CHAPTER SIX
“Fuck.” I jam my fingeron the screen of my treadmill, increasing the incline. I thought I’d gotten out most of my pent-up energy this morning during my boxing and lifting sessions. Watching Gia drop to the floor and convulse uncontrollably scared the shit out of me.
At first, I thought she was having a seizure, then realized it was some sort of panic attack. I remembered my mother having one when I was little. My father had tried to soothe her but only time and quiet helped her calm down.
Gia had carried on for twenty minutes while I stood there helpless. Not that I wanted to help. I didn’t want anything to do with her other than to use her as a pawn in my twisted game of revenge.
I need her alive. That’s why I carried her to the bed and waited by her side until she came out of it. The only reason.
My legs threaten to give out from the beating I gave them this morning and again now as I run. I don’t want to like Gia. I can’t afford to like Gia, but her sass and strength, and even her vulnerability, do something to me.
I thought it would be easier if she was weak and timid. She’d be easier to manipulate and control but watching her fall victim to a panic attack made me temporarily forget about my vendetta.
She reminded me too much of Mama and Bianca. Greta Parlatore was a strong woman. She had a soft heart for her husband and children, but she turned into full Mama Bear mode when someone threatened her family.
It was what got her and Bianca killed. No, my mother’s strength didn’t kill her. Lorenzo did. Had I not been away debauching pretty girls in the city, I could have prevented their deaths. Or at least joined them in the family plot.
Cranking the dial on the treadmill, I push myself harder for another two miles until my head goes dizzy and it’s either slow down or pass out. Slowing to an easy jog, I finish my water, then towel off the sweat dripping from every pore of my body.
I can’t let a little panic attack interfere with the one thing I’ve been working toward for the past twelve years. My mother’s, father’s, and sister’s lives mean more than one pampered princess’s, even if it sounds like her childhood was anything but pampered.
The fear in her amber eyes when she thought I worked with Parisi had haunted me for a moment. Not enough to haunt my dreams like the screams of my mother and sister, but enough, nonetheless. Tossing my damp towel in the bin by the door, I strip down on my way to the sauna, filling up my water bottle along the way.
I still have too much fire in me to face her again. I’m known and feared because I show no signs of emotion. I don’t show feelings. I don’t show compassion. Not for my men. Not for a woman. I need her to marry me, but I don’t need her.
She is an object. The final piece to my plan to punish Lorenzo Parisi for killing my family.
I won’t stop until he and everyone associated with him is dead. If that means Gia—Callista—so be it.
Twenty minutes later, I’m back upstairs and in my shower. Turning the taps to cool, I soap and lather my body, imagining Gia’s hands on me instead of my own. The time in the sauna did nothing to erase her from my thoughts and only gave me more time to imagine spreading her legs and making her mine.
No, not mine. I didn’t want a woman to keep. Our marriage is only to get me closer to Lorenzo. Closer to bringing him down and freeing the nightmares that haunt me.
Closing my eyes, I lean my head back against the Italian marble and run my hand down my erection that won’t go away.
I picture the swell of Gia’s breasts, the curve of her ass, and fist myself harder, imagining sliding my cock between the crevasse of both.
The softness of each tit pushing against my dick. Her pink lips opening, calling out my name as I pinch her nipples and ride out my orgasm. I imagine her wet and begging for me to touch her. The devil in me envisions leaving her wanting, dripping with need once I get off.
Then I picture what she’d look like under her panties. They’d be soaked, for sure. Her lips moist and calling for me. She wouldn’t be waxed like most of the women I fuck. They groom themselves for fucking.
Gia’s pussy would be protected with a layer of hair.
Protected.
I nearly laugh. Nothing is protected from me. I pump my fist harder and faster as I picture her wet, wide, and open for me. I don’t normally fantasize about giving a woman oral sex. I don’t mind it, but I usually only go down on Sebastiana. We had an arrangement. While I employ her, she doesn’t fuck other men. I make sure she stays clean. She makes sure I stay satisfied for however many days or weeks I keep her close by.
I never fantasize about her.
I never jack off in the shower picturing her fake tits, fake lips, fake nails, fake lashes, or fake tan.
So why the fuck do Gia’s soft curves and bright blue eyes fill my fantasizes, making me so hard it hurts? I take in a sharp breath, still able to smell the strawberries from our first meeting mixed with a blend of flowers.
Gritting my teeth, I close my eyes and come to the beat of my own hand.
“Cazzo.” I haven’t needed to beat myself off in the shower in years. I should have called Sebastiana. She would have made me forget about Gia.
I clean myself and give one final rinse before deciding to call her tonight. Jerking off in the shower will ease the pain in my balls for a few hours, but I need the intensity of a good fuck to get Gia out of my mind.