The Angel She'd Never Know Is The Devil

5.

Torre's POV

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Indeed, Rossi’s fucking house looked like something out of a Dreamland fairytale. There was a bright, welcoming garden of orange flowers lounged outside like it didn’t know it belonged to a dead man. Neatly trimmed grass kissed the path that led up to what was now, legally and spiritually, my fucking property.

“Well, it's a property in debt to me now, you dead motherfucker.”

I knocked and the door creaked open to reveal pale Montana.

She was in casual black cotton shorts and a soft yellow shirt. This was the kind of casual comfort women wore when they thought no one important would show up. There was a dog that was not even Italian-bred, hovering by her bare legs. It was shaggy, wide-eyed and seemed loyal to the bones.

Montana wasn’t Italian, that was obvious. Her skin was soft like powdered sugar, but those dark coils? They could’ve belonged to a woman from Naples, like my mother’s. She looked up through those wild lashes, revealing her ocean-blue wide eyes that looked at me with curiosity.

Just look at her so unaware that everything; her hours, her breath, her unborn child, was about to belong to me.

“Oh… hello, Mr. Scarpa,” she said.

“You can drop the formalities,” I said, easing a step closer like a priest at a confessional. “Montana, mind if I come in?”

She hesitated like she was unsure, but politeness won. She stepped aside. The dog didn’t bark—good! One day, it would watch me fuck it's owner on every surface her dead husband ever touched. Even the garden.

I hadn’t sat comfortably before a glass of lemonade was in front of me. That’s how she played it—gentle hospitality, like she hadn’t learned yet that kindness was a kind of currency that is really expensive to own. But that was also a kind I bought in bulk if I wanted.

“I was baking,” she said, distracted. “Cookies and buns. I guess it helps me work better when I’m not inspired to knit or sew. I can finish things faster and….. sorry, I’m rambling. Why are you here?”

I folded my hands and gave her a smile. Not because I meant it. Just because it’s easier to lie when your teeth are showing.

“I thought we could solve each other’s problems,” I said. “I’m healthily wealthy and your debts are less than I spend on security each month. But I can’t find anyone suitable to care for my daughter. I’m proposing an arrangement.”

I watched her lips tighten. I almost felt bad.

Almost.

“You want me to be your nanny… something like that?”

“I want you, and your unborn child of course, to move into my home. As lovely as this place is I imagine it holds too many ghosts. Mine’s new and untouched. It could be like a fresh start.”

No need to tell her I set ablaze the old place. Or that I burned away the last remnants of Vittoria’s scent, voice and fucking memory.

“I’ll settle your debts. You keep whatever you make from your little business, and in exchange, you work for me as a live-in nanny. One year. All accommodations and groceries paid. The cost of your debt? That’ll be your salary. But the profits? Yours to keep. Think of it… if we part ways, you walk away with freedom. And three million euros.”

I watched her eyes flicker. Her throat moved when she swallowed. She didn’t answer right away, so I thought about how her thighs might feel locked around me. Thought about breaking her in a church where her husband probably prayed to his God for a happy home.

“Three million,” I said again. “One year. That’s 250K a month.”

She blinked. “That’s a lot. For… just being a live-in nanny who'd still live off your food, house and all?”

I smirked. “There’s no price too high for the safety of my daughter, ahem, and loyalty of course. You understand that, don’t you?”

She was beautiful in that real way. The kind of body you don’t find on p**n sites rather on high class, expensive magazine racks. She's the kind of woman who could push back. And that made her all the more worth the taming.

“I need a contract,” she said, finally locking her gaze to mine.

I liked that. Fire under her skin. It meant she’d fight when I fucked her. It meant I could push and she’d push back before she broke.

“Of course,” I said, pulling out the contract and placing it on the table like a dealer laying down his hand. I came prepared. Prepared to acquire her. “I expected nothing less.”

She flipped through it fast. She seemed smarter than she looked but still desperate enough.

“I need until the end of the week. I want a lawyer to look at this.”

“Reasonable,” I said, offering her my card. “And if you’d like you can meet Alessia before making your decision.”

She walked me to the door again. Oh how polite, yet she looked dazed. She thanked me. I only nodded and didn't say another word because I’d already won.

Desperation do makes women predictable.

Plus, I was always good at reading the end of the story before the book began.

"Mr. Scarpa?" She called and I turned back to face her as we both stood at the door.

She was looking at me. I traced her eyes to my cufflink. "Mrs. Rossi?" I called with the gentleness of my voice that I never knew I could fucking come up with.

She looked tense.

"T-that cufflink... I-it..."

Did she recognise it?! There's no way she'd know it. It's a heirloom. Only those who knows the Scarpa for who they are—original mafias after the Cosa Nostra, could recognize it.

"What about the cufflink?" I ask, reaching my hand into my coat for my gun. I'd have to kill her here and now if she knew who I was.

She looked up and her teary eyes found mine. Only, she didn't look scared. "I know this cufflink."

Shit. She would have been a good 'Fuckmate.'