makes her look like this. “Not long,” I say, closing the door on her.

We passed a coffee machine on the way from the elevator. I find it, prepared to shove any amount of money into a slot to get some. It turns out to be free. I press a button and watch the freshly brewed beans pour into a paper cup.

My phone buzzes. Eli ringing me. I’ve already got messages and missed calls from Bobby and Doc. So, it begins.

I shove my phone away and take my coffee. It’s too hot but I empty the cup into my mouth anyway. I was hoping January’s Zia would be awake. I wanted to see if the relationship was mutual or if the girl had projected a mother onto another disinterested party. Looking into my empty cup, I find myself hoping it’s real. That someone loved January the way Magdalena Rossi loved me. Stupidly. Against all her better judgment.

Mama feels close in this hospital, so different from the one where I watched her die. Eight hospital beds crammed in a room, dead-eyed doctors giving distracted updates, their minds already on the patients who might live. Eli wanted to pay for a private hospital, but I knew it was too late. I was just waiting for her to go. I close my eyes and see her in our tiny green kitchen, folding varenyky and singing along to the radio. I’m older than she was now and everything about that is wrong. I was supposed to die young.

A noise behind me. A squeak like a scuffed shoe.

Time folds backward, peeling away like the point of a blade. I pull my Glock from my shoulder holster but it’s too late. I know it like I know my name. The bullet slices my side. I turn, clipping a short guy through the forehead, but I’ve barely had time to aim at the massive blond behind him before someone grabs me. I heave against them, breaking their hold but they jam their fingers into my bullet wound, tearing downward. My head splits open in agony.

“Take him down!”

The massive blond sprints toward me, I raise my gun as his fist slams into my nose. The pain whips the air from my lungs. I collapse onto my knees, gagging on blood.

A woman screams. January? I push my foot into the floor and try to stand but the blond kicks me in the chest. I sprawl onto my back and my fake glasses go flying. I hear them splinter on the floor. An ambush. A stupid run-of-the-mill ambush.

The metal tang of blood goes down my throat and I hack it up. The blond takes my gun, and spits in my face. “Fucking scumbag.”

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