Sold: Dark Mafia Romance

But a part of me also wonders … what if? If I do it, I won’t ever find out more about him. I won’t ever know the truth of his involvement in my parents' murder. Because the moment I kill him, I’ll probably die just the same. Marcello’s men wouldn’t blink twice to have me killed. Mario might spare my life, but Claudio is loyal to Marcello. He wouldn’t rest until I was dead, and it would be a painful death too.

So maybe killing Marcello isn’t the smart thing to do. That’s why I faltered in the gym and at dinner. My brain knew it was a bad choice.

My heart did, too.

A droplet of blood falls onto the floor, and I stare at it for a second, only to realize my shorts are still down. I swiftly pull them up and tear the shard from my hand, then wipe away the bloodstain with my foot before marching out the door.

I won’t let this fuckery get to my head. No fucking way. I told myself if I was going to be forced to stay here, I’d at least try to get to the bottom of my investigation, and I intend to stick to my word.

When Marcello decided he wasn’t going to get close to me for two days, I took the time to scour the library, but there was nothing to be found, no information regarding anything that sounded important to my parents or their death. The only clue I have was in that drawer in Mario’s room, and I haven’t been back there since the first day when he gave me that tea.

Maybe I can convince him to give me some more of that tea.

But first, a shower.

I head up to the one room I now consider mine. Even though this fucking house will never be my home, at least this room belongs to me in every essence of the word. Like a cage for a lioness, who can only stare at her own reflection with disbelief. I want to claw my own eyes out. I’m so ashamed and revolted at my own desire for this man.

Fuck him and fuck my own body’s betrayal.

I tear the clothes off my body and hop under the shower, washing myself thoroughly to remove the smell of sweat and sex. Even though I can’t wash the memory of my own wantonness away, at least I can make sure no one else catches the scent.

When I’m done, I dry off and quickly put on some fresh clothes, leaving the room again so I can talk to Mario.

With a courageous smirk on my face, I head for his office and knock on the door.

“Yes?”

“It’s Harper. Can I come in?” I ask, keeping my tone friendly.

It’s quiet for a few seconds. Then the door opens a tiny bit. “What is it?” Mario’s voice and the look in his eyes are suspicious. Like he doesn’t trust me. Did I give myself away by pretending to be nice? Or did he finally realize I had been snooping last time?

“I, uh … was wondering if you had more of that tea,” I lie, clearing my throat. “I don’t feel so good right now, and I could really use a pick-me-up.”

He swallows, then looks me up and down as if he’s about to say no, so I place my hand on the door. “Please.”

I don’t like to beg, but if I must, I will.

His eyes follow my hand and find the bloodstained wound. His brows rise. “Oh, you’re wounded.” Suddenly, the door opens, and he steps toward me, only to grab my arm and pull me inside. “Come. I’ll fix you up.”

I never expected a self-inflicted injury caused by my rage to be the magic trick. But I’ll happily take it.

I close the door behind me. There’s a peculiar smell in the air, and smoke lingers in the room. In the corner, a small incense stick sits in a tiny pot.

“It helps with the pain,” Mario explains when he sees me looking. He grabs my hand and inspects the wound. “Doesn’t look too deep. I don’t think it’ll need stitches.” He gazes up at me. “But I’ll need to bandage it.”

I nod, and he lets go of my hand and shuffles off to the kitchen to take a box filled with supplies out of his cupboard. He puts it down on the table and takes out some alcohol, cotton swabs, bandages, and tape. “Sit, sit,” he says, pointing at the chair.

I do as he says, and he dabs the cotton swabs in the alcohol bottle before swiping it over my skin, which stings like hell. Then he unwraps the bandage and starts folding it around my hand. “Nasty gash you have,” he says. “Did you cut yourself?”

I swallow. I almost want to tell him the truth—about everything. He must know how much I despise Marcello for putting me in this position and forcing me to become his. Maybe he’d even take my side, or at least understand where I’m coming from.