I’ve been on this side of a pistol’s muzzle too many times to count. Death by a bullet is a merciful gesture in my book. I tilt my head to the side to look at him.
“As I was saying, there’s another way. I’ll suck you off in exchange for my things and dog…” My voice turns into a shocked gasp as he tackles me, fists my hair, and yanks my head back. My arms are still cuffed to the armrest, and the only thing between our bodies. He’s so close that I can hear his teeth grinding. Feel the gun pushing into my stomach as his blazing gaze doesn’t leave mine.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. I know what he’d like to do. I wish I knew why, though. Why he is so set on wanting tokill me. But even if I ask him, I know he won’t tell me. The blood in my veins is rushing, and my heart is about to explode, but I’m at peace. My life was never that good—maybe the next one will be fun?
I part my lips and take a big breath, not knowing what else to do. His eyes move to my mouth for a moment before he jumps off the sofa and starts cursing in Italian. What I get is:Porca puttana…lo uccido…fanculo Fly, Seb…lo uccido.
He grabs a cigar and moves toward the window, leaving me utterly puzzled on the hard sofa—which I now believe is part of his torture.
What does he really want from me? And what did I do to deserve all this?
At least life wants to fuck me, right?
Chapter Four
LUCA
“Highway to hell. I’m on a highway to hell.” The brat is butchering the AC/DC song, stepping into the living room with one hand over his head, toweling his hair dry while swinging his hips right and left. I swear to god he has made it his mission to find a new way to piss me off nearly every day—for seven fucking days. It feels like fucking eternity.
He is wearing my t-shirt—with a knot over his hip that pulls the fabric over his pierced nipples—and a scrap of lace, barely covering his dick. Fly sent a bag for him last night. I let him have it, thinking it would contain some clothes for him, since I don’t want him to use mine anymore. But it only had lingerie sets, body chains, and chocolate. When I tried to call Fly, Marco answered instead, just to tell me Carlo—one of his men—was coming to help with the brat before hanging up.
The brat gives me his back and shakes his ass, making the flesh jiggle. Jesus Christ! Is this guy for real? Dancing in the middle of the room in front of his kidnapper? I keep my expression blank as I contemplate the delicate curve of his neck. I can still see faint yellow bruises, my fingerprints look stark on his pale skin, and I fucking like it. Should I turn them darker? His throat feelsso fragile in my hand when I grab it. His pulse pounding against my palm, his uneven breath. But his eyes, they hold no fear. How can a defenseless brat like him not be afraid? He knows I won’t kill him, but pain can be worse than death.
He stops near the kitchen window. He finally turns quiet when he looks outside. Then he does it again, tilting his face up with his eyes closed—the sun shining through his wet locks. If he hopes God will help him, he can pray all he wants. Nobody will come to his rescue.
I turn back to what I was doing until I feel watched.
“Stop squinting!” I snap at him. His eyes are focused on the coffee table where I’m sharpening my knives.
“I’m not.” He takes a step back, still staring at the table.
“Yes, you are.” Why am I even arguing with him about this?
“I need my glasses,” he suddenly clips.
“You don’t wear glasses.” He’d be a professional liar if he weren’t so busy doing…nothing.
“I need my things!”
This again? Fuck. I’m sure Seb will understand if I stab him in the leg.
“Please, Luca.” He tries playing the desperate card now.
“Your mood has so many fucking swings it could be mistaken for a park.”
It shifts a thousand times a day, like he has multiple personalities. He goes from arrogant and insufferable to fragile and on the verge of shattering to playful and flirty. It’s all an act,but I could swear that sometimes…no. No buts. He’s a fucking Enzino.
“Better than your Hulk! Smash!” he counters, using a raspy voice.
He’s wary of me, yet he has no sense of caution. Does he like to be hurt? He reminds me of a cat who used to come to the group home when I was a kid. He had red tiger stripes and was feisty and insane—coming each day to check the dumpster, knowing full well the cook would hit him every time with a paddle. Until it got whacked in the head and died.
The brat barely reaches my pecs, all slender and dainty. Soft, blond hair frames high cheekbones and light blue eyes. I’ve never seen such plump lips on a man before.
I move toward him, long, commanding strides. His eyes slide up and down my body. I notice the appreciation in them, and I’m not happy about it because he’s been heavily flirting.
“You seem to keep forgetting who I am,” I growl, feeling my hands itch.
What I wouldn’t give to just have some fun with my knives. But for now, I have to restrain myself, especially since the information heofferedis genuine. Seb was able to verify the wedding date and Jack Enzino’s murderous intentions toward Coretti. He also answered all of Seb’s questions about the Enzino family when he called a couple of days ago, which satisfied my boss quite a lot, reinforcing even more how valuable the brat is alive.
