Page 124 of Safe Word

‘Please.’

The word was branded into my skin, tangled around every memory I’d ever tried to smother. I’d wanted to erase the darkness that stirred when she was too drugged to push me away – the sickening truth that I’d hovered over a line no man should ever cross.

One I almost had crossed.

I rubbed the water across my face in an attempt to wash away the image of that look in her eyes that flickered on and off behind my lids – fierce and broken all at once. And the way it reminded me of my own mother’s when she begged for things to stop.

But the bottle hadn’t erased any of it. It had just stripped me bare, left me staring at the pieces of myself I wasn’t sure I knew any more. And now, sprawled beneath the cold water, I knew I’d drunk not because of her…

But because I was terrified of myself.

My phone buzzed for the tenth time against the dark grey tiles, skittering slightly with each vibration – a tinny, insistent reminder of a world beyond this space. It lay just beside my shoes, the polished Italian leather gleaming dry and pristine. At least I’d had the decency to spare them from the water-drenched penance I’d chosen for myself.

I looked down at the sorry state of me: last night’s shirt was plastered to my skin, its creases heavy with water and stains of brandy, the denim of my jeans hanging cold around me, dragging me down.

The fucking phone refused to stop its tirade, each vibration rattling against the ceramic like an accusation.

On all fours, I crawled out of the walk-in shower, soaked jeans leaving a trail of water across the cold floor. The screen flashed ‘Hospice’ into my face.

The bitterness left me with a quick breath, and I could feel the sting of my heart blackening all over again at the mere thought of answering.

My first instinct was to ignore it. I didn’t owe Ezio a damn thing – not after everything he’d done. But then my gaze drifted upwards, snagging on the floor-to-ceiling mirror my designer had once called essential.

Jesus Christ – Halloween had come early this year.

Hollow-eyed, skin chalk-pale, bruised shadows clinging to the jaw – a face that belonged to monsters, not men.

A creature who looked as grotesque as he felt, at the very least. And in that unflinching reflection, I realised something far worse than guilt: even now, twenty years later, fifty pounds heavier… I still shrank in Ezio’s shadow.

With a sigh, I picked up the phone and pressed it to my ear.

‘D’Angelo,’ I said hoarsely, propped against the bathroom cabinet.

The voice on the other end was calm but clipped, the professional tone of someone used to delivering bad news. ‘Mr D’Angelo, this is Dr. Ricardo from the hospice.’ The fast-paced Italian drifted from the phone. ‘I’m calling about your father, Ezio D’Angelo.’

The name triggered a surge of irritation before he was done saying it. ‘What about him?’

‘He attempted to harm himself earlier in the morning,’ the doctor said clinically. ‘A nurse found him in time, and he’s stable now. He did lose a significant amount of blood, so we’ve arranged for a transfusion.’

The first emotion wasn’t concern, or compassion. It was anger. It flared hot and fast, a virulent heat that coiled low in my chest. I gritted my teeth, a muscle ticking in my jaw as the doctor continued with details about Ezio’s wrists bandaged and his body being secured to the bed.

Slit his wrists?

His last words rang in my ears, his smug voice taunting me, telling me I would be coming back to him, as I always did.

Even now, the bastard was still pulling strings – testing how far his reach extended into the man I’d become. It wasn’t enough that he’d destroyed so much of my life already, he had to wound himself to drag me back into orbit, forcing me to play his game once more.

‘You’re listed as his next of kin, Mr D’Angelo. If you’re able to provide a blood donation, it may expedite the transfusion process.’

He wanted more of my blood. As if he hadn’t already wrung enough out of me.

But even knowing that, even understanding the manipulation behind it, I hated myself for the answer I already knew I would ultimately give.

I clenched my fist, my knuckles turning white as I levelled my voice with stark effort. ‘I’ll think about it,’ I said tightly. And ended the call, my grip on the phone hard enough to crack it.

The tiny piece of plastic burned in my palm, its surface faintly warm from the constant vibrations. The screen blinked irritably – past noon. Thirteen messages stacked like complaints.

I wasn’t ready to go back into the world.