A hot, blinding rage boils up in my chest.
Isabella has the audacity to tell me she can’t look at her sons because they remind her of her monster, yet she spends her nights in the bed of his twin? She’s fucking, cuddling, and playing house with a man who carries the exact same genetic blueprint as the man who scarred her. All while claiming her own sons are too much.
And the worst part? Isabella might be blind to it, but I saw it. That same exact twinge of Morelli insanity in his eyes. He isn’t any different than any of them.
My phone vibrates on the table.
V: I’m at your place.
Chapter Eighteen
Valerio
Aweek without her is a week without oxygen. I’ve been moving through the city like a rabid dog, tearing at everything that moves. Nothing satisfies.
I’m obsessed. It’s a parasitic need to be inside her skin, to hear her heart rhythm and know I’m the one dictating the pace. I’m starved.
I broke into her apartment. I’m a monster. A devil. A thing made of nightmares and bad intentions. But I’mhermonster. I’mhers. Fuckinghers. Every cell in my body is under her command.
I bought every flower I could find. Fifty bouquets. Red, white, purple—lilies and roses. I’ve crowded her small living room with them until it looks like a funeral for the man I used to be.
The lock turns.
I’m on my feet before the door even clears the frame. She startles when she sees me.
I lunge for her, my hands gripping her waist so hard I know I’ll leave marks. I bury my face in the crook of her neck, inhaling her like a drowning man hitting the surface.
“Charlotte,” I rasp.
I kiss her cheek, the hinge of her jaw, the pulse point at her throat.
“I’m a coward,” I mutter against her skin. “I’m an idiot. I’m everything she said I was, but I can’t breathe without you.”
I pull back just an inch, my thumbs digging into her jaw, forcing her to look at me. I want to weep, and I want to kill.
“I’m on my goddamn knees. Forgive me. Please. Just tell me I’m yours. Tell me you won’t let me go back to the cellar.”
I drop, wrapping my arms around her thighs. It’s a pathetic sight—the man who owns the streets of New York, kneeling like a dog.
I feel her hands on my head, her fingers threading through my hair. She pulls, urging me to stand.
When I stand, she kisses me. Only then do I feel like I can breathe.
“My forgiveness comes with conditions, Valerio,” she whispers against my lips.
“Anything,” I say. I mean it. I’d cut off my hand if she asked.
“Condition one: you never run again. If you’re drowning, you drown with me.”
I nod. “Done.”
“Condition two: you tell me exactly what those thoughts are. The ones that ‘disgust the devil.’”
“I’m scared,” I admit, the word tasting like bile.
What if she runs? The thoughts in my head are awful. Monstrous. Any sane woman would flee.
“Don’t be. Tell me.”
