“Maybe you and I should head upstairs, baby. I booked a suite, and it seems a shame not to make the most of it. A sweet thing like you would look so pretty in my bed.”
“No, stop it,” I spit, only my words are little more than a whisper. My mind flashes back six months to when a fat trucker pushed his hand between my thighs. I freeze.
In my head, this isn’t a high-end hotel; it’s a filthy truck cab, strewn with fast-food wrappers and empty Red Bull cans. The man in the suit is the trucker in a stained plaid shirt from that awful night, and he plans to rape me.
I want to fight, but I’m paralyzed. My legs give way, and I slide down the wall. Hands grope my breasts, pinching and hurting. I want to scream, but I’m locked inside my body. Powerless.
Black spots float across my vision before my eyes close. I shut down.
Abruptly, the hands touching me are ripped away. There’s a thud and a gurgling cry. I curl up in a ball on the soft carpet and pretend I’m somewhere else.
In my childhood bedroom, with Coco nestled in my arms.
“You’re okay, princess. I got you.” Someone lifts me, and I’m held so tight I can barely breathe. When I finally dare open my eyes, the man who assaulted me is being dragged away by two of Angelo’s men. I’m not sure if he’s still breathing, but it doesn’t matter.
Shivers rack my body as Angelo holds me. We stand for what feels like ages until he gently brushes some stray strands of hair away from my cheek.
“I’m sorry, Chiara. That shouldn’t have happened.”
“It’s okay,” I tell him.It’s not the first time. When Angelo cups my face in his hands, I realize I said the last bit out loud.
“Tell me who fucking hurt you, princess,” he snarls. I instantly regret my confession. Unless he tracks down every long-distancetrucker in North America, there’s zero chance of finding the asshole who tried to rape me.
Angelo stands close, barking orders at his men, four of whom are hovering by a second vehicle. The shock of being sexually assaulted has faded somewhat, but I shiver in the cool night air. Fall has arrived, and the temperature drops fast once the sun sets.
“I have to go to the hospital,cara,” Angelo says in a calm voice. It’s weird. He’s acting like a different person. A man I could actually care for in a different universe.
My brain struggles to reconcile this version of Angelo with the man who married me against my will. So I nod like a vapid doll.
Thank fuck Lorenzo is long gone. I’d hate for him to see me this broken and pathetic. After tonight’s fiasco, it’s clear I need therapy because burying my trauma is doing shit for my mental health.
It’s been a while since something triggered me this badly. Working in bars meant I had to get used to casual touches daily, which acted as exposure therapy. In time, I could hide my reaction when a man touched me without permission. Usually a knee to the balls did the trick, and they backed off.
But tonight…well…I guess there are no rules when it comes to PTSD.
Thank fuck Angelo was there, or that man would have taken me upstairs and…I swallow hard as bile surges up my throat.
The word hospital finally registers. Why is Angelo going to the hospital? Luka pops into my mind, and I freeze. Oh fuck, is he alright?
I reach out and grab Angelo’s arm. He turns in surprise because I never usually touch him willingly.
“Is Luka hurt?” Angelo registers my fear and grits his teeth in annoyance, apparently unhappy I give a shit about his brother.
“Luka’s fine,” he snaps. My shoulders relax. I’m not sure why my mind went to Luka when Angelo mentioned the hospital, but knowing he’s not lying in the ICU is a relief. “Kane’s going to take you home,” he says.
From the coldness in his eyes, I’ve pissed him off by asking about Luka. Part of me feels guilty about that because tonight was the first time we connected in any meaningful way. But dammit, I care for Luka, and I refuse to pretend otherwise.
Kane approaches. He and Angelo exchange words. I don’t bother trying to listen. A few photographers huddle outside the hotel’s main entrance, waiting for celebs to appear, but they studiously ignore us. I wonder if the family has paid them off; photos of Angelo with armed men around him aren’t good PR.
“Ready, kitten?” Kane sees me shivering. He removes his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders. The jacket smells of him, and almost immediately I relax. Angelo notices the gesture and scowls some more.
Not to be outdone, I scowl back. Now I’m feeling more myself, we’re back to our usual hate-dynamic. It seems to suit us better than the weird protective bullshit from earlier. I’m not sure I want the viciously protective version of Angelo in my life. It’s a lot harder to hate a man who treats me like the most precious thing he has.
37
Angelo
Ronald Conti lives alone in a modest house at the end of a quiet suburban cul-de-sac. The surrounding properties sit on large private lots, screened by trees and mature hedges.
