The Carrero Contract - Selling Your Soul (Mafia Romance)

What’s done is done and I have learned to never linger on this kind of shit or else it just fucks your head up. Get over it and move on, look forward and keep going, it’s worked for me so far and I won’t fix what isn’t broken.

Alexi falls into companionable silence as we move and it’s odd that I don’t feel awkward about the lull in conversation. He does silence very well when he wants too, and I fall into step with his easy stride. Sort of glad of it really. I don’t feel like chit-chat.

It’s even weirder walking arm in arm with him so cosily and close. My naked skin on his smooth expensive tuxedo covered arm, walking out like any normal couple who have gone out on a date. I’m held tight to his body and trying to conceal my face and worst parts of my torn dress by using him as a shield. I feel surreal and lower my face as we pass suited staff wandering around in the main lower floor when we leave the corridor.

‘‘I was wrong … about the hair. You look better when it’s down.’’ He adds in afterthought and I blink at him with more than a stirring of suspicion.

‘‘Why are you being so nice? It’s making me nervous! You don’t do nice so what do you want?’’ I glance at him sideways and catch a tiny flicker of tightening muscle in his jaw. It’s either a thwarted smile or an irritated grimace.

Who can tell with him?

‘’I just got you roughed up because I wanted you to play a safe bet for me. I happen to feel responsible for the way it played out and like I said, I have no patience for men who use force on weaker opponents. This wasn’t part of the plan and I detest when I don’t predict an avoidable outcome.’’ Irony as I’m sure he pounds down weaker men all the time.

Who knew Carrero would be a soft touch for women under all that cold indifference. I still don’t know what to think about his little revelation; this doesn’t fit the image he exudes daily. It certainly doesn’t fit the way he behaves towards any of us; controlling bastard with zero tolerance to disobedience. He talks down to his little bedroom buddies anytime he brings one upstairs, and God knows what he does to them when he gets them in his bed; contradiction entirely.

‘’It’s not my first beating. I am practically immune to men slapping me around and exerting their dominance. I’ll heal, I always do.’’ I say it impulsively. That mouth of mine working faster than my brain, and he halts; turns to me with a hint of darkness in his eye.

soft tone he used in the bathroom, and I am rendered mute as the palest grey eyes lock on mine in some weird silent communication I have no way of deciphering. Carrero is a complete enigma to me, and I am totally out of my depth every time we connect. ‘Complex’ should have a picture of him next to it

to

ever want to see you marked like this again.’’ My heart literally stops beating, and he seems to flinch at his own words, stepping back suddenly, almost

shuts hard and fast as his face smooths over. He seems momentarily at a loss himself and I guess he didn’t

get too close again and I for one am a little glad. Whatever that was right there, it made me afraid.

the way my mother did, and I am not about to let someone like him be the first. I see what happens when women let their emotions overrule logic, and they become victims of their own heart. Well, mine died a long time ago and I’m sure that not even electric shock therapy could restart the beating of my cold dead organ. I’m an empty shell of soulless unfeeling and

how you get yourself fucked up in a fate worse than death. It’s how you let people both hurt and disappoint you. I have no desire to ever

up with a pounding headache and a sore face and slide out of bed with a groan. Body like a tonne weight and very aware that I have had a physical assault. It’s still dark, and glancing at my bedside clock tells me it’s

if bed was not something I wanted to do. I can handle him being his usually obtuse and stubborn arsehole self but the softer glimpse threw me totally. I don’t

I need aspirin and a drink to clear the horrid metallic bloody taste from my mouth. I feel like I have the king of

nightdress, pulling my hair up messily into a bun on top of my head with one hand

all. He’s still in his dress shirt and trousers but his normally immaculate hair looks a little scruffier as though he’s been

and take a deep breath and continue on my way to the kitchen, curving around the sunken island seating area in hopes he won’t notice me. I can’t be arsed with a lecture on my skimpy attire and breaking one of his cardinal rules of undressing

me jump and I throw him back a glance, dropping my hair to fall back around my shoulders like a fluffy red cloud. He’s obviously in a chatty mood and I have no energy

the refrigerator for a bottle of water to wash them down, suddenly aware that this has to be one of my most semi-transparent nightgowns, and I am not wearing any underwear. Guess he

prominent in the early hours of the day. It must grow fast, and I know he likes his early morning shaving routine, as I normally hear his razor going.