You Don't Own Me: A Bad Boy Mafia Romance (The Russian Don Book 1) (17 page)

With shaking fingers I reach for the handle, turn it very quietly, and swing the door open slowly … and my breath is whisked away.

The entire room is vibrating with music. It is crashing against the thick walls and hitting me in waves. Zane is still in his tux and playing the piano. Rooted to the spot, I stare at him in shock. His back is to me and I can see by the tension in his powerful neck and shoulders how completely lost he is in his music. His whole body is swaying and alive with vibrant energy. It is as if the beauty of his own music has possessed him. That’s exactly it. He’s like a man possessed!

I am frozen.

I know this man so little. So little.

I thought he was cold and unfeeling. Look at him now. I have never heard anyone play music like this. Like it’s pouring out of his soul. I had no idea he is so incredibly talented. I don’t make a sound. I don’t even think I breathe, and yet …

He stops mid-note.

The silence is deafening. I hear my own heart.

Slowly, he turns his head and looks at me. Our eyes meet. His are so hostile, so unwelcoming, and so furious, I take a step back in shock.

‘What do you want?’ he asks quietly, his voice dripping with such cold menace that I feel my blood chill.

‘Nothing,’ I whisper, backing away, tears coming to my eyes.

Somewhere deep within me I understand. I have seen something I shouldn’t have. I turn and begin to run. I race up the stairs and into our bedroom. I close the door and stand with my back to it, panting. Then I take my dressing gown off and go to sit on the bed. Suddenly the door slams open and Zane is there. Startled out of my skin I jump up. I want to apologize, but I don’t know what for. He says nothing.

He just comes up to me and, grasping the material of my nightgown at my cleavage, he rips it in two.  He cups my breasts and swoops down on my neck. He starts sucking my neck, hard. He does it with such prolonged intensity and in so many places I know I’ll be covered in love bites tomorrow. He sucks my nipples. He sucks my breasts. Then he falls on his knees and sucks my stomach.

I’m so wet and so turned on my thighs are trembling. He sucks my belly. He sucks my hips. He sucks my mound. He gives my clit a miss and sucks the insides of my thighs. Then he stands up and turns me around and sucks my back.

He pushes me on the bed so I am face down, then he spreads my legs and plunges in. I grab the edges of the mattress and bite back the scream. He withdraws, slams back in, and explodes inside me with an angry roar.

He moves away from my body and switches on the bedside lamp. ‘Sit on the pillow, open your legs and play with yourself.’

‘No,’ I protest.

‘Do it.’

He is like an angry stranger, but I’m not afraid of him. I am afraid
for
him. ‘All right,’ I say, and reach for the bedside lamp.

His hand shoots out and catches mine. ‘No. I want to see you come.’

So I look at a spot on the wall and rub myself. As I hover at the brink of coming, he swoops down and, holding my hips, pushes his tongue deep into me so that I am writhing, shaking and clenching uncontrollably around his tongue.

I’m breathing hard and my muscles are still quivering when he says, ‘Don’t  you ever come to look for me when I am in that room again.’

I nod.

We fall asleep with his arms wrapped around me. In the early morning hours I wake to find him standing over me, the duvet lifted. He is staring at the marks on my body. My first instinct is to cover myself, but I don’t. I let him look at the bluish maroon marks.  Unashamed of what he has done, he gets into bed and takes me again, laughing with haughty triumph when I climax with a scream. 

Dahlia Fury

You are the knife I turn inside myself; that is love. That, my dear, is love”

                                              - Franz Kafka, Letters to Milena

A
fter that episode the walls that guard his heart become impenetrable and I don’t try to scale them anymore. My days settle into a routine. I wake up, have breakfast, sometimes with Olga and the boys, sometimes in my room on the top floor where I still go to work. I swim and use the sauna before lunch. After that I work more.

As for our relationship, it has settled into one of mutual sexual desperation, the kind that makes us claw at each other. We meet in his study, or wherever he calls me to, and we fuck as if it’s the last time we will see each other. And every time we have sex in that reckless, hopeless, crazy way it feels as if a little part of me dies. A week passes like that until the morning Daisy Skypes me.

‘Where are you?’ she asks, not recognizing the room I’m sitting in.

‘Um … I’m at a friend’s place.’

‘Oh. Um … OK. Dahlia, I … er … have a bit of bad news.’

I feel my insides constrict with fear. ‘What is it? Is it Mom?’

‘No, no. It’s not Mom. She’s fine.’

‘Then what?’

‘Suzie passed away last night.’

‘Ohhh,’ I utter slowly, thinking of sweet Suzie’s face. I don’t know why but I never expected that. Suzie has been in the family since I was eleven years old. I just saw her a couple of weeks ago and she looked so healthy.

‘She didn’t suffer or anything,’ my sister consoles. ‘Also you’ve got to remember she was very, very old.’

‘Yes,’ I say faintly.

‘She knew she was dying. She went into the bushes and refused to come out when we called to her. And when I gave her water to drink she just turned her face away and looked at me with so much love. I was holding her when she took her last breath.’ Daisy’s voice catches. ‘I took some photos of her and if you want I can send them to you.’

I stare at my sister’s face on the screen. She looks normal. In the smaller rectangle at the bottom right hand corner, I just look white and stunned.

‘She was nearly fourteen years old, Dahlia. That’s really good for dogs. And she had a fantastic life,’ my sister says reasonably.

I take a deep gasping breath. ‘How’s mum taking it?’

‘Oh, you know her. She cried herself to sleep last night, but she’s a bit better this morning. I’m driving her to the pet crematorium. It’s a special place. I found it on the Internet. They burn the pets separately and give us the ashes in an urn. I’ll keep her ashes at home for you, OK? Mum says we won’t do anything with it until you get home. We can scatter them in the garden, or at sea, or whatever you want.’

‘Oh, Daisy,’ I cry suddenly.

‘Now I don’t want you to be sad. Suzie never harmed a fly in her lifetime and so she’s off to a good place. We’ll see her again. I’m sending the photos to your email address right now. At the end of the day she had a really good death. Really good.’

‘OK, thanks,’ I choke.

‘Oh, Dahlia, please don’t be sad. We’ll see her again,’ Daisy tries to comfort me.

‘I’ve got to go, but I’ll call you later,’ I say and click into my email account. All the photos are already there. I go through them one by one with tears pouring down my face. I should have been home. I should have been there. Daisy has even sent the photos of Suzie after she died with her poor tongue twisted between her teeth. Feeling devastated and wishing I had never seen it, I delete that photo immediately. I hear the wall phone ringing. For a moment I think of ignoring it then I get up and answer it.

‘Boss wants you,’ Noah says.

‘Tell him I can’t come right now,’ I sob, and put the receiver back on the cradle.

I go back to the bed and, sitting with my legs crossed, I think of Suzie and say a little prayer.

‘Wherever you are now, little sunshine, just remember I love you and I’ll love you always,’ I say tearfully. I’m so consumed with trying to pray and send her my love I don’t hear footsteps come up the stairs. I nearly have a heart attack when the door crashes open and Zane appears in the doorway.

‘What’s wrong?’ he asks.

For a moment I can’t speak.

He strides into the room. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘Suzie died,’ I sob.

He frowns. ‘Who’s Suzie?’

‘Our family dog.’

He comes and stands over me, his face is curious and surprised. ‘Your dog? You’re crying over a dog?’ he asks as if to confirm the situation because it sounds so implausible to him.

‘Yes, I’m crying over my dog. We’ve had her for thirteen years.’

‘Oh,’ he says and sits next to me. ‘I suppose you can get another one.’

‘Would you say that to someone who has just lost their child or a member of their family?’

‘No.’

‘Then don’t say it to me. Suzie was family,’ I say tearfully.

For a while there is an awkward silence and then he puts his hand on my knee.

I look up at him, surprised. This is his way of comforting me.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says quietly.

‘That’s OK,’ I whisper, shocked that we are communicating on this level.

He stands. ‘I’ll be downstairs if you need me.’

‘Thanks,’ I say again.

He nods gravely, walks away, and shuts the door quietly behind him.

I don’t see him again until late. I’m already in bed watching a You Tube music video when he leans against the doorframe staring at me. He is dressed completely in black, black polo sweater and black jeans, and his eyes are half-closed. I feel that something about him is different. It’s even possible that he’s a little drunk.

‘How do you feel?’ he asks.

‘I’m OK,’ I say warily.

‘Is this working?’

I scowl. ‘Is what working?’

He pushes away from the doorframe and comes into the room. ‘This thing we have. Is it working for you?’

‘Not really,’ I say truthfully.

‘Why not?’ he asks, taking his jacket off.

‘Do you really want the truth?’

‘Why not? Hit me with it,’ he says with a wicked grin, and I know. He has been drinking.

‘Maybe because I care for you and you’re always pushing me away.’

He tilts his head. ‘You care for me?’

‘Yes.’

‘How can you care for me? You don’t know shit about me.’

‘Maybe I can care without knowing everything.’

He smiles, but his eyes are strange. ‘You know what your problem is? You’re too uptight.’

‘I’m uptight.’

He nods slowly. ‘You’re uptight. You should take up yoga or meditation like your sister. That’ll help calm you down.’

For an instant it doesn’t hit me. And then it does and it’s like a kick to the gut. I stare at him and he stares back. I take a deep gasping breath.

‘How do you know my sister meditates?’

He doesn’t say anything.

‘It’s you,’ I accuse, my voice trembling. ‘You planned it all. You had her kidnapped, didn’t you?’ The ice in my voice shocks me.

He simply looks at me.

‘Didn’t you?’ I scream at him.

‘I did,’ he admits, utterly indifferent to the magnitude of his crime.

I stare at him open-mouthed with horror.

‘Do you still care for me,
rybka
?’ he mocks.

Rage slams into my brain and it feels as if my head is on fire, ready to explode. I see red. With a shriek of pain and fury I jump out of bed and fly at him. My fingers clawed and aiming for his face. At that moment I
hate
him. My nails don’t connect.  He catches me easily and holds my hands high up in the air, looking down at me with a curl of contempt to his lips. I start kicking his legs and he suddenly, in a quicksilver move, turns me around so my back is pressed up against him and I am completely immobilized.

‘Let me go, you bastard,’ I yell in a mad frenzy.

‘When you stop trying to hurt yourself,’ he says serenely.

‘I’m not trying to hurt myself, I’m trying to hurt you, you stupid prick,’ I curse.

‘If you hurt me I will have to hurt you, and I don’t want to do that,’ he says.

‘You’ve already hurt me,’ I sob.

‘You are a child who is crying because she has stubbed her toe on a piece of hard furniture, but by tomorrow you will forget and you will be laughing again.’ He lets go of me.

I put some distance between us and look at him blankly. I am beyond anger or pain. Look at us. There is a chasm between us. It has always been there. Who knows how many wonders it holds, but I can never reach him, and I don’t want to anymore. I’m not sure how long I stand there frozen, simply looking at him. One minute, five, or perhaps even ten. All I know is that it is over. There is nothing left.  

Then my senses come swimming back to me and I feel the first shaft of pain, and oh sweet Jesus, such loss. Such terrible loss. And anger. And betrayal. And sadness. Everything is jumbled up and bewildering, but I know only one thing. I have to get away from this house, this man, these feelings I have for him.

I run past him.

He doesn’t even attempt to stop me. I sprint up the stairs and into my room. Once there, I haphazardly throw a few things into my suitcase and stuff my manuscripts into my rucksack. I know I’m leaving my stuff, the stuff that I came here with, but I don’t care. I just need to get out of his house. I hook the rucksack into the crook of my elbow and, carrying the other bag, I exit the room.

I run down the stairs and as I pass the first floor I see that he has closed his door.  Suddenly tears start pouring down my face. He can hear me running down the stairs. He knows I am leaving, but he doesn’t come out of his room. Just lets me go.

On the last flight I can see that there is no one at the landing. All I have to do is open the door and run out into the night. There are always taxis around and I can just hail one and go back to Stella, but in my mad dash I miss a step and tumble down the last few steps, my hands flailing, trying to grab the banister, and missing. I land sprawled and in pain on the floor.

I make a ruckus with my involuntary scream, and the clattering noise of my fall carries all through the house, but Zane doesn’t come out of his room to see if I am OK.

Fresh tears of pain and hurt run down my face.

‘Son of a bitch,’ I swear, and get up onto my hands and knees. I’m sore, but fairly unhurt. I hear footsteps coming from the kitchen.