On screen, she freezes. My thumb catches her tear. Brings it to my mouth.
I stroke once, the leather of the chair creaking beneath me as my knuckles go white from squeezing my cock so hard. Onscreen, her expression shifts, confusion bleeding into something raw, something she’d kill me for putting a name to.
“Fuck.”
I rewind again and play it once more. The moment she doesn’t pull away. The moment she realizes exactly what I’m doing. That gasp.
That fucking gasp.
I come with my teeth clenched and her gasp still playing, the chair shoved back against the desk, her face frozen on the screen in that one unguarded second. Salt and whiskey still burn my throat.
After, silence fills the room. My pulse hammers in my ears, loud and steady. Sweat cools on the back of my neck, sticky against my collar. The footage keeps playing on the monitor, her face frozen in that exact moment of realization, eyes wide, lips parted, and I still can’t force myself to look away.
I tuck myself away, then pour another whiskey with hands that have finally stopped shaking.
You made her cry.
I’ve made men beg. Made them weep, scream, bleed. Never lost a moment’s sleep over any of it.
But her tears?—
I drain the third whiskey in one long pull and let it burn all the way down.
Am I keeping her safe? Or keeping her safe from myself?
The question is new, unwelcome. I shove it aside and reach for my phone.
“Tell Rossi I need another month.”
Cicero’s silence stretches loud on the line. “They won’t wait much longer.”
“They’ll wait as long as I fucking tell them to.”
I hang up before he can say another word.
The monitor glows in the dim office, casting blue light across the desk. I pull up the library feed again and scroll until I find the exact frame I want.
Violet stands by the bookshelf, one hand still pressed to her cheek where my thumb caught the tear. Her expression is devastated, completely lost.
Very soon, she’ll stop touching her face like she’s trying to erase the memory of me and start touching it like she’s trying to hold on to it.
Thirty days. That’s all the time I have left.
It will have to be enough.
13
VIOLET
My hand slides under the pillow before my eyes even open.
Empty. Still empty. Of course it’s still empty.
The caliper is gone. Has been gone for days now, and will stay gone because Elio Marchetti doesn’t leave loose threads, and my pathetic little weapon was the loosest one of all.
I stare at the ceiling, watching the morning light crawl across the plaster. Somewhere in this gilded cage, cameras capture every breath I take. Somewhere, he’s probably watching right now.
Good morning, asshole. Hope you enjoyed the show.
