33. Laura

Chapter 33

Laura

I didn't know I could feel lonely.

For years, I've been alone in this house. I've had my work and occasionally my family, and I never once felt lonely .

Until now, when suddenly I can't see Marco or Jackal anymore, and it's like I'm being smothered by a heavy, dark pillow.

I want to get out from under this pressure, only I don't know how.

Marco: Have I mentioned how good you look when you're working?

I smile at my phone. His messages are something, but I want his hands and his mouth. I want his blindfolds, his games. I want Jackal and the mask and the excited fear that comes every time he offers me a choice.

Laura: Easy, pervert. I'm not on display here.

Marco: Actually, you definitely are. Do me a favor and take a layer off.

Laura: Why, so you can stroke yourself while I get covered in dust? It'll take an hour to shower it all off.

Marco: And I'll happily watch.

Laura: You're sick. I like it though so that's fine.

Marco: Speaking of sick, Jackal misses you. He's coming up with all sorts of devious new games.

Laura: Don't tease.

Marco: But you know I love teasing.

I smile sweetly at the camera before turning it to face the wall.

Laura: That's your punishment. Enjoy the view!

I can practically hear him laughing as I get back to the jackal ear I've been working on. As the shape emerges from the stone, I think about stroking the ceramic mask, about those eyes staring through the holes in the jackal face as warm hands touch my body, about the thrill of the fear and the pleasure of his tongue and fingers and cock. It's all too much, and I'm too fucking distracted, but I don't know what else to do.

Marco used up his tricks the last time he came to see me. That wouldn't work again anyway: Simon has three guards watching my place at all hours, two up front, one in the back, with more on the adjacent roofs. I suspect they have orders to stay at their posts, no matter what. Which means no distractions will draw them off.

It's been three days. Three miserable, ugly days. We distract ourselves with texting and video chats. He's gotten me off a few times, and while I love it when he orders me around, it's not the same. Although it's close—Jackal sits wreathed in darkness, shirtless, and so beautiful it's painful to look at, as he commands me to finger-fuck myself into oblivion.

It's good, but it's not enough. I miss him, and I'm lonely.

I have no idea how to process these feelings.

I thought I quieted that part of myself years ago, but Jackal and Marco turned them back on. Feelings, messy little emotions, crawl all over me and I don't know how to shut them down anymore. It's all too much, but as much pain and need as I feel, there's also so much pleasure and joy that it's hard to say what's worse: life before where I was an emotionless husk, or life now where I'm a mess.

But then he's there, sending me more messages. Sometimes they're flirtatious, but more often they're entirely normal. Questions about my work, about what I'm eating, about what I'm watching. I spend three hours—three full hours—explaining to him my sculpting techniques, and he listens the entire time. No, he doesn't just listen: the guy actually asks questions like he's paying close attention. We have normal conversations, the sort of mindless chatting, the kind of comfortable interaction I've never had before, and never knew I craved until him.

We make sense. It's so easy. And even though it makes me want him more, and I feel myself falling harder every hour, I smile every time a new text comes in or a new video call summons me from the basement and into the bedroom.

Because I want to fall. I can't keep lying to myself. I've fallen, I'm a splattered, smeared wreck of viscera on the sidewalk, all for them. Jackal and Marco.

"Is that a doorbell?" he asks on the morning of the fourth day. I'm in my kitchen making coffee, doing what he refers to as " boiling water and dumping it through mud ," and he's right. My doorbell's ringing.

"Call you back." I hang up and hurry down the hall, not sure who the hell is bothering me right now. Simon knows better than to show his face at my house—maybe he's safe in his office, but this is my fucking turf, and I won't hesitate to kick him in the throat.

"There she is, my little sister the traitor." Angelo leans against my porch railing with a vicious smile. His tone is halfway between serious and joking.

"What do you want?" I cross my arms, not inviting him inside.

"Simon told me everything. We should talk."

"Did he mention the part where he took my car and grounded me like a fucking teenager?"

"Can you blame him?" Angelo's smile fades away. "Marco Vitale was a Santoro Capo. He was the fucking enemy."

"Emphasis on the was in that sentence. The Santoro mafia is dead and buried, remember?"

He grunts and pushes off the railing. "How the fuck did you even meet the guy?"

"Funny you ask. It was at Cage during the first gallery opening."

Something crosses his expression. Surprise, anger, maybe a little guilt. But he shuts that down. Angelo's always been good at hiding himself, especially around me, and I wonder how long he's been doing it. Since long before he went to prison, though I think going away toughened him up.

"He must've been there to do something. I can promise you right now, I didn't invite the guy. Did you ever think he's just using you?"

I tamp down my rage. Screaming at my brother on my front porch isn't going to convince anyone to let me leave the oasis. Even though I want to jam a knife straight through his eye and lick the gooey mess.

"Go away before you piss me off even more." I turn to head back inside.

But Angelo follows. I try to slam the door in his face and succeed only in smashing his foot. He curses and muscles his way past me, grumbling the whole time, and I have to do a short breathing exercise to keep from grabbing a kitchen knife and gutting him.

"Simon was right to keep you locked up here, you know that?" He glares at me, standing next to my half-finished pour-over coffee. "God damn it, Laura, you're not this naive."

"Marco isn't using me. Did you think for a second that I'm using him?" My lips twist into a snarl. "The sex is fantastic ."

"Oh, fuck you," he says, rolling his eyes. "You think talking about fucking the guy's going to scare me off? You're just being a dick."

"Actually, you and Simon are the dicks in this situation." I pick up a saltshaker and casually throw it at his face. He barely ducks out of the way. It hits the wall and clatters to the floor, much to my annoyance. That would've been more satisfying if it had broken.

He glares at me. "Don't be a child."

I pick up the peppershaker and chuck it at his nose. He bats it aside with a grunt.

"Get out of my house then."

"Would you just listen to me? We love you, Laura, even though right now you'd probably rather stab me in the throat than admit you feel the same way, and we want what's best for you."

"Funny how it's always you that gets to decide what's best, and my opinion doesn't matter."

He throws up his hands. "You've been a fucking recluse for like ten years. You still haven't fully processed what happened to you in all this time. I'm afraid for you, okay?"

I pause, and there's a little bell ringing in the back of my head, triggered by that phrase. I'm afraid for you . He's totally sincere, and I believe him when he says this is all about keeping me safe, and in some ways I can even understand why he's on Simon's side instead of mine. From his perspective, his weirdo, traumatized little sister fell in with a dangerous thug that wants to destroy our family, and he's probably pretty sure Marco's going to hurt me.

"You're wrong," I say and struggle to keep my voice steady. I'm pissed at myself for letting my life get to this point where my own brothers think I'm too broken to function in the world, and I'm sad that they might even be right. Except about Marco. "He's not using me. And I know, it seems weird, but he and I work together, okay?"

"Tell me how you know."

"He's had a dozen or more chances to do something bad, and he hasn't." Well, at least, not the sort of bad that I don't enjoy. I keep that to myself though.

"That doesn't mean he won't."

"I trust him. Doesn't that matter? When was the last time I trusted someone?"

He looks away and I can tell Angelo's struggling with this. He has to realize I have a good point. Even though I'm a reclusive weirdo, I've always had a good read on people, and I rarely warm up to them very quickly. Marco and Jackal are the exceptions.

"I'm sorry," he says, shaking his head as he moves around the island and back toward my door. "I just can't get past it. Simon's right. You can't see that guy, and if we have to keep you locked down until you get over him, then that's what we'll do."

"Coward," I say to his back. "You're pathetic. Aren't you the one that encouraged me to get back out into the world?"

His shoulders slump as he steps out onto my porch. "I know I have some responsibility here. But Marco's a Santoro. I can't get past it."

"Try harder because he's not going anywhere."

Angelo walks away. I close the door behind him, vibrating with rage. That self-righteous prick. He walks in here and acts like he knows what's best for me, like he's on Simon's side because this is what's best for me, and meanwhile, he's the one that wanted me to move out into the world. I do exactly that—I find someone that gets me and makes me happy—but it's the wrong someone. So he shuts me down.

Fuck him. Fuck them. I'm not staying here, but I don't know how to get out. Not yet, anyway.

I finish brewing my coffee. I'm too upset to call Marco back, although I send him a text letting him know what happened. He responds saying to call him when I'm ready to talk again.

I'm mostly finished with my mud water and still grumbling to myself when there's another knock at my door. It has to be Angelo, back to grovel for forgiveness or maybe to get this piping hot water thrown in his fucking eyes. I smile to myself as I picture his skin bubbling up and red?—

Except it's Mom standing on my porch this time.

"Too many visitors," I tell her, frowning deeply.

She blinks in surprise. "What's that, hon?"

"Angelo was here already. What do you want?"

Mom flashes me that dazzling, disarming smile. The woman truly is gifted and charming. "I hear you have a problem, sweetie."

I hesitate and narrow my eyes. "You heard correctly. My asshole brother is keeping me prisoner."

"Your Don is doing what he thinks is best," she corrects, but there's something to her tone I can't really place. "But I was wondering if you wanted some help with your problem."

My eyebrows shoot up. "You can get me out?"

"Well, no, I can't do that. I mean, I probably could —but I won't. You know how it is, sweetie. Don's orders and all that."

"Then you're useless. Goodbye, Mother." I move to close the door.

She holds up a hand. "But I have an idea that might help."

I hesitate. Two visitors in one morning is two too many. But if she's serious?—

"You realize I've been seeing a member of the Santoro mafia, right?"

She looks at her nails. "Love is love." Then she looks at me, grinning. "And hey, your father was in love with a Santoro too."

I groan and look at the ceiling. She's not kidding—Dad's affair with Luciano Santoro is what started the war, and what inevitably ended it.

I'm tempted to tell her off, but I don't have any idea how I'm getting out of this situation, and my mother knows this Famiglia better than anyone else, aside from Simon. If there's a way, she can figure it out.

"Ten minutes," I say, stepping aside. "Then I want to get back to work."

"We won't need that long, sweetie. Gosh, I'm so happy you're finally coming out of your isolation, you know that? I'm really, really proud of you."

"Please don't talk like that anymore, or I will throw you out."

She laughs and saunters into the kitchen, and I wonder if this was a big mistake.