Page 25 of Control
She’s on another date with her friend, Adeline. I could’ve had one of my drivers take her. I should’ve, really. But no, I had to be the one to do it. And now, instead of driving away like a sane person, I’m sitting here, refusing to leave. Why? Because I’m going fucking psycho, that’s why.
So here I am, watching Daniela through the window like I have nothing better to do with my life. She’s laughing, smiling, and looking like she hasn’t been dragged straight into my world of shit. That damn smile. It’s almost enough to make me forget everything, almost enough to convince me she really can be happy without me there to ruin it.
My fingers tap the steering wheel, the sound too loud in the car.
“Stupid,” I mutter under my breath. But I’m not leaving.
She doesn’t notice me, doesn’t even look in my direction. Good. Let her have this moment. She deserves it, though it doesn’t stop the irritation building inside me.
I should hate her for making me notice these things.
The way her head tilts when she laughs at something Adeline says, how her fingers play with her coffee cup, tracing the rimlike she’s trying to hold onto something that isn’t slipping away. I hate that it gets under my skin. I hate that it pulls at something deep inside me that I’ve buried for so long. I’d like to say I don’t care. That I don’t give a damn about her being this…this normal.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve become obsessed with the little details. The way she looks at the world, the way she breathes when I watch her sleep at night.
The soft clink of cups and the hum of voices from the café make me feel like I’m living in some other world. I watch them from behind the tinted glass, not because I’m worried but because I can’t tear myself away.
The way she moves, the way she gestures when she talks…it’s everything I can’t stand and everything I can’t get enough of. I tell myself it’s because I don’t trust her out here, not without me.
But deep down, I know it’s something else.
The days with her are blending into a mess of contradictions. I’m sick of her being here, but I can’t stand the thought of her leaving. I lie to myself, telling myself I took her in to protect her. That’s a joke. I wanted her in my house, in my space, where I could see her, watch her. Touch her.
That night at the club? It wasn’t about trying to prove a point to her. It was my damn fixation to watch her come apart in my arms. To see the hunger in her eyes. To say the thoughts that have been swirling in my mind for months. How badly I wanted to see her naked. To ravage her. To kiss her and taste her flowery scent that has been driving me crazy.
It’s not the Russians I keep lying to myself about, the arms deal, or any of that shit. It’s about watching her and seeing her face when she realizes what kind of monster I am. It’s watching her sleep at night, listening to her breaths, and counting the seconds between each inhale as if it would make me forget what I was doing.
That I’m losing my mind. Fixated on my consuming need to possess her.
I’ve always been in control. Always. So why does it feel like I’m losing my grip every time I’m around her? Like I’m a damn fool who can’t keep his hands to himself.
But I don’t let myself think too hard about that right now. I’m supposed to be focused and in control. So I keep watching. I need to give her some space, right? I can’t suffocate her, at least not yet.
I glance at my phone. The call I took earlier about the mafia business distracts me and pulls me back into the real world. I flip through emails while I try to drown out the nagging voice in my head that keeps reminding me I’m a fool for even letting her think she has a choice.
Then my phone buzzes. Marco’s voice cuts through the air, and I pull my eyes away from the window. “What’s up?” I answer, flipping through some emails while I listen to him.
The conversation about business drags on, and the details are irrelevant, but I stay on the line anyway. I try not to look at the café, but I can feel my attention slipping. My eyes drift back, and when I look up, she’s gone.
Goddammit.
I swear under my breath, push the door open, and storm into the café. My eyes dart around the bustling space, scanning every face. I can’t find her. Not at the table where I last saw her. And not by the window, where I thought she’d be. I march to the counter, and the barista, a young guy with a scruffy beard, looks at me like I’m a pissed-off bulldozer.
“Did a girl with red hair and a friend just leave?” I ask, trying to keep my tone level, though it’s hard with my blood simmering in my veins.
“Uh, yeah,” he stammers, pointing toward the back door. “They left through the alley.”
I swear, if she’s gone and done something stupid, I’m going to lose it. I turn without another word and storm out of the café. I pull up my phone, check the tracker on her, and—of course—she’s gone straight to her damn apartment. Like clockwork. Predictable.
I follow.
I pull up outside her building and slam the car into park. My fingers grip the steering wheel so hard that my knuckles turn white. I don’t even bother to get out of the car until I’ve counted to ten, trying to force some semblance of calm into me. But I can’t. Not anymore.
I march up to her apartment door, and it doesn’t take long for her to open it. Her eyes are wide, like she’s not expecting me. But that’s the thing about me. I show up when I want. When I need to.
“Remo, what the hell are you doing here?” She doesn’t even try to hide the anger in her voice. Not that I expect her to.
I step inside without asking, and her eyes narrow. That defiant look. It only makes the hunger inside me worse.
