I realize suddenly how truly insignificant John is. He means absolutely nothing to me. I would never want to be with him again, and not from that place of anger and resentment that I held before. I mean, even if I’d never found out he cheated on me and we hadn’t broken up, even if I still believed he was a decent guy—he’s absolutely nothing compared to Carlo.
He brings nothing to the table. Has nothing to offer me. I know now he was a judgmental, negative self-absorbed piece of crap.
And I don’t care about any of it. I’m not bitter. I don’t want to get even. I don’t want him to know what he missed out on.
He’s nothing to me.
He’s nothing like Carlo. He never made me feel sexy or took charge of my body. He never gave me mind-blowing orgasms. He never cared about the details in my life or how I handled them. He belittled me. Talked down to me.
So different from Carlo’s dominance.
Carlo...Carlo was amazing. He cooked for me, cared for me, protected and punished me.
And what did I do for him?
Zilch.
I didn’t thank him. I was needy and insecure. I used him at the party, which must’ve been hard to take. Especially for an alpha man like him. And yet, he wasn’t even angry. He just seemed sorry about the whole thing.
Which...hell. That means he truly cares. Can I make him care again? Make him give me another chance?
“Do you think I can fix things with Carlo?” I ask, my voice wavering.
My mom hesitates. “Do I think Carlo will give you another chance? Yes.”
I hear my dad growl something in the background. It sounds threatening.
“Is that Dad? Tell him to leave Carlo alone.”
“Carlo can handle himself with your dad. You go figure out how to make things right with him.”
I suck in a breath. “Okay. I will. Thanks, Mom.”
Pulling on my big-girl panties, I bake a batch of double chocolate brownies with nuts—the way he likes them—and arrange them on a plate, covering them with plastic wrap. It’s not much, as far as gestures go, but it’s the first thing I think of. Something I can do immediately. With love.
I need to see my sweet kittens and pick up my things, anyway.
Grabbing my purse, I take the brownies and head to my car. If Carlo won’t take my calls, I’ll just have to camp out at his apartment until he talks to me.
When I arrive, I don’t see his car on the street. Ignoring the pounding of my heart, I take the elevator up to his place and knock on the door.
He doesn’t answer, so I use my key to go in. The lock feels jammed, but then the door swings open.
Cookies and Cream run to me, mewing. Their little tails are lifted. They try to climb my legs. I set the brownies down and scoop them both up for a cuddle.
“Hi, my babies. I missed you so much, you sweet, furry things. How’s my–”
I break off, realizing that something is terribly amiss in Carlo’s apartment. The place is trashed. Drawers pulled out with their contents scattered all over the floor. Paintings off the walls are smashed on the floor.
My heart pounds.
Jesus. Did Carlo do this? Maybe he was angrier with me than I suspected. Or more torn up.
Then I hear a sound in the bedroom.
“Carlo?” My blood rushes in my ears. Is he okay?
Drunk or hungover, maybe?
I hesitate, then cautiously approach the bedroom, not sure what I’ll find. “It’s me. I just wanted to tal–”
Someone standing behind the door slaps a rough hand over my mouth as I step through, and a cold blade presses against my throat.
I scream against the sweaty palm that smells metallic and rank.
“Shut up,” a thick Russian accent rasps in my ear.
I go cold. Understanding dawns.
I know who this is. The guy Carlo mentioned. The human trafficker.
I scream again. The knife blade punctures my skin. “I said shut up, or I’ll cut up that pretty face of yours.”
I frantically drag breath in through my nostrils and try to shut off the noise.
“I have gun in my pocket, but knives are better for women.” He’s breathing unnaturally hard, too. Like something’s wrong with him.
“Should I carve up your face? Teach your dago boyfriend a lesson? Stain his floors with your blood? Hmm?”
I whimper, my gaze traveling frantically around the room, looking for anything that will help me escape.
“Get down. On your belly.” He forces me down to the ground and puts his knee in my back and pulls my wrists together.
I peer over my shoulder to see a greasy-haired man. Thin and sweaty. There’s definitely something wrong with him. I’ve been sheltered my whole life, but I’ve seen this look sometimes on people on the street.
He’s on drugs.
“Because of your boyfriend, police put a fucking tail on me. I had to move my operation.” He duct tapes my wrists together.