a box of pirate’s treasure, the wood old and textured, the metal lock chunky. “What’s in there?” I ask.
Carlo gets this far-off look. “Board games,” he mutters. “We used to play them, me and—”
“Your brother?” I guess.
He nods silently.
“Can I have a look?” I ask.
He nods again.
I go to the chest and fall to my knees, ignoring the wetness between my thighs, and throw it open. The lid is heavy and a musty smell rises into the air, as though it has not been opened for a long time. There’s Risk, Monopoly, checkers, chess, Scrabble … I pick up Scrabble and turn to set the board up on the desk. I make sure to face my letter-holder away from him.
“No cheating,” I warn. “Or there will be hell to pay.”
“I believe that much, certainly.”
I try to ignore the fact that he looks slightly uncomfortable, like playing a board game with me violates some sort of man code. I know I could easily challenge him on it—that I would have, not that long ago—but right now I don’t want to ruin the atmosphere. I just want to be with him. So maybe that means I’m going a little soft. I’m not sure how to feel about that.
Going soft is dangerous, especially when I promised myself I would never fall for a man like Carlo: controlling, criminal, deadly. He even admitted he killed four men. Yeah, he can say he was just trying to scare me, but we both know that’s bullshit. And yet I still want him.
To say I’m confused is criminally understated.
“Hazel,” he says, “it’s your turn.”
I look down to see that he’s spelled “hopeful.”
“Well, that was about the luckiest seven letters ever,” I murmur.
“So you paint,” Carlo says as we play. “You mentioned that before. What kind of painting?”
“I trained in portraits,” I tell him. “Dad thought it would be oh-so-perfect to have a daughter who could paint portraits of his friends, like he was a duke or something. But really, I love abstract, which I guess is the exact opposite. I like things that are weird, you know? That bend reality a little bit.”
“But you haven’t painted anything since you got here,” he whispers.
“Got here”? Until you brought me here, you mean! But I let it slide.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Hmm.”
“What?” I say.
He shakes his head. “Nothing, it’s nothing.”
He spells “orgasm.”
“You have got to be fucking kidding me!” I laugh.
“You run a lot, too,” he notes.
“Do I?” I narrow my eyes at him. “How do you know?”
He shrugs. “I watch you on the camera sometimes.”
“Wow, extremely creepy.”
He leans forward, hand clutching my knee. “You don’t like the idea of me watching you in those tight running leggings, watching your perfect ass shift around? You don’t like that?”
“You’re getting too good at this dirty-talking stuff,” I mutter, brushing his hand away. “But don’t try and distract me just because you’re losing.”
“I’m winning,” he laughs.
“By two points!” I shake my head, smiling. I can’t stop smiling tonight, it seems. “So putting aside the fact that you’re a voyeur freak, yeah, I love running. I love just turning off my mind and just being, y’know? I normally run outside but I haven’t been able to do that in a while.”
I look at him meaningfully, going for a full-on guilt trip.
“It must be peaceful,” he says, looking down at the Scrabble board. “I’ve always thought I needed something like that. Peaceful. A release.” He looks at me, biting his lip. I get the sense that he’s talking about me, that I’m his release. Then he looks down at the board. “Your go.”
I suppress a sigh, wondering if it’s always going to be like this. If Carlo and I are always going to be walking the fine line between wanting each other and pretending that we don’t.
But maybe that’s for the best.
Because if he keeps up this hot-and-cold routine, it will let me build my defenses back up, let me remind myself that I can’t, under any circumstances, fall for Carlo De Maggio, that I’m a prisoner, and all I should be focusing on is getting the hell out of here.
15
Carlo
“The Irish have backed off,” Nario says as he is pacing up and down the office. “But I don’t like it, Carlo. It seems suspicious to me. Maybe they think we’ll ease up on the security now that things are running smoothly again. Or as smoothly as they can, anyway. The men are getting paid. People are happy.”
“Peacetime makes men nervous,” the Albino notes. “Senza