Run Posy Run, page 1
Run Posy Run
Cate C. Wells
Contents
Chapter 1
POSY
Chapter 2
DARIO
Chapter 3
POSY
Chapter 4
DARIO
Chapter 5
POSY
Chapter 6
DARIO
Chapter 7
POSY
Chapter 8
DARIO
Chapter 9
POSY
Chapter 10
DARIO
Chapter 11
POSY
Chapter 12
DARIO
Chapter 13
POSY
Epilogue
Sneak Peek
About the Author
Books By Cate C. Wells
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Cate C. Wells. All rights reserved.
Cover art and design by Clarise Tan of CT Cover Creations.
Photograph by Golden Czermak.
Edited by Nevada Martinez.
Proofread by Kayla Davenport.
Special thanks to Katee, Sara, Nina, Kara, Erin, An, Layne, and Elisabeth.
The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of authors’ rights is appreciated.
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1
POSY
Today is a great day. It’s finally stopped raining, the daffodils are blooming, and the town car is in the drive. Butterflies swoop to life in my belly.
I guess Dario’s meeting didn’t last as long as he thought it would. I’m gonna make him steaks for dinner. I’ll light a few candles. Wear the red dress with the slit up the side. Maybe he’ll take out the pale blue box I found in his sock drawer when I was rummaging for a pair of wool socks to thaw my frozen feet.
Is he going to get down on one knee? I can’t imagine Dario Volpe ever doing that, even to propose. He probably won’t ask at all. He’ll drawl “marry me” while compelling me with his dark, hooded eyes.
Tingles skate over my skin. Dario’s a throwback, but damn, he does it for me.
I can’t wipe away my cheesy grin. Lord knows I’ve kissed a lot of frogs. I’m due a prince.
I skip up the polished marble stairs, swinging my shopping bags, and magically, exactly when I reach the top, Ray opens the front door.
“Perfect timing,” I sing, sailing past him.
I want to get a shower before I find my man and ask him about the steaks. My hair’s in a messy bun, and I’m not wearing my face. Dario’s second generation, but he thinks like my grandparents—you don’t leave the house looking less than your best. He’s a bespoke suit, not a tracksuit kind of guy.
I’m a few steps in when Ray wraps his hand around my upper arm in a punishing grip, jerking me to a halt. I raise my eyebrows at my boyfriend’s driver. That’s Ray’s official job. He drives like an old lady, though, and he spends most of his time skulking around the house. I don’t question it. I was born and raised in a connected family. My lack of curiosity is genetic.
“He wants you in his office,” Ray says, his craggy face blank and his voice gruff. Ray’s never friendly, but this is different. Not good.
My stomach plummets.
“What’s wrong? Is Dario okay?”
Has he been hurt? It’s always a possibility. Dario’s a money man, but even money men can catch lead.
“He’s fine. Come on.” Ray’s already propelling me through the cavernous front hall with the crystal chandelier and the marble floors that shine like glass.
“Are you sure?” He’s scaring me. His grip is too tight—as if he thinks I might bolt.
“Don’t worry about Dario.” Ray won’t look at me, and the way he says it implies that I should be worried. Maybe for myself. I didn’t do anything, though.
I am not the kind of Catholic with the guilt. My dad’s side of the family tried their best to teach me shame and how to be a “good Italian woman,” but Mom hated being nothing but a wife and mother. She never had the balls to help herself, but she did her best to break the cycle. She snuck me a copy of Our Bodies, Ourselves when I was thirteen, and when we were supposed to be going to confession, she’d take me to the park so I could play chess.
My heart twinges. I miss my mom every day. Dad, not so much. Life got easier once he was gone.
But these are bleak thoughts. I try to shake them off as we get to the imposing oak door to Dario’s office. He mostly works from home, so he spends a lot of time in this room. It’s more like a library. Tons of bookshelves and a workstation for his assistant, Miles, as well as Dario’s own gargantuan desk.
Dario’s bent me over it on several occasions. It’s a little too high for comfort.
I have the sense I’m not being called to the office for a quickie. Ray’s face is way too disapproving.
I draw in a calming breath. This is Dario. I didn’t do anything wrong. He loves me. I don’t need to worry. Whatever has happened, I can handle it.
Coming from a mob family and having been with my share of made men, I know that’s not entirely true, but the mantra soothes me enough that I’m able to smile brightly when Ray hustles me in and deposits me in front of Dario’s desk. Ray shuffles off, and I hear the soft snick of a door shutting. My nerves jangle.
Dario doesn’t look right. He’s rumpled. His jet-black hair is always neatly combed back, but it’s tousled, as if he’s been running his fingers through it. His tie is loose, and two buttons on his white collared shirt are undone, one more than usual. My wariness surges.
“Is everything okay?” I blurt.
He stares at me, his brown eyes a dark pool. Dario is always inscrutable. He’s not an easygoing guy. That’s what I bring to the relationship—fun and relaxation. He’s always serious, but this glare is different than his usual baseline intensity. It’s smoldering. Angry.
Fear trickles down my spine. My palms grow damp.
He doesn’t answer me right away. I squirm in my flip-flops. I wish I’d been able to change before he saw me. He hates me in T-shirts and yoga pants. Whenever he catches me wearing them, he asks if I need him to increase my allowance.
I hate that he calls it my allowance. I do plenty around this house, and I’d still be working if he let me. But he’s right—he’s too important in the organization for me to be in public without protection.
After what feels like an eternity, he exhales and cracks his angular jaw.
“Come. Sit.” He pats his lap. The gesture’s affectionate, but it doesn’t match his eyes or the tension radiating from his body.
My mouth goes dry. Something’s very wrong. He never wants to snuggle. Not even after sex. Something inside me says I should stay where I am.
But this is Dario. He’s a dangerous man, but not to me. I’ve dated bad men before. Too many. Dario isn’t like that. He’s hard—and insensitive in a manly-man kind of way—but he’s never intentionally cruel. He’s never raised a hand to me, and while I annoy him all the time, he doesn’t yell.
I ease around the desk and hesitantly perch on his knees. He drags me back until I’m plastered to his chest, his arm curled around my waist. I inhale the spice of his aftershave and his natural musk, and some of the worry seeps from me. This is my man. I’m where I belong. I relax against him, letting my legs dangle and rest against his.
“You love me, don’t you, Posy?” he murmurs, his breath hot on my ear.
“Yes, baby. Of course I do.”
“And you’d never betray me.” His voice lowers, and his hold tightens, pressing uncomfortably on my lowest ribs. I shift, try to give myself some breathing room. It doesn’t hurt—quite. But it’s not pleasant either.
“Never.”
He grips my chin in two fingers and turns my head so he can reach my lips, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. He closes his eyes, something awful contorting his features. The expression is there for only the briefest second then gone.
“What’s going—"
He shushes me. “I want you to watch something with me.”
His laptop is in front of us. He taps the mouse, the screen comes to life, and as soon as I see the split screen, my heart drops, the air whooshing from my lungs.
There’s no way. It can’t be. I blink, but the image is still there, grainy and poorly focused but unmistakable. That’s me looking into the camera, clumpy black mascara starting to run, trying so hard to look sexy and failing so badly.
I buck to get free of his arms, but he wraps a second arm across my chest, pinning me flush to his chest. His rapid heartbeat thumps against my back.
“That’s you, isn’t it?” he says.
My face burns and tears fill my eyes. “Turn it off.”
“No. I like it. You look pretty with brown hair. Is it a wig?” His voice is ice cold, preternaturally calm.
On the screen, a woman moans. It’s me. I’m moaning. In pain.
Blood rushes to my head, and my stomach heaves. “Stop it, Dario,” I whimper.
“No. Watch i
Oh, Jesus. This isn’t happening. Hot tears streak down my cheeks, and I can’t wipe them away because Dario has me pinned. I’m trapped, watching a younger, dumber version of myself trying so damn hard to not look like she’s suffering.
Acid scores my throat. I can’t puke. I have to breathe through this until it’s over.
How is it even possible? Giorgio swore he deleted the video when I got hinky about it. I watched him delete it off his phone. And I believed him, didn’t I?
And how did Frankie Bianco get the video? Are all my exes sharing revenge porn? This video has been around for years. Has everyone seen it already, and it’s just new to Dario and me?
Fucking Giorgio Fusco. Except for his dick, you can’t even see him. He could be anyone. But that’s my face. Clear as day.
“Can you make them delete it?” I whimper. It’s too late, but how can I live with this picture in everyone’s head? In Dario’s head?
I can’t tear my gaze away, horror and shame slamming into me in waves as my brain leaps from one nightmarish thought to the next.
Even with the split screen, it’s clearly an amateur video. On the right, I’m grimacing in pain, teeth clenched to stifle my screams, tears in my eyes. Giorgio has my ponytail wrapped around his hand, and he’s yanking my head back to make sure I’m looking straight into the camera.
On the left, Giorgio’s struggling to wedge his cock in my ass.
There’s a muffled rumbling, Giorgio’s voice, though you can’t make out his exact words.
“Yes,” eighteen-year-old me lies. “I love it.”
Another mumbling.
“Your cock in my ass. I love your cock in my ass.”
In the here and now, I rock my full weight against Dario’s unrelenting grasp. “Let me go. I can’t watch this.”
“Oh, no. There’s two minutes and thirty-six more seconds. I watched the whole thing. You can watch it with me.”
“Why are you doing this?” I sob, straining to see his face. He’s a possessive guy, but he’s not unreasonable. He’s the least emotional Sicilian I’ve ever met.
“Everyone’s doing it, Posy. Everyone is watching you beg for a cock in your ass.”
“He said he deleted it,” I blubber.
“So you knew about it?” he asks, his voice acidic with disgust.
Of course, I did. I’m looking into the camera, just like Giorgio coached me. He said he wanted to save the memory of when I gave myself to him fully in all ways. I was so young. I thought I was in love. I knew he’d never, ever betray me.
Loyalty is big in my world because no one has much.
On screen, a fat tear drips down my cheek and leaves a streak of mascara. My chest heaves with the effort of holding in silent sobs. I was such a dumb, trusting kid. I wish I could go back and rescue her. Tell her she deserved better.
I can’t watch anymore. I force my gaze to the carpeted floor. “Please turn it off. Why are you doing this?”
“Why did you do it?” He bites back at me.
“What do you mean?”
I was stupid, and I believed a man I trusted.
I don’t understand why Dario’s being like this. He knows I had a lot of boyfriends before him. We met officially when I was dating Frankie Bianco. This isn’t the fifties. He’s never complained that I know what I’m doing in bed.
Dario tightens his grip, shaking me a little. On purpose. I freeze. This is new. He’s never been rough with me before. Not in anger.
“I mean, did you wait for me to get on the plane to take this guy’s cock in your ass, or was it in there as soon as I was out the door?”
Hold on. What?
I crane my neck until it hurts, but with the way he’s holding me now, I can’t meet his eyes. I can only see his profile, sharp angles tense with barely suppressed rage.
“December thirteenth,” he says. “I flew to New York that day. Bought you a fucking ring.”
My jaw drops, my brain scrambling to catch up. December thirteenth? I look back at the video, squinting, trying desperately to ignore the sight of Giorgio’s fingers digging into my ass, leaving red marks on my pale skin. In the lower right-hand corner. There’s a time stamp.
It says December thirteenth. Of this year.
I shake my head. “No. Dario, this video is five years old. That’s why my hair’s brown. I used to dye it in high school.”
“Don’t lie to me.” He tightens his arms again, truly constricting my breath. For the first time, panic rises. I’m in trouble.
“I’m not lying,” I gasp. “That’s my high school boyfriend. Giorgio Fusco. I told you about him. The two timer.”
Dario shakes me so hard my teeth chatter. “Stop lying, Posy.”
I tense, instinctively trying to curl up and protect myself, but I can’t. He’s got me immobilized, facing the laptop, and all I can hear is the soundtrack of my pathetic whimpers as I beg Giorgio to hurry up and cum. That, and Dario’s furious, jagged breath in my ear.
My stomach lurches again. I’m definitely gonna puke. I’m going to have to swallow it. If I don’t, it’s going all over myself.
“I swear to you,” I pant. “I’ve never cheated on you. That date is wrong.”
“I gave you everything, Posy. I brought you into my home. Treated you like a queen. And this is what I get?” He shakes me again. My head bounces, smacking against his bearded jaw, but he doesn’t seem to notice. “This is what I get for laying down with a Santoro dog.”
I wince. He’s never brought my father’s family up before. And since we’ve been together, no one else has either.
“Dario,” I plead. I’m not sure for what. Trust. Mercy. Release.
He flings me off his lap, and I land on the floor with a jarring thud, arms and legs akimbo, my wrist bending back the wrong way. A sharp shooting pain radiates up my arm.
He rises to his feet, six-feet and two-hundred pounds of lean muscle and cold rage. I scramble up, dashing to put the desk between us, cradling my wrist.
I’ve never seen him like this—on the verge of violence. He’s motionless, except for the twitch of his fingers as if he wants to reach for his gun.
Panic screams in my head. Run, run. My stupid heart reaches for him, though. This isn’t the man I know. Where is my Dario? Where is the man who plays games with me for hours and delights when I beat him, who comes looking for me at random times during the day to make love?
“Dario, please, just look at it again. It’s an old video. I don’t look anything like that now.”
“You want me to watch that filth again? Watch you beg for cock in your ass?” His voice rises. “This is what I get for bringing a slut into my house. I should have expected this. You can’t help being what you are—a dirty, lying whore.”
He’s bites out the words, lips peeled back in disgust, refusing to even look at me. My heart cracks.
This is the man who bought me a diamond and gold watch for our third date because I had a habit of being late. When he was trying to convince me to move in, he had the gardener replace all the flower beds with nothing but posies. He plays canasta with me for hours even though he hates canasta, and when I ask him, he reads novels aloud in Italian to help me fall asleep at night.
This is Dario. He should believe me. I’ve never lied to him. Not once.
“You have nothing to say for yourself?” he spits.
“Dario—” My voice cracks. “You know me.”
He sneers. “I know you. I should have expected this from Frankie Bianco’s sloppy seconds. Honestly, the last name Santoro should have tipped me off.”
Each word is a blow to my soft belly. My shoulders curve, and I hug my aching wrist to my middle. My legs want to run, but fear has me frozen to the spot.
I don’t know this man at all.
All the blood that normally flows through my veins has sunk to my feet. I’m sweating, and I don’t know if it’s from fear or shame or the sickening sensation of the other shoe dropping.
