But he will answer to me.
“Rico,” I scream his name so loud to where it echoes and strains my throat. I scream his name over and over again until my vocal cords shred.
Fucking damn him.
Tears burn at the back of my eyes. Why must crying be my reaction to everything? Even with my anger. They land on my cheeks. Such a betrayal. Each one burning more than the last.
“Please don’t tell me you’ve chosen him as your favorite,” I hear a man’s voice that sounds youthful and lighthearted say to me. The crinkling of the plastic alerts me to know he’s close.
I grit down on the back of my molars and wait for him to stand in front of the light.
“Because I think my feelings may be hurt.”
“Who the hell are you?” I ask hoarsely.
He gasps like he’s been offended. “We’ve met. Unofficially of course. You were kind of out of it.”
I correct him, annoyed. “Drugged.”
He snaps his fingers. “Si. Drugged. Anyways I’ve already met you Imogen Murphy. You little runaway. But allow me to introduce myself.”
Finally I see him. He rests on his haunches but his presence is still quite large. There’s an easy smile on his face that showcases almost perfect teeth. A piece of dirty blonde hair lays down his forehead, right between his eyes. They’re kind. A juxtaposition to the eyes of the average Made Man.
“The name is Pietro Morelli,” he says cheekily. He then holds out his hand. A large roughened hand with knuckles red and bruised. I glare at him and he at least has the decency to look sheepish. He retrieves his hand and slides it through his hair. “Sorry. You’re all tied up.”
“Really? I haven’t fucking noticed,” I bite.
He snorts. I roll my eyes. “Funny. Too bad the man you’re calling for lacks humor. I can at least appreciate the art of sarcasm.”
My lips twist. “I don’t care what you appreciate. And I don’t give a flying fuck about you. Where is Rico?”
Feigning being hurt he places his hand over his heart. “You’re killing me, princess.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap.
His hands come up in surrender. “Apologies.” The insane part? He actually sounds sincere. What weird twilight zone of Made Men did I fall into?
He rises, towering over me. There’s something about the Italian Mafia men that are just built. . .different. Because the men at home? The men at home aren’t nearly as physically intimidating.
“Step away from her Pietro or it will be your blood covering the plastic.” The monotonous voice of the man I’ve known all of three days calms me. It wraps around me, providing security like a blanket.
Pietro playfully winks at me before taking a step back. “I was just getting to know our captive.”
“My captive,” he corrects. That shouldn’t relieve me and yet it does. Better the enemy you know than the one you don’t.
He waves his hand dismissively in the air. “Semantics.” Rico ignores him. Pietro doesn’t appear to be bothered. “But since sleeping beauty here is up?—”
“I am not a princess,” I remind him through clenched teeth.
“Va bene, va bene,” he says in his language apologetically. “We can begin the fun.”
A bucket of cold water douses over me at his words. “What fun?”
He wiggles his brows with a manic smile. “You’ll see.”
Heart racing my eyes seek for Rico. I know I’ll be met with a stoic expression and eyes devoid of emotion, but it will be welcome.
Sensing my panic he replaces the spot Pietro had just left. I stare in his eyes. His unfathomable deep eyes that could drown me if I let them.
