I nod and kiss her fingers, and then move her hand from my face. “You know me too well already,” I say and touch my lips to one corner of her mouth.
“And here with me,” she goes on in that silky voice, “you will have the respect you deserve; you will never live in someone else’s shadow; you will never have to concern yourself with money because you will be paid more than you have ever seen in your life”—she gazes deep into my eyes—“and you will do as you please, fuck who you want to fuck, disfigure who you want to disfigure, and I would never dream of taking anything from you that is rightfully yours.”
“Sounds promising,” I say, and then kill the cigarette in the ashtray.
I look beyond Francesca, at the wall, and I think of my brother. I think of everything that I’ve done for him since we were kids: the beatings I took for him, the life I could’ve had if I didn’t love him so much I chose to stay with him in a life that robbed me of who I was meant to be; I think of the lies I told The Order to cover for him the many times he disobeyed Vonnegut and chose to do things his own way—Victor always did have rebellious blood, leader’s blood; it doesn’t surprise me that he eventually went rogue from The Order and started his own. And I think of the worst thing I ever did, the one thing in my life I can never forgive myself for. Shooting Sarai. Shooting her for my brother. It was my fault; no one can be blamed for my actions but me, but I still hate Victor for it as much as I hate myself. And I did all of this for what? For a brother who, as much I know loves me in his own fucked up way, was still going to kill me because he thought I betrayed him.
He was going to kill me…after everything I’d done for him, my brother was going to kill me. And the girl he was falling in love with, the girl I tried to kill, had more mercy for me than he did.
I’m only alive today because of her. And I’m a different person today because of her.
I will not live in my brother’s shadow anymore.
“You know,” I say, slipping a hand between Francesca’s thighs and squeezing the flesh, “I have to admit, your offer is tempting.”
She moves in front of me and straddles my lap, and without even thinking about it I put a nipple in my mouth, squeezing her tit firmly in one hand; the other hand still between her legs. I push two fingers inside of her.
“What about Emilio?” I ask, and then pull her nipple with my teeth.
Her hands are in the back of my hair; she’s slowly starting to ride my fingers.
“Emilio will accept my decision,” she says, her eyes still closed, her bottom lip wedged between her teeth.
“I wasn’t talking about that,” I say, and then I kiss her throat. “I’m talking about now—I thought you loved him?”
She drags the tip of her tongue down one side of my neck, and then bites me; the motion of her hips like a small wave on my lap.
“I do love him,” she says, gasping, “but that does not mean I have to save myself for him; he was not saving himself for me, was he?” She’s so bitter—this, to her, is another way she thinks she’s getting back at Emilio.
She opens her eyes and gazes into mine.
Then she kisses me, deep; her hands grip my hair, pulling me toward her. I hook my fingers inside of her and she moans, pushing her hips against them.
“And what about that girl of yours?” she says breathily onto my mouth. “I take it that you understand the line between love and loyalty?”
My mouth covers hers, our tongues tangled.
“I don’t love her,” I say, breaking the kiss briefly. “I’m just fond of her. I fuck who I want.” I kiss her again, ravenously, forcing Izabel’s face out of my mind, and quietly damning this bitch for putting it there.
With Francesca’s legs wrapped around me, her ass in my hands, I rise into a stand with her straddling my waist, and carry her over to the large wooden desk between two tall windows letting in an abundance of daylight. And I throw her down on it, pushing the contents of it out of the way, scattering items. I spread her legs before me with my hands. But when I see her face, gazing up at me with those dark bottomless eyes, I flip her over onto her stomach instead, pulling her body down so her feet touch the floor. I want to hurt her; I want to take my frustrations out on her—and I’m fucking going to.
She cries out when I enter her roughly; her hands grasping for the edge of the desk but it’s too far out of her reach so she presses her fingertips against the flat wood for grip. Wrapping the back of her long hair around my hand twice, I pull her neck back as far as it’ll go, and I fuck her from behind with violent abandon.
“That’s it, Niklas,” I hear her breathy voice somewhere amid the rage that my mind has become. “That’s it…take it out on me. All of your anger, your hatred—this is how I like it, violent and cruel.”
I thrust harder—I didn’t know it was possible—and she calls out my name, over and over; her voice choked by pleasure and pain and the breath slowly being cut off the farther back I pull her head toward me.