“Do you realize what you’re doing? You’re fucking?—”
I take a menacing step towards him. And I’ll give it to him, he doesn’t cower. We stand eye to eye. I lower my tone and I chillingly threaten him. “Say that Imogen and I were just merely fucking one more time and I’ll cut your tongue out so you can’t speak.”
His eyes narrow. “You’re threatening me over her?”
I tilt my head. “Do I have to repeat myself? Or will action make you comprehend what I’m saying?”
He puffs out a large breath and takes a step away from me. Shaking his head he tells me seriously, “You have to know this won’t end well for either of you, Rico. Where the hell has your mind gone? Logic? Reason? Why are you not seeing it?”
“I see it just fine.”
“And you’re ignoring it?” He questions incredulously.
“I’m not ignoring it.”
“Then explain why you’re not making decisions based on it. That’s who you are. Fuck, it’s why we as a Famiglia value your input so much. And now it’s just to hell with it?”
“I don’t expect you to understand and frankly I don’t care if you do. But if you disrespect her, if you cross her, if anything of ill intention comes her way because of you I will not be responsible for my actions.”
“Dio mio,” he breathes. “You do realize you sound an awful lot like Constantine when it comes to Carina. Do you fully understand what that means?” I raise a brow. “You’re in love with her. You’re fucking in love with Imogen Murphy.”
Love.
Love doesn’t encapsulate what I feel for her. A need. A craving. She consumes my every waking thought. She follows me in my dreams. The feeling without her in my arms is cold and hollow. I want to rip the throat of any man who dares to look at her.
I’m not a man who is religious. But if there is a heaven it’s when I’m buried deep inside her sweet cunt. And if there is a hell it’s whenever her and I are apart.
If this is love then so be it. But love is hardly the word to describe what I feel for her.
“I don’t want to kill you, Rico.” His voice chokes. “If you choose her over us then you’re a threat.”
“I don’t have to be.” He shakes his head disagreeing. Torment pierces his eyes. “Pietro, listen to me. I. Don’t. Have. To. Be.”
“How could you not be?”
I go about this with another tactic. “Then why did you come here tonight? Do Constantine and Carina know you’re here? Do they know the information you’re about to present to me?” His silence answers for him. “Then you have already decided, Pietro.”
“I’ve decided what?” He bites.
“That you’re not going to kill me. Even if I choose her, you're not going to kill me.”
In a second he has the barrel of his gun pressed to my forehead. I stare at him unperturbed. “What makes you so confident?”
Fear.
The one emotion I can specify clearly.
And it’s seeping from every pore of him. The way the gun slightly shakes in his hold. The sweat that beads at his forehead. The tremor at his pulse point in his neck. His pupils dilated and eyes unfocused.
“Because Pietro, you care for me as a brother. Not a Famiglia brother. But a blood one. Deep down, despite my nonchalance and tolerance of your antics I care for you as a brother as well.” The confession comes easier than I thought it would. I never would have admitted it before knowing Imogen. But damn it. I do care about Pietro. In a way an older brother would look after his younger brother despite how childish and annoying they are.
“You’re lying.” His lip trembles as he presses the gun harder.
“You know that I don’t.”
His eyes keep flicking about. His finger stays poised on the trigger. And I wait. I wait. I wait. I wait.
“Fuck!” He roars. With no effort at all I dislodge the gun from his hand. I pull out the chamber, empty it and toss it on the floor.
