Page 10 of Desperate Crimes
Because now? She’s where she belongs.
Under my control.
Wrapped in the dark I've curated just for her.
The SUV cuts through the winding coastal roads of the Jersey Shore, tires eating up asphalt slick with salt and shadow.
I take the long route—not because I have to, but because I want to savor this.
The silence. The anticipation. Her.
Every breath she takes, soft and shallow beside me, is a goddamn miracle wrapped in velvet and sin.
We’re heading to the estate I built with her in mind.
Not a safe house. Not a bunker.
A fortress.
A sanctuary.
The picture-perfect mansion.
And it’s all for her.
Every square inch of it tailored to her taste—black roses everywhere, especially in the garden, because she once paused too long in front of a bouquet at that charity gala, blackout drapes in the main suite in the exact shade of her lipstick, a clawfoot tub big enough for two because she likes to soak, and a library because she loves to read.
I noticed.
I always notice.
It’s a place no one knows about—because no one deserves to.
Not yet.
Not until she accepts it.
Not until she walks barefoot through those marble halls, touches the furniture I picked out with her in mind, curls up in the bed I’ve never slept in—because it wasn’t real until she was in it.
I didn’t build her a gilded cage.
I’m not pretending to be some white knight galloping in to rescue the damsel.
That’s not who I am.
Never was. Never will be.
I’m the exact opposite.
I’m the monster they warned her about in bedtime stories—the shadow behind the curtain, the one who waits, who plans.
I’m a real chip off the old block, born of blood and raised to rule my empire of steel and cement, my kingdom of lies, without mercy.
Fury is my name.
Nico Jr. to be exact.
You've heard of my father?
