Surrender To Me

Corina

His place is like what I would imagine a modern-day

Dracula would live in. Big, dark, and intimidating. But also modern, and sophisticated. Everything is mostly black or gray with a touch of white. Black marble floors, black furniture, gray curtains, white vases. No wonder the few people at work who’ve ever been here call it the lair. The penthouse is off-limits to everyone except a few trusted employees, and I was going to be one of those few. If only it was under better terms than the horror movie I am in now.

He strides in front of me, while behind me are two of his hulking bodyguards. He leads us to a spacious living room with wall-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. Black sofas, of course, and the black and white art pieces hanging on the walls. Talk about a drama queen.

He stops in the middle of the room, takes off his jacket, and throws it on a sofa. My brain registers the way his back muscles ripple beneath his white shirt as he does so. To think that only a few hours ago I was attracted to him. Now. Well, I’m still attracted, but what’s left is purely physical. A body’s reaction to a handsome specimen.

He takes out his phone and starts scrolling, typing, getting comfortable in his own home as if he’s forgotten about me. His bodyguards, too, have dispersed and are casing the room. Scanning the room? They move from corner to corner, lifting ornaments and looking underneath them as if they’re inspecting. They move from the living room to other rooms and I stand there stupefied, not sure what else to do. Is this a good thing or a bad thing? I can’t tell. A few minutes later, they both come back and announce, “It’s clean,” and leave the room. Bugs? Were they looking to see if the place was bugged? Dante must be paranoid. But then, if you’re in the business he’s in, paranoia is necessary. Too bad I am currently caught up in his latest bout of fear.

When he accused me of stealing, I thought it was a joke at first. It had to be. Otherwise, why would one of his goons find the money in my bedroom? But when he left me. The longer I sat there on my own, the more I had to consider a possibility. Maybe someone is framing me? That’s the only explanation. But who would do that and why? It makes no sense, and I thought I got on well with everyone at work. I keep to myself. I work diligently and never engage the clients. No one comes to mind as I rack my brain. And the longer I sat in that room, the more I realized there was no way out. I was sure he was going to kill me. Even when he brought me here, I thought he was sending me to my death. But he wouldn’t kill me in his apartment, would he? He seems like the type who would hate to see blood taint his vase. Speaking of which, “Why am I here?”

He glances up from his phone, flicks it back into his pocket, and stalks towards me. Large and intimidating. I square my shoulders to show him he isn’t getting to me. He stands inches away from me and says, “Do you prefer to be somewhere else? The desert perhaps?”

“The Mafia’s favorite backyard. Is that where all the bodies of people you falsely accuse are?”

“Fewer bodies and more… body parts.” His tone is so casual you would think he’s talking about chicken, but it’s enough to make a chill run down my spine. I take a step back, subconsciously. He smirks at my reaction. “You’re here because I want you here. You’re my prisoner, nothing more.”

“But I didn’t steal your fucking money!”Property © NôvelDrama.Org.

“That’s only part of your crime. Which you’re going to have to repay, by the way.”

Part of my crime? He did say something about this before. “What other crime are you piling on top of me this time?”

He shakes his head in apparent exasperation, which grinds my gears. “You think you’re so good, don’t you? Your fake innocence doesn’t work on me.”

I step forward, deliberately getting into his space, “What other crime,” I say, looking up at him. He breathes in deeply, his nostrils flaring. An energy radiates between us, an energy I had ignored before but can’t now. Not when I can see how dark his eyes are. Deep pools of black that are mesmerizing. His perfectly structured face. His intoxicating musk and sandalwood scent. My awareness of it all ramps up my energy. I forget everything and wonder how his lips would feel on mine. He drops his head and moves closer. He feels it too. I’m sure he’s going to kiss me when at the last minute he takes a few steps back and the look of lust is replaced with revulsion. “If you’re going to seduce me, you’d have to do better than that.”

It’s like a slap to the face and if I wasn’t aware he had the same level of attraction for me as I have for him, he might fool me. “You’re the only one here thinking about sex, Mr. Morelli. All I want to know is what other crime you’re accusing me of.”

He glares at me for a moment and then stalks over to the corner where a bar is located. He pours out a light brown drink from a decanter and raises it at me as an offer. I shake my head. He takes another glass and pours into it as if I had said yes. “A little bird of mine,” he says casually, “informed me of a spy within our ranks.”

“So, you have a spy tell you, you have a spy?”

He stalks back to me with two drinks in his hands and hands me the other one. I shake my head again and he nudges the drink at me. I take the glass, but I don’t drink. At this moment, I don’t trust this guy at all. “Not only that,” he says, “the spy told me it was you.”

A scoff escapes me. The idea is so ludicrous. Much more ridiculous than me stealing money. “And you have evidence of this? Of me spying on you, on behalf of who exactly?”

He takes a swipe of his drink and then says, “You don’t have to act oblivious. It won’t work. I have evidence.”

“And where is this conclusive evidence you have against me? More planted shit? Who am I even spying for, according to you?”

He smiles. More like a smirk and pulls out his phone. With one hand he taps and scrolls for a moment then he shoves the phone in my face. On it is a picture of me entering through the back door of a club. It’s one of the most exclusive clubs in town. And the owner of that place is Saccone. The picture looks to have been taken a year ago. It is me. I can’t deny it, but it means nothing. I’m about to say so when he scrolls to another picture. This one is of me with a group of guys. One has his hand around my waist. We’re in the club laughing at something and there are drinks on the table. I look a little tipsy. Fuck. He scrolls again and shows me another photo. This time it’s me with the same guy who had his arm around me. This time we’re kissing. And another photo, with the same guy. He scrolls through more photos of me with the same guy ending with the last one where I’m in an office with the same guy and another person, a middle-aged man with black hair peppered with white, sitting behind the desk with his head slightly turned away. This last one looks like it was taken using a long-lens camera. This is the most damning one of them all. Although you can’t see who that other person is, it is easy to tell from the angle. It’s Saccone.

“Why aren’t you drinking? There is nothing in it, not even a truth serum, as much as I would want one right now.” He knows he’s got me. And the images look bad, lacking context.