Page 18 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“Is this dinner going to ruin your life?”

“Potentially,” I grimace, staring at the oven as I count the amount of times I have eaten shitty junk food this week. “Thankfully, frozen potato waffles don’t pay my wages. See you later.”

I end the call, heading into my bedroom while I wait for dinner to cook. Sleeping with my boss on a regular basis comes with many benefits. Orgasms are great, but so are answers, and the closer I get to Mr. Moretti, the more I learn about the crow reference from my mom.

I place my hands on my hips, staring at the boxes I looked through over the weekend. Clearing out my mother’s house when she died was a nightmare. She was the sentimental type, always clutching onto the past, never able to fully let things go.

I examine the clothes on the rail, inspecting the pieces I picked out from my mother’s boxes. Her taste in fashion was controversial. The blue dress with the pocket on the chest called for a serious fashion intervention, but it was cute how loyal she was to her favorite pieces. Some of them deserve a place in my closet for that reason alone.

I unhook the dress from the hanger, observing it.

“You look like a maid from the twentieth century,” I tease as we walk down the street together, shopping.

“Perhaps you’re the one who needs to attend fashion school,” says my mother, gesturing to my knees. “Ripped jeans? Really?”

“They’re cool.”

“So are pockets on dresses,” argues my mother. “This dress was hand stitched in Tuscany by an independent Italian designer, straight from the seventies.”

“Which is the twentieth century. Last time I checked we’re in the twenty-first.”

I sit on the foot of the bed, running the fabric through my fingertips. The dress was indeed handstitched in Tuscany, according to the label. I inspect the pocket, a smile crawling onto my face as I look back on good times, simpler times, where we would try out new coffee shops in the area, gossiping, laughing, and talking about dumb shit. Aunt Viv was always in the corner shaking her head, our humor completely lost on her.

The color is still slowly crawling back onto Aunt Viv’s face after losing her sister. My mother was the sun, so life naturally felt very dark for a while after we lost her.

My finger catches on something as I smooth my hand over the dress pocket. I slip my hand inside, coming across a piece of paper. The fold lines are deep, suggesting this paper hasn’t been opened for years, not since my mother last wore the dress.

I unfold the paper, fingernail scratching against the paper. A drawing from Aunt Viv perhaps? My mother loved keeping her drawings, no matter how ambiguous and weird.

“Holy shit,” I gasp, staring at the sketch of a crow, fucking identical to the one marked across Mr. Moretti’s chest.

I flip the paper over, searching for a description, for a date, a name, anything, but the other side is blank.

I place a hand over my mouth, this drawing confirming everything. The black, jagged lines are identical to the set of wings Salvatore has inked across his chest, the animal’s eyes black, its beak open slightly.

The beeping oven startles me, goosebumps rising on my skin. I abandon the drawing and march into the kitchen, removing the waffles. I shut the oven but continue holding onto the oven door, my fingertips curled around the handle as gravity shifts around me.

I place the potato waffles on a plate and drown them in tomato sauce. Taking myself to the couch, I kick up my feet and mindlessly eat waffles, paying no attention to the TV show that’s running in the background.

Somehow, my boss is connected to my mother and Aunt Viv. Questioning Mr. Moretti may be difficult, since he’s the one who does the interrogating, not the other way around, but Aunt Viv will have an explanation for this. Pretending to like ambiguous art for hours is always a painful experience, but if I can get answers out of the visit, speaking to her may be worthwhile.

6

SALVATORE

I massage my cock, watching the sun set over Central Park. Trees turn to shadows, and as the sun sinks closer to the horizon, the light turns golden.

Ophelia Bennett’s angelic face is the first thing I see when I shut my eyes, those wide, expressive features pushing me close to climax. Her lips curled into the most precious ‘O’ shape earlier when I proposed our arrangement. She said she needed some time to think, rushing out of my office flustered, her cheeks redder than the blood streaked across my desk.

She’ll be accepting my offer in no time. I know a dare devil when I see one.

“Vecio,” announces Robert, entering my property without knocking.

I turn around, cock in hand, so fucking close to coming.

Rob glances down pointedly at my cock. “Did your assistant show you her pussy again?”

“You have a very wild imagination.”