Own. The fuck is that supposed to mean? God, this is fucked up. This feeling, this possessiveness toward an Enzino. It has escalated in what…twelve days? It has to be lust. An animalistic attraction. That’s why I keep shooting jizz over him.
I can still hear him moan as I pinned him on the wall, my balls rubbing on his lace-clad junk. I was so close already. So fucking close. With my hand restraining his wrists, and my body pressed against his, I held him down, while beating my dick off until a burst of fire flared in my gut, embers searing hot. And I shot my load, painting stripes of cum across the curve of his juicy ass and over that pink asshole. God, how much I wanted to wreck it. He was begging for it, but he was in no shape to take my anger. I marked my territory instead. Owned him—here is that word again.
It means that I can do whatever I want to him. Actually, the more I do, the more he likes. And the more he likes, the more I crave. It’s just the novelty rush, that sense of excitement related to something new and shiny. It will fizzle out just as fast as it started or not. It doesn’t really matter, because in three days, I’ll let him go back to his family.
That reminds me of his phone. The way he kept Mario’s whereabouts for himself, the way he researched me, his chat with that hacker. The beast inside of me rumbles. Anybody else would have already been dead or dying. But Art isn’t, and not because of Fly or Seb’s orders. Not anymore. My hate toward him and his family hasn’t lessened. It’s as strong as ever.
Then why didn’t I torture him? And why did he stay? He could have escaped—he actually almost did. Why did he prefer to be cuffed to a sofa and treated like shit for days instead of leaving? Was I really the lesser evil?
My arm tightens around him, and he presses closer to me in his sleep. When I close my eyes, the sight of the unsealed, white cardboard box of donuts, crushed on one side, lying on the ground near a pack of colorful birthday candles, stays with me until morning comes.
Chapter Ten
ART
Four days later my body is finally singing again, warm and satisfied. So satisfied.
It has something, or everything, to do with Luca. Before he left, he flattened me on the bed, held me down, and rammed a load into me, calling me his fuck toy, making me come like a freight train. Finally. Then he slapped my ass and walked out.
I smile into the pillow which smells like him, cautiously stretch my aching muscles, enjoying the wetness he created inside me. Fuck, if I’m not relishing in the feel of where his big dick was a minute ago.
Did I detect a smidge of tenderness while he was taking me? He still pounded me like there was no tomorrow, but his hand was delicately rubbing my side, his lips brushing my nape. Is it because I’m still healing?
I look toward the window and see a flock of birds flying in a synchronized move; they twist and swirl through the sky. I flip them off. I know a threat when I see one. The damn feathered rats are lurking, trying to intimidate me. Hitchcock’s movieTheBirdswas a prediction of the avian uprising. Why is no one taking it seriously?
My stomach growls. I’m always hungry after a round of hot sex.
I roll my body to get the pack of Ritz from the nightstand, and wince. My ribs hurt again, reminding me of what happened a few days ago and what I need to do before my father kills everybody. But when I see the painkillers on the nightstand, a smile finds its way to my mouth again. Luca must have left them there, with a bottle of water.
I really feel like something changed since his birthday. Our confessions cleared the air a little and opened a door to something new, perhaps. The discovery of my phone was terrifying, but he didn’t hurt me. He was mad as hell, and for a moment I thought he’d hurt me, but instead he took care of me. I’m beginning to hope that maybe Luca is finally seeing me from a different angle. Am I totally insane? We are no Romeo and Juliet—who the fuck wants to be them?
I drink the pills down and then go to the bathroom, patting a wiggling Nacho on the way. I get a better look at my eye. The swelling has gone down a little more, it’s still purple, and the cut on my cheek doesn’t sting anymore. Mother of God, I look terrible. I wash my face, and after finding the ointment on the kitchen counter, I apply it to the cut on my lip too.
The hate I saw in Luca’s green eyes in that warehouse suddenly appears in my mind. It was directed at the very essence of me, so profoundly intense, visceral, and enduring. It transcended simple anger or contempt. It broke me. It felt like his rational side shut down, and the consuming loathing took possession. I wish I hadn’t asked for the reason behind it. I wish I didn’t know. Because this is a real, hardcore vendetta—the family-war, hatred-festering, murder-inducing, movie type. It must feel draining living with such a heavy, blazing feeling in his chest. One he’ll never let go of until my father and brother are dead. And what about me? I’m an Enzino, as he likes to remind me every day. If I survive it—and that’s a big if—I’ll be free of my family. And freedom is all I ever wanted. So why does the thought of finally achieving that make me feel more hollow than before?
Maybe I’m just hungry. My stomach is burning. I’m so high-maintenance it makes me sick—not enough to avoid food, though. When I get back into the kitchen, Nacho is jumping near the counter. There’s a bag of takeaway food on it and a boba take-away cup. Whoever is guarding the door must have brought it in. The Styrofoam feels warm when I lay my hand on it. Did Luca order this for me?
I feel as excited as my dog as I take everything out of the bag. But as soon as I open one of the containers and see the phone in a plastic bag on top of the pancakes, knots start to tighten in my gut. I just stare at it for a moment, hoping it will disappear. But nope. Still there. I let the cell slide on my palm, knowing already whose number I’ll find registered in it. Jack Enzino’s.
I must have chugged an entire pot of delusion soup thinking about freedom and being myself.
My father has his vile ways of making things happen—I just hope none of Luca’s men are betraying him. He must have learned where I am from the shitbag that ran away and found out where Luca orders breakfast for me—always the same café. Bribing someone to slide the cell into the container must have been his next step.
I already decided to go back after Luca’s confession. I know it’s the best thing to do. My father’spushjust confirms it. But what would Luca do next? Chase after me? Let me get married and kill us all after that? Or before?
I walk into the bathroom, leaving a whimpering Nacho outside—I don’t want him to witness this. The big breath I take does nothing for my nerves. Shit. Better rip it off like the symbolic Band-Aid. I tap on the number. After two long rings, he picks up.
“You motherfucking bastard. I should have drowned you the day that bitch brought you to me,” Jack Enzino’s voice hisses in my ear.
“Why didn’t you?” I retort, too weakly to be effective. I’m beyond pathetic.
“Shut that fag mouth and open your ears. My men are coming to get you tonight?—”
I cut the loathsome homophobe off. “I’ll come to you,” I hear myself saying.
“Oh, really?” His derisive snort is so familiar that I know how to swallow it like a bitter medicine that makes you sicker.
“Unless you want to start a war before the wedding.” He’ll bite. I know how important closing this deal with Coretti is for him. I just don’t want Luca to die because of me. His revenge will give me freedom, dead or alive. I just hope he will succeed and find his peace.
