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After, outside…I mean, I thought I was fairly obvious about wanting things to continue. But he just gave me some stupid excuse and we parted ways.
That was three nights ago.
The funny thing is, I don't typically have a raging-out-of-control sex drive. I’d probably place it in the “above average, medium-high” category. Like, I’ve never had the urge to go out and fuck a bunch of randos to satisfy my sexual needs. Mostly I’ve just taken care of things myself, because people generally annoy the shit out of me and the idea of having to engage with a stranger to get laid sounds exhausting and murderously irritating.
But then there’s Damiano.
Damiano with his perfectly rolled sleeves and muscled, veiny arms. Damiano with his supreme control and dominant mastery of literally everything. Damiano, whose fingers I truly can’t help staring at as they curl around the steering wheel.
So, my sex drive might normally be above average. But around him, it’s all I can do not to excuse myself to the nearest public restroom to get myself off.
“Bella.”
I frown as my thoughts scatter again in the flashes of streetlights flickering by.
“What?”
“I said, let’s go over the plan again before we—”
“You know, I was wondering...”
An impish grin spreads over my face.
Hot, dominant sex-god or not, Damiano and his OCD sense of order is alarmingly fun to fuck with.
“What if we skipped the plan? Like, just walked in and did some improv?”
His heavy brow furrows as his eyes dart to me, glinting in alarm. “Bella...“
“I’m fucking with you,” I grin. “But I also don’t need to hear the plan again.”
“It’s important that we—”
“Seriously?” I roll my eyes at him. “You need to chill. You’re stressing me out.”
“Knowing the plan stresses you out,” he grunts in disbelief.
I shrug. “It’s really best not to overthink, trust me.”
Obviously, I know Dr. Fallon was not suggesting that Damiano and I go out and commit murder together as a way of closing the divide between us. But I did take her advice about finding commonality.
Earlier today, Damiano and I agreed to pool our resources and, shall we say, natural talents to continue killing our way up the chain together to get to Kasper Sorel, the child trafficking piece of human excrement that Carl Bigsby worked for.
I think Dr. Fallon would be proud. Really. Well, if she can overlook the murdering part and just focus on the “achieving a mutual goal” part.
The men we’re hunting tonight aren’t directly connected to Sorel. But they very much need to die.
The five thirty-something, day-trading, coke-sniffing, trust fund finance-bros raised on rape culture call themselves “The Wolf Pack”.
You can’t make this shit up.
But what started as a bunch of fuckwad frat boys going to and then getting kicked out of strip clubs for being vile has since become much worse.
They’ve moved on to throwing "exclusive, invite-only" parties. And because being monsters to grown women no longer gets them off, these budding Epstein wannabes have switched to girls.
Vesper told me about them after a friend of hers was invited to one of their parties and they asked if she had any “much younger friends” she could bring.
God, I can almost feel the delightful spray of blood misting from a slit jugular.
