22. Becca

22

BECCA

“ W hat we discussed?” I rolled my eyes. “We never discussed anything in a back-and-forth manner.” I flicked my finger between us. “It wasn’t a give-and-take conversation. Nine times out of ten, he’d lecture. And provide a lengthy explanation of his opinions. Why he thought one style was too old and unrelatable to care about and how he planned to acquire a variety of artists to sponsor all through Europe.”

Ivan smirked. “He does seem like the sort of man who enjoys hearing himself talk.”

I nodded. “Wait. Have you ever met him? Dom?”

“No. Not in person. I’ve, uh, dealt with plenty of other men and leaders within their organization, but Dominic travels too much. He’s hardly ever in the States.”

“That sounds about right. He was always on the go, and I was so curious what the hell he did to be so rich but never actually work.”

Because he was a Mafia Don. A member of the goddamn Italian Mob.

“He patronized me. I was so swept away by the grandeur of having someone ‘in my corner’ and seeing Europe that I was sucked in for too long.”

“Did he ever look at your art?” he asked.

I nodded. “Not much. I showed him what I had made, what I wanted to do.” A laugh bubbled inside me. “But he never once came to my studio. At first, I was embarrassed to bring him there. It’s such a small little dump. But any sponsor worth his word would’ve wanted to see where I made my artwork.” Shaking my head, I loathed the sting of the entire experience. Hindsight was a bitch like that. Looking back, I saw so many red flags that I should’ve paid attention to.

“Your studio?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t know you had a studio.” He furrowed his brow.

I smiled slightly. “Well, you don’t know me that well.”

His gaze turned hot as he looked me over. His stare was like a physical, sensual caress. Just like that, I was aroused, wanting his touch on me again.

“I followed you. To know how to best take you and keep you from Murphy’s reach.”

The way he said that seemed odd. “From Steven’s reach?” He said it like Steven was trying to do something to me or expecting something from me.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat and stood.

I couldn’t be sure because he turned, but I thought I saw a bulge of his erection beneath his pants.

“Where’s this studio?”

“It was my grandmother’s. It’s never been in my name, and Steven never cared about it.” I stood as well, curious where he was going. Was he running off because he let an inkling of desire come to mind? Was he that repulsed by me?

“Can we go there?”

I blinked. “What? Why?”

“So I can see your artwork.”

I followed him toward the door. Having an opportunity to spend time with him alone sounded like the dream I wanted to come true. “But why?”

“That’s the connection you had to Dom. And if Murphy is working with Dom or targeting him specifically, then that’s a direct way for me to get to him.” He paused at the door, stopping so suddenly that I slammed into him.

I craned my neck to look up at him, peering into his dark gaze.

“And the faster I remove him…”

I swallowed. “Then you can be rid of me? And Emily?” I had no right to pose that question to him, but I wanted to know. I had to know.

He tipped his head to the side, staring at me with such intensity.

“Is that what you want?” he asked, licking his lips as he locked his heated gaze on mine.

Breathing was difficult. My heart raced so fast. His direct attention unnerved me in the best of ways, but I felt overwhelmed, torn between answering honestly but not sounding too desperate and clingy.

“I want…” God, I couldn’t say it. I’d never been able to make a request or ask for anything for myself. Doing so felt dangerous, like he’d use the knowledge of my desire for him against me.

He sighed, taking my hand as he turned and left the room with me. “Margie can stay with Emily. Where is this studio?”

I told him, wincing when he shot me an incredulous look. “I know. It’s not a great area of the city.”

“Deep in the Cartel’s territory,” he commented with a hard look.

“It was my grandmother’s studio.”

After we checked with Margie that she’d gladly stay with Emily and watch her, I left with Ivan. It was strange to leave the house, and he noticed, still holding my hand.

“I’m not going to run,” I said as he led me to the car in the garage.

He held on tighter anyway. “I know.”

So… you enjoy holding my hand? For the hell of it? I fought a smile, too giddy with this one-eighty of attention.

Once we were in the car, I felt the heat of his gaze on me as I buckled.

“What?” I brushed my hair back as I looked up at him, unsure how to navigate this moment. He looked at me with such desire, but a guardedness he wouldn’t give up on.

“Nothing.” He drove, and after a few awkward minutes of quiet, he turned to me. “How did your grandmother get this studio?”

I settled into the seat, glad to talk about someone in my family I wasn’t ashamed of. “Her grandparents bought it for her. My mother’s side of the family is a long one of hardships. Coming to the US as immigrants, toughing out new beginnings and all. I believe the basement space was important for the prohibition times. My great-great grandfather was an officer, and he kept the area that his wife turned into a pottery space. The kiln had been updated, but the purpose of the room remained the same.”

“You come from a long line of cops?” he asked.

“Yes and no. Many of them served in law enforcement, but just as many didn’t. My grandfather was actually Steven’s boss.” My chipper mood fell. “They never got along, and no wonder. Steven is as crooked as they come. I still think he set up my mother to die.”

“How did she die?”

“In a car accident. It was right after my grandfather punished Steven on the force, and it seemed too convenient of a timing. Like payback. A week later, my grandfather passed away, probably the strain of grief of losing his only child. Then my grandmother had a stroke and could no longer get around well enough to see to my care. I was stuck with Steven, and that was that.”

He took my hand and squeezed it again. “I’m sorry.”

I sighed, loving his tender touch. “It is what it is.”

“I lost my mother too soon. And my father was killed by another family member.”

I shook my head. “I guess we’re not too different, after all.”

He released my hand. “Yeah, right.”

My heart sank at his faint laughter. Like it was crazy talk to make myself relatable to him.

“You’re light and I’m dark. You’re innocent and na?ve, and I’ve lived a life of too many ugly experiences I’ll never forget.”

I tucked my hands together between my thighs, wishing I could cower away from his stark descriptions. I was an idiot to ever think we would mesh.

“That’s why I’ve tried to stay away, Becca.” He blew out a long and loud sigh, venting as he drove. “After I brought you here, I knew I’d get addicted to teaching you, showing you what I liked.”

I shrugged, looking out the window.

“Because I fucking loved every second of pounding into your tight pussy. Every minute of feeling you surrender to me.”

I squeezed my legs tighter together, turned on by his filthy talk.

“But I knew you weren’t mine. You’re supposed to be a hostage, not the first and only woman who’d get under my skin.”

I whipped around to stare at him, mesmerized by his gritty honesty that he seemed so annoyed about.

“That you’d never be mine. Too good and sweet. Too different from the hard life I’m used to.”

“Then make me tougher. Dirty me up.”

He faced me, capturing me with his hooded gaze. I reveled in his needy expression, like he’d been tormenting himself to stay away.

“Don’t tempt me.” He returned his focus to the road.

Too late. I squirmed in my seat. Because you’ve tempted me since the moment you first tied me up.

We didn’t speak for the rest of the drive, and I vacillated between wanting to speak up and staying quiet. He’d given me so much to think about, but I was too nervous to get my hopes up high. This was complicated, being near him and realizing we might have mutual desire for each other. Steven was the biggest obstacle, but once he was gone and Ivan no longer had a reason to keep me so close…

One thing at a time. I’d take this conversation as a positive thing, a step in the right direction for what my heart and body wanted.

He drove straight to the studio, and my excitement about being here increased.

“I let a college student come in when she needs to work on things. Someone Hannah knows. But she broke her wrist recently, and I doubt she’s been in here.” Unlocking the door to the basement space was a familiar routine that I hadn’t done in a while.

“Have you been here recently?” he asked as he followed me in and blinked at the bright lights flickering on as I hit the switch.

It smelled stale, unused, but the further we entered, the fragrant scent of earthy, muddy clay hit me and I smiled.

“No. Not since Emily was born. I came here maybe once when I was pregnant.” I hated that I’d been gone for so long. How could I ever become a full-time artist if I was never present to make new things?

“It’s not easy, working sixty hours a week and then being a single parent.” I glanced at him as he walked around, looking at the paintings, drawings, and unfinished sculpture designs. “I never had a Margie to help.”

Or you.

“Do you paint and sculpt and draw?” He claimed a stool and sat on it, watching me flit around the creative space I’d missed.

“All of the above. I paint, but I prefer sculpture. Working with my hands.” I grabbed a piece of clay from the airtight bin, assuming he wouldn’t mind if I demonstrated what I meant.

Seated at the wheel, I wetted the plate to begin securing the clay for a simple bowl.

“How come?”

I shrugged without lifting my hands. “I like to feel it. To feel the art come alive.”

He stared, watching my hands with obvious curiosity. “I know what you mean.”

I arched a brow. “Oh, you spend time molding clay too?” I teased. He was far too serious of a man to seem like an artist. He didn’t even seem like a person who’d lighten up enough to have a hobby of any kind.

“No. People.” He lifted his gaze to me, and I almost shivered under the smolder in his dark eyes. “I like to feel a woman come alive under my hands, restrained by my bindings.”

Oh, hell. I swallowed, my mouth dry at his naughty talk.

“I like to shape and mold the shyest and most stubborn woman to come alive and welcome a little brutality to really soar.”

I licked my lips, too intimidated to face him and hear such wanton desires. If he wasn’t talking about me, then I’d have to curl my lip with anger and jealousy. But if he was taunting me, I wasn’t sure I could withstand the teasing.

“But we’re not talking about me.” He sighed, crossing his arms. “We were talking about art. Your sculptures. Paintings.”

I smiled, amused by his abrupt attempt to focus on something else. Like he couldn’t take the heat as well.

But why resist it? Why not just give in? I wanted to, so badly. But I was too shy to be that open and admit that I wanted him to encourage me to come alive under his rough touch.

“This is what you enjoy?” he asked, almost sarcastic.

I nodded, glancing up at him. “Yeah. I do.”

“Making something out of a blob.”

I hated the teasing tone he said that with. I’d been so eager, wishing he’d be genuinely interested about something I held dear, about something that would show him who I was. My passion. My calling.

But I had to check myself and remember he had made a point in the car. We were different. He dealt with life-or-death situations and decided on heavier, graver choices than this. He never eased up to be the kind of person to debate about which tools to use or how to style something to be thought-provoking and aesthetic.

That was what art was about.

That was what inspired me to improve.

But he doesn’t care. He can’t.

Just like Dom. Ivan didn’t care about my artwork and what it meant to me.

He’d only come here mildly intrigued, looking for a clue or connection about my past that somehow mattered to his future of killing Steven.

“You’d never be mine.”

He’d stated that with deep conviction on the ride here, and I felt like a fool a thousand times over not to understand it, to resist it and wish otherwise.