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I am not the kind of Catholic with the guilt. My dad’s side of the family tried their best to teach me shame and how to be a “good Italian woman,” but Mom hated being nothing but a wife and mother. She never had the balls to help herself, but she did her best to break the cycle.
I might have been named after a flower, but I don’t wilt like one.
A current of understanding passes between us. We both know the Renelli organization doesn’t play. And we’ve both been surfing a dangerous wave in a crazy world, just trying to steal a little joy before we get dashed on the rocks again.
I’m breaking my mom’s heart. She never did better for herself, but she wanted so much more for me. Nothing material. Only love. Happiness. Kindness. Peace. She had no idea how to get it for herself, and I have to face facts—neither do I.
I was his toy. He didn’t love me. He doesn’t even know me.
It’s so messed up that a man can be so interested in what’s going on in your head but he doesn’t give two shits about how you feel.
These past few weeks, I feel more and more like an astronaut and the cord connecting me to the spaceship has been cut. I’m drifting, and there’s nothing stopping me from floating on forever.
“You don’t care what happens to me. I doubt you care what happens to anyone. But you need to call the shots, don’t you? You can’t stand that the girl who let everyone walk all over her won’t lay down for you.”
Besides, I don’t need her pretending she’s a tough cookie when she clearly isn’t. She doesn’t need to be strong. I am strong. I can destroy anything that threatens her—if she just fucking tells me where to come get her.
I know her perfectly. Better than she knows herself. She’s a tangled ball of self-doubt, foolish pride, dumb hope, brilliance, masochism, and blind affection. And I’m obsessed. I need her back.
I set myself up. The red flags were flapping in the wind, and I ignored them.
He cocks his head. “I’m not going to kill you,” he says and smiles, revealing even, white teeth. “Where would be the fun in that?”
“I’m going to put a baby here.” He tickles the swell below my belly button.
change. The common wisdom, as best as I can tell, is that being raised by Rocco Volpe warped me. Or God just blanked when making me. Who could say?
It wasn’t novel like a new smell or shade of color. It was like all the air in the world was suddenly tinted pink. Like a glimpse at a new dimension.
Posy Santoro isn’t in my system. She burst into life in my empty shell and made it into something. She is my system. Maybe I didn’t understand that before I lost her. I’m a man. I can be a cliché. Still, it’s true, and I know it now, ever since the moment I caught her. I don’t just get off on what she is—I need it.
I always thought falling for the wrong man would be my downfall—like it was for my mom. Maybe it’s worse if the wrong man falls for you.
“This is mine.” He squeezes almost to the point of pain, and I rise to my tiptoes, trying to escape the cruel fingers. “You are mine. No one will take you away from me. Not Renelli. Not you. Do you understand?”
“So I’m a game to you?” It’s not an accusation; it’s a clarification. “No, not a game. You’re the one.” “Which one?” “The only one in the world.”
But her feelings—they’re so tender, so easily bruised. She allows herself to be crushed, over and over again. Is it masochism? Whatever, it’s the irony of my life. The only person whose feelings I care about, and she’s the equivalent of an emotional eggshell.
It’s so obvious when you think about it. It’s brilliant, really, and so messed up. A man dangles love. The girl leaps. She does what he wants. He castigates her for it. And then he dangles love again. How much higher will she leap? Because she has no other choice, right? If she wants what he’s offering? There are only two choices. Accept being unloved. Or try harder. I’m a scrapper. Of course I wasn’t giving up.
“Dario is the kingmaker. And you’re his woman. Do you know what that makes you?” I shake my head. “Powerful.”
I like playing with him. There’s something wrong with me, but my mess fits perfectly against the jagged piece that’s missing from him. I’m needy, he’s heartless, and by some magical alchemy, this—this creature we become together—solves us both.
“What are you doing now?” My complaint is muffled by cotton and muscle. “What the fuck does it seem like, Posy?” he says, grouchy as hell. “Cuddling.” He slaps my ass. Hard. “Shut up and take it.”
“People talk about levels of aggression, mimicry, those sorts of things. But if you read about it, ultimately, it comes down to whether you can care about another person. Until I met you, I was a psychopath. And then I was a sociopath.”
We might be broken, Dario and I, but we live in a broken world. And that makes what we have—perfect.
I can’t let this happen. I only left because Posy said to go before I made the doula cry, but Posy doesn’t make the right choices. Obviously. She loves me.
