Opening it, I take a swig of the stuff. It goes down real smooth, like silk and honey along my throat. The alcohol hits my system as my stomach warms and my skin flushes.
“Nice,” I say to the bottle. “Too bad Maximo will never get to taste you.”
With a skip in my step, I head over to the sink and empty the contents down the drain. God, I hope he has cameras in here to see what I’m doing. I can imagine the horrified look on his face when he plays this back. I hope it hurts.
Speaking of making it hurt… I smash the glass bottle in the sink, then glance around for more inspiration. What does Maximo love? Most things in his apartment are nice, but impersonal. He had to have hired a professional designer to decorate this place.
Wandering the hall, I sneak into his bedroom, figuring if there’s anything sentimental it will be in here. The space is dark, masculine, and smells like him. Going to his closet, I open itto find all those expensive designer suits he wears. The man doesn’t seem to own a single pair of jeans or anything considered casual. Stuffy, wealth-flashingbastardo.
Inspired yet again, I head into his bathroom for a pair of scissors. He only has himself to blame for all of this. He backed me into a corner, publicly announced ourengagement, and left me alone in his penthouse to stew in my misfortune. Obviously he’s not afraid of what I’ll do. I’m sure he really does think I’ll be agood girland spend all day reading, waiting for him to come home so he can boss me around some more.
I’m so over letting other people dictate my life. I’m done.
The sparkle of the pink engagement ring catches my eye under the bathroom lights. It glitters, baiting me.Choice is an illusion. His words taunt me, spurring me into action.
Back in his closet, I take my time going through his Armani suits. I don’t need to look up the price tag on these. I know designer clothes, even if I don’t wear them any more—except for my purses, I could never break that habit. Needing to replace these will hurt his bank account balance.
I snip at the rich fabric, taking out pieces in a decorative pattern, or cutting out the elbows and knees. I make sure not a single suit escapes my destructive alterations.
A maniacal laugh bubbles up my throat as I toss away the scraps of fabric in the bathroom trash. This is unhinged. I should be terrified of what Maximo’s going to do to me when he finds out, but I’m not. I just don’t give a damn any more. He wants to spank me? Fine. Do it.
Obviously, I’ve snapped. This can’t be good. At this point, I don’t even know how far I’m willing to go, or what I’ll do next. Old Elena would be horrified by what I’ve done so far. It’s not just rude, it’s insane and absolutely unforgivable. Which is exactly what I want. I need to push Maximo over the edge, towhere he can’t forgive me and realizes letting me go will save him loads of pain, suffering, and money.
Scanning his bedroom, I notice a framed photo on his wall. It’s a picture of him in Italy standing in front of a sports car. He looks proud, like this vehicle’s his baby.
I’ve seen this car before. It’s downstairs right now, in his garage. Did he really bring it all the way here from Italy? He must be quite attached to it. Destroying his suits and that bottle of Macallan 1926 is one thing. But this… this is next level.
I can’t back down now. I’m channeling Harley Quinn as best as I can right now and she would totally do this shit. Mind made up, I head into the kitchen and grab two bottles of booze from the cabinet, and a box of matches.
The foyer elevator takes me straight down to the garage, not a single guard in sight. I wave at the security camera in the corner. My heart pounds, my stomach’s in knots, but at the same time, I’ve never felt more liberated. This is way more satisfying than escaping to California. I never knew this side of me existed. It’s both exciting and terrifying.
Perhaps all those years under my parents’ thumbs, trying to please everyone, have finally caught up with me. Papa would have killed me for this. Maximo might do the same. But I just…Don’t. Care.
I laugh out loud, and whoa do I sound like an unhinged super villain.
The doors slide open and I step into the underground garage. It’s all thick concrete and a gated entrance. Only Maximo’s vehicles are parked in this private section. He has quite a collection, but I know which one I’m targeting.
Spotting the custom painted Italian sports car, I approach it. It’s a convertible, and he apparently isn’t worried about it being stolen because the top is open, revealing the gorgeous leatherinterior. I take a minute to admire the craftsmanship of the car. Can I really destroy something so expensive and beautiful?
As soon as I have that thought, I shove it away. Maximo isforcingme into marriage. There are no rules. Anything goes. So yes, yes I can.
Twisting the top off a bottle of vodka, I douse it all around inside, soaking the seats and floor. Then for good measure, I empty the second bottle in there too. The leather grows discolored from the moisture. I hope it will actually burn and not just melt into a blob, that would be disappointingly anti-climactic.
I’m pretty sure liquor burns fast and hot, so I step back before striking a match. The flame flares with awhooshand acracklebefore settling into a gently dancing light. I’m going to destroy his most prized possession. I swallow hard, reminding myself that he deserves this, he’s brought this on himself.
Now for the moment of truth. I toss the match into the car and the whole thing goes up in a huge ball of fire. A deafeningboomrents the air. I yelp, covering my head with my arms.
One moment I’m stumbling away from the raging inferno, and the next I’m shoved to the ground, as a massive masculine form knocks the wind from my lungs.
CHAPTER 16
Maximo
Furious, I leave a meeting with the dons early—again—to race home because of Elena. The notification flashed on my phone that the elevator was in use. Rewinding the security footage from inside the penthouse’s main living areas, I watched my bride-to-be flush the bottle of Macallan 1926 that my father had given me when I left Italy. I’d been saving that for a special occasion. Possibly my wedding night.
Then she started cutting up my suits, as if she’s completely unhinged. What the fuck is she thinking?
My teeth grind as I get closer to her location. She’s in the garage doing who knows what with those bottles of vodka and matches. Anger vibrates through my tense muscles. My beautiful fiancée is going to pay for this—for all of it. But not with money. Oh no, this is personal.
