Savage Little Games: Chapter 5

The asshole actually stripped down right in front of me. He knew I would look. It’s hard to have a conversation when you refuse to face the person.

And while I may have imagined what Dante Salvato looks like out of the fancy suits once or twice, the fantasy was nothing compared to the real thing.

He’s bigger than huge. Massive. Add a few of those colorful grips to his torso and he could be a climbing wall for kids and petite women.

I would’ve assumed the mafia king had a little ink somewhere on his body, but had no idea there was so much of it. Damn those obscuring suits. The tattoos on his arms are hard to make out but there’s no mistaking the wings spread over his sculpted pecs with a cross between them. I get the feeling it’s a memorial for someone he lost.

Somehow, I focus on my anger for him making me stay here, making me sleep in his bed every night, and manage to look away before his pants come off.

I want to look, but I resist.

Currently, he’s standing under the shower that could easily wash four people at the same time, the bathroom door wide open, as if he wants me to look, to be tempted.

Sure, yes, he’s got a gorgeous, perfect rock wall of a body. It’s just fancy gift wrap for the cold-blooded killer underneath.

While he’s occupied, I slip off my heels and go over to the wardrobe to try and find something to change into. I’m not sure why he wouldn’t let me go to my place to get my things unless he thought I might run.

I’m pissed at Mitch for being a lying sack of shit, but I wouldn’t try to flee town knowing Mitch would pay for my disappearance with his life.

In the wardrobe are four shelves of neatly folded clothes and four pull-out drawers at the bottom. One pile looks like jogging pants, so I grab a pair of light gray ones then take a plain white tee off the pile. On second thought, I reach for a dark blue tee so I can take my bra off without the shirt being see-through.

Before removing my dress, I slip the pants up my legs. The elastic waistband needs to be rolled three times to get them to stay on my hips. As quick as possible I then unzip and squirm out of my dress, nearing groaning at every move thanks to my bruised ribs. Finally, it’s off. The giant cotton tee comes down to my knees and feels nice and roomy. The only problem is it smells like a rich bastard. A dangerous, rich bastard who uses delicious, expensive soap just because he can.

I’m so ready for this day to end but need to use the restroom before trying to get comfortable in a strange bed with a psycho mafia king. There’s no way I’m going into that bathroom when he’s naked, though, so I’ll just have to wait.

The shower cuts off but a few minutes later I hear the sink running. Finally, his highness strolls out of the bathroom.

“All yours,” he says when he notices me standing in the middle of the room being swallowed up by his clothes.

I thought he would’ve at least wrapped a towel around his hips. Why am I not surprised that there’s not a stitch of clothing on him?

His dark, wet hair is slicked back, water dripping down his torso. The arrogant bastard strolls over to the wardrobe letting it hang out. And there is a lot of him to hang out and swing around. Thick as a soda can but I can’t even begin to estimate the length. And he’s not even hard!

He’s not hard.

That’s a good thing. Right?

Pushing all thoughts of his dick out of my head, I slip into the bathroom to take care of business.

While washing my hands in one of the two sinks, I notice the unopened toothbrush laid out, assuming it’s for me. Once my oral hygiene is taken care of, it’s time to find out if he has some damn clothes on yet.

Black boxer briefs are all he deigned to put on.

“Are you hungry? Thirsty?” he asks as he adjusts the elastic waistband.

Oh, I’m feeling a little thirsty alright. Unfortunately.

“No, I’m fine,” I tell him since I had dinner before I got to work.

Wow. That seems like it was days ago with all that’s happened since then.

I trudge over to the right side of the bed, the side closest to the bathroom, not caring if it’s his side or not. He can deal with it. Removing a few decorative pillows, I pull back the thick bedding to get to the sheets. Before sliding into them, I glance over and find Salvato watching me. In his underwear. A giant, strapping, inked, killing machine with a significant package the thin fabric can’t hide. He’s watching me carefully with his hands on his hips, analyzing my every move like I’m a volatile science experiment about to blow up all over his bedroom.

“What?” I huff at him, mirroring his stance. Well, my hands are on my hips. I can’t pull off the strapping, inked, giant part.

Biting back a smile he says, “You look like a homeless person who lost a hundred pounds after they put those clothes on.”

“Wow. That sexy, huh?” I blurt out without thinking.

“Clothes are optional, especially if you’re going for sexy.”

“I’m going to bed,” I mumble. Turning back to the bed, I gather up the throw pillows I put on the floor and begin making a wall down the center of the mattress.

“Do you actually think I’ll attack you in your sleep or that a few decorative pillows would stop me if I do decide to attack you?”

For all his ruthlessness, I don’t think he would actually go that far. “Just making sure all of your body parts stay on your side of the bed in case you flop around in your sleep.”

“Right,” he says with a sigh. Going over to the wall, he presses a button that makes thick curtains appear out of nowhere to cover the windows and dims the lights, throwing the room into complete darkness.

The bed shifting is the only way I know where Salvato is right now.

There’s a of pillow fluffing and some squirming before he finally gets still. When he heaves a heavy sigh, it lets me know he’s on his side, facing me.

I roll over to face the wall and hiss at the pain radiating from my side.

“Bruised ribs?” he asks softly.

“Yes.”

“You want ice or a heating pad?”

“No. Thank you,” I add since it was nice of him to offer.

“I am sorry.”

That makes me scoff. “No, you’re not.”

“I’m sorry he hurt you, that his bad decisions caused you physical pain. But no, I’m not sorry you’re here in my bed. I’ve been waiting a long time for you to give in, butterfly.”

“Right. Sure,” I mutter.

Then a thought suddenly hits me. The sheets look and smell clean but… “How recent was a woman in your bed before me?” I throw out another question without giving him a chance to answer the first one. “How many women have been in your bed? There are no bedposts so do you have to mark them all down on the headboard to keep count?”

“No women have been in this bed.”

I would laugh if it wouldn’t pull my rib muscles. “You’re so full of shit.”

“I don’t appreciate being called a liar,” he grounds out through what I’m guessing are clenched teeth because he’s pissed. “And I own four hotels with plenty of beds, a dozen clubs with private rooms, as well as a car service with very roomy backseats. Why would I want to fuck anyone in the bed I have to sleep in every night?”

I consider that information for a moment. “You’re telling me that you really don’t have sex in this bed?”

“Not yet. There’s still seventy-five nights to go after this one.”

Sighing, I say, “Goodnight, Salvato.”

“You can call me Dante. It’s a little easier to scream than in the heat of passion.”

“If you say so,” I reply, refusing to use his first name.

“I’m not calling you Van.”

“Fine with me.” My nickname could be something worse than the one he prefers to use.

“Vans are not sexy vehicles, and you are very, very sexy,” he explains. “Also, I don’t think Vanessa is your real name, butterfly.”

I stop breathing and my shoulders stiffen. “What?” I whisper hoping I misheard him.

“Your butterfly tattoos scream ‘new beginning.’”

“They’re just pretty…”

“Is Vanessa your real name?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t lie to me, and I won’t lie to you.”

“Vanessa Brooks is my legal name,” I tell him. “Check my driver’s license if you want.”

Neither of us speak again after that. I wait. Wait for him to say something else. When he doesn’t, I try to close my eyes, but it’s impossible to sleep here in this strange room, strange bed, next to one of the scariest men in the city. It’s not that I think he’ll hurt me. No, I honestly don’t believe the persistent bastard will touch me first. He wants me to make the first move and plans to wait me out.

If he were anyone other than Dante Salvato, I would probably have sex with him, tonight, and enjoy the hell out of it. Why not? Mitch and I are over. I should’ve left him last night, but I was in pain, and I think I was still in shock. Now that I know he’s cheated on me and gambled away money we don’t have and never will have, putting us in debt to a mobster, well, I’m fucking furious. There’s no forgiving that. Just because I don’t want him dead doesn’t mean I want to see his lying face. He’ll never touch me again.

“You deserve better than him,” Salvato remarks softly, as if he knows what I’m thinking. I feel the mattress move as he rolls away from me and know I don’t need to respond.

That’s one thing we can actually agree on.

I deserve to be loved and cherished, and Mitch never did either of those things.