16
ROMI
“Hello,Cattivella.” A shudder runs through me the moment he whispers against my ear. My heart is pounding, and I feel alive, knowing that I’m dancing on the edge of something dangerous. And this is why I came—for answers.
I don’t know why I’m so hellbent on uncovering his secrets. I shouldn’t care, and usually I don’t. Maybe it’s the risks—a new type of high—that have had me following him and trying to catch him doing… well, whatever it is he does. I even stayed awake for days, waiting for him to return home, but he never did. I'd thought he was coming home in the early hours of the morning, but there doesn't appear to be any rhyme or reason to his schedule.
And although that’s possible for a doctor, I trust my gut to know something is off. And doctors certainly don’t walk into restaurants, go into the back, and return minutes later covered in blood.
With startling clarity, I understand that Dante is some kind of thug.
I don’t even know how he perfectly timed the tequila shots coming out, but I throw mine back, not entirely certain if I do itto take the edge off or because I still won’t step down from this asshole's challenge.
When I meet his gaze, those dark-brown eyes glitter with mischief, and I realize he wants me to ask. Wants me to be curious about him, and I fucking hate the fact that I’ve played right into his hands.
“Let’s take this somewhere else, shall we?” he suggests as he places the empty shot glass down.
A small part of me is reluctant to follow him. I know better than to do so, and yet I’m up on my feet, doing precisely as I’m told. I need to get to the bottom of this, though I understand the stupidity of my curiosity. I should be scared of him. And the most terrifying part of all is—I’m not.
When we reach the curb, he offers me his helmet and then walks toward my driver, whom I specifically told to wait out front. I’m left gobsmacked as I realize he'd known I was following him the whole time.
“She no longer requires your services,” he says to the driver, handing him a few hundred-dollar bills. He comes back with an arrogant smirk. “Don’t be so surprised,Cattivella. You’re as subtle as a wrecking ball. Are you hungry?”
My mouth opens and then closes. “I’m not eating with you.”
“Pity, I’m starved,” Dante says as he mounts the bike. “All the torturing really builds an appetite.”
His gaze locks on me, challenging me in a way I don’t entirely understand.Torture.He says it with such ease, as if it means nothing. He has, after all, returned home most nights with blood on him. This is a game to him, I realize, and there isn’t a twinkle of remorse in his eyes.
It’s as if he wanted me to catch him.
When he notices my hesitation to hop on the bike with him, he makes a point to say, “I’m not going to hurt you, sweetheart. If there’s one thing I can promise you, it’s that.”
“Isn’t that what most psychopaths would say?” I challenge, my heart rate spiking from a mixture of fear and exhilaration. It’s so messed-up.
“Don’t worry. I already checked myself for that; not quite there on the spectrum. I’m just a ruthless asshole,” he says with a sickly-sweet smile that runs a chill down my spine.
“Is that supposed to comfort me?”
He lifts a shoulder, unbothered. “No, it's just the truth. Do what you like with it. Now, are you hopping on or not?”
“Where are we going?”
That devilish twinkle returns in his gaze. “It’s a surprise.”
My eye twitches ever so slightly. As if he didn’t piss me off before, now there really is a lethal consequence. And for some reason, that’s what pulls me toward the back of his bike, and I put the helmet on.
Like a moth to a flame, I’m curious to reveal his deepest, darkest secrets, if only so I can continue to avoid mine.
He revs the engine once, and the moment my arms wrap around his stomach, we’re weaving in and out of cars in the early hours of the morning.
My heart is pounding, my mind spiraling on all of the worst-case scenarios.What if he does murder me? What if my body ends up chopped up into tiny pieces and buried where it will never be found?
For the first time in a long time, I feel alive, but in a sick and twisted way. I’ve lived in perpetual numbness for months, and the idea that I might come to an unjust end feels…
Well, I feelsomething.
I cling tighter to the devil himself, surprised that he’s the anchor to all of these mixed emotions that are different from the ones I’ve been drowning in since Lorraine's death. It feels like I’m fighting to breath, to survive, and tocareabout myself again.
