My Dark Romeo: The Unputdownable Billionaire Romance
Chapter 63

I understood now why men would go to drastic lengths to claim a woman. Why the Achaeans invaded Troy for Helen. Or, in my case, why I paraded through a provincial, coma-inducing small town for Dallas of Chapel Falls.

Shortbread beamed, bouncing with each step as she commandeered our date.

Our first destination: the public library.

“This is where I had my first date with Mr. Darcy.” She swooned over a chipped wooden bench by the cafeteria. “And this is where I had my first kiss—with Lars Sheffield, my high school’s quarterback.”

“Pity you mentioned him by name.” I laced my fingers through hers. “Now I have to kill him.”

She giggled. “Want to play a game?”

Naturally, my first instinct was to say no. “Sure.”

“I used to play it with Frankie all the time when we were kids. We write general topics—mammals, seasons, flowers, whatever—on slips of papers, fold each, toss them into a hat, and shake, drawing one subject at random. The first one to replace five books in the theme wins.”

“Wins what?”

She wiggled her brows.

Ah. There was certainly a leap of logic in the reward system, since the loser and winner would both benefit from paying the price, but I saw little point in bringing it to her attention.

Shortbread jotted down a few subjects, landed a ball cap from a random stranger, and selected a subject.

Fruit.

She squealed. “This one’s good. I’ve never had it before.”

We ventured in search of fruit-themed covers and titles. I had to admit the game wasn’t completely stupid.

I picked Apples Don’t Fall, The Grapes of Wrath, and Fried Green Tomatoes at the Whistle Stop Café. Tomatoes were a fruit like any other. And yes, that was my hill to die on.

Speaking of fruit, I became increasingly hungry. I hadn’t eaten prior to the plane ride here, too preoccupied to notice my hunger.

“Got it,” Shortbread announced in the middle of the library with no regard for her volume, the stack of books cradled in her arms concealing her face.

An old librarian shushed her. Dallas didn’t even notice as she hurried to me, showing off her replaces.

“The Curious Charms of Arthur Pepper?” I glared at her. “That’s a vegetable.”

“But it’s as sweet as a fruit.”

“That is a very loose interpretation of fruit. By that logic, vodka is a type of bread, since both contain grains.”

My stomach rumbled. We needed to stop talking about food.

“Well, maybe it is a type of bread.” Dallas wrapped her arms around my shoulders, joy plastered all over her pretty face. “Anyway, I win.”

“Great. Let’s go grab a bite and check into a hotel where we can pretend I’m a stranger you picked up at a bar.” I needed to make up for the fact that she would never be with another man, because there was no way I was letting her go.

“Oh, do we have to?” Dallas’s face fell. “I wanted you to see my favorite lake. I wrote a poem about it, and it was published in the local newspaper.”

I hadn’t eaten in ten hours.

Not a big deal, I reminded myself. You’re a grown man. You can go without.

“Let’s do that, then.” I pressed a hot kiss to her jaw. “And then, I’d like you to read the poem for me.”

She lit up. “Really?”

“Naked.”

She swatted my shoulder. “Pig.”

Great. Now all I could think about was bacon.

Off we went to her favorite lake, where we rested against her favorite oak tree, and Shortbread did her most favorite thing in the world—talked about food she wanted to try and where she would try it. Japan, Thailand, India, and Italy topped her list.

An hour passed, then another.

My stomach began to physically hurt.

“We need to get going, sweetheart.” I stood, offering Dallas my hand. If I didn’t eat soon, I might commit capital murder.

She rose to her feet, her face clouded. “Do you regret coming here for our date?”

“No.” I frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because you’ve wanted to go ever since we started it.”

I felt like a childish idiot. “I’m just a little hungry, that’s all.”

She laced her arm through mine. “Okay, let’s go eat, then.”

Unfortunately, Chapel Falls’s residents were as incompetent as they were judgmental. The first three restaurants we tried downtown did not have any availability.

The fourth had temporarily shut down due to remodeling. By the time we nestled into a sticky booth at a small, unremarkable diner, I shook with hunger.

I ordered a burger and Diet Coke. Shortbread requested pancakes. She tried to engage me in conversation, while I pretended to pay genuine attention.

Twenty minutes after we ordered, the waitress swept by our booth, tacky pink uniform and inflated blonde hair intact, and announced that they’d run out of burgers.

“How does a burger joint run out of burgers?” I seethed, lips pressed tight to avoid roaring.

She shrugged. “Ask the owner. I’m just here taking orders.”

“Then, take this one—get your ass to the kitchen and bring me the manager. Now.”

Shortbread gasped, spinning to me. “Romeo, is everything all right?”

“No, nothing is all right.” I slipped out of the booth, striding to the kitchen myself.

Surely, they’d have something to eat. At this point, I was open to gnawing on someone’s leg if it meant feeling satisfied.

Throwing the saloon doors open, I waltzed into the sizzling kitchen, bypassing the cooks and the dishwashers, marching straight to a man in a cheap suit.

Dallas and the waitress pursued at my heels.

“Hey!” He swung in my direction, holding a clipboard. “You can’t come in here.”

I cornered him to the wall. Clanging pans and rushed shouts filled my ears. I hated noise. The only noise I could ever tolerate was of Dallas’s making.

“You ran out of burgers.” I fisted his shirt and lifted him in the air, slamming him against the industrial freezer.

“Romeo!” Within seconds, Dallas heaved herself over my arm. “Let the man go. Jesus Christ, what’s happening to you?”

“W-w-we still have steaks.” The McManager’s eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. “S-sorry about the burgers. We had an office party earlier. A lot of people ordered it—”

“I don’t want a steak. I want a fucking burger.”

“I’ll see that someone goes to the grocery store to buy more—” A red rash unfurled across his cheeks, sweat hailing down his temples in buckets. “In the meantime, we’ll send complimentary onion rings and fries to your table.”

Shortbread finally managed to push me away. “Romeo, let him go.”

Reluctantly, I disconnected from him.

She wedged herself between us, her face singed pink. Her expression pulled me back to earth.

What the hell just happened? Edging a few steps away, I raised my hands in the air, signaling that I’d finished manhandling the staff.

Dallas flashed an apologetic smile. “Thanks for the offer…and the onion rings, but we’ll go someplace else.”

She shoved me out of the kitchen then the restaurant. Dazed, I let her drag me into the passenger seat of Natasha’s car.

Cold sweat itched at my neck. Dallas slid into a drive-thru and purchased two massive burgers with all the frills, fries, and sodas.

She thrust the food into my hands before she even slipped her card back into her wallet. “Eat.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“Eat right now, or I’ll shovel it down your throat, Rom. I swear to God.”

Well, she did insist.

I devoured everything within minutes. All gone by the time we rounded two blocks to a park tucked behind a residential neighborhood.

Shortbread killed the engine and turned to me. “You had a panic attack.”

Shame trickled into my system.

In fact, it had never really left.

I stared right ahead, at the slides and swings. I never allowed myself to go over four hours without food. Not for decades.

That was the whole reason I ate low-calorie, nutritious meals. I needed to constantly consume food to keep the anxiety at bay.

“I was just hungry.”

“Bull-crap. You’re the most meticulous creature I’ve ever met. You’ve never lost your temper before. You were triggered by something. What was it?”

Haven’t you had enough of my secrets? Of my flaws? My glaring imperfections? Must you know every single dreadful thing about me?

The questions must’ve been written on my face, because she nodded. “I’m your wife. Your safe haven. I need to know everything. As I said before—I will never betray you.”

Fine. If she wanted a private view into my soul, she’d get it. Though nobody should be unfortunate enough to witness that mess.

At the same time, I was helpless to deny her anything.

My secrets. My thoughts. My heart.

All there, on a silver platter for her to gobble.

The woman had me in such a chokehold, I’d follow her to the pits of hell if she wished to enjoy its warm weather.

Gathering the burger and fry wrappers, I crinkled them in my fist, avoiding eye contact. “As I once mentioned, Morgan wasn’t my father’s first rodeo in Cheatville. Even before her, Senior had the irritating habit of dicking down anything with a hole and the faintest interest in him.”

Her eyes clung to the side of my face, heating my skin.

“He cheated on Monica on and off. Theirs was an arranged marriage by the book. She was born into wealth; he wanted his hands on it. Their families were both Italian. Both Catholic. Both ambitious. It made sense. Unfortunately, Senior took it for what it was—an arrangement with benefits—while Monica fell madly in love with him, demanding his loyalty.”

Love was a terrible thing. It brought the ugly out of people. Though I’d begun to see it brought the beauty out, too.

Shortbread rested her hand on my thigh, squeezing it.

“My parents would go through vicious cycles. Romeo cheated. Monica kicked him out. Then, eventually, he crawled back to her for a second chance. Always wanting to impregnate her again. Rinse and repeat. Except the baby never came. Monica was completely barren, save for lucky old me.”

A bitter smile found my lips. I’d lost count of the times I’d wished I wasn’t born at all.

“When I was six, Monica discovered Romeo cheating. Not just cheating. An actual affair. The woman moved into his downtown penthouse. Brought her shit in. Kid included.”

The same penthouse I’d occupied on and off while Shortbread turned my world upside down. The same penthouse I’d shared with Morgan.

Come to think of it, I couldn’t replace a more suitable destiny for said penthouse than to be burned to the ground.

“As a little boy, I grew accustomed to caring for myself while my parents entered crisis mode. I prepared my own showers, clothes, lunch, homework. Monica paid little to no attention to me, dedicating her time to failed seduction plots and impregnation attempts. Never mind that she couldn’t care for her existing child. So, at first, when she kicked Senior out, I managed.”

Releasing a breath, I cupped Shortbread’s hand, still on my thigh.

“Then I started first grade. Soon enough, it became apparent that I had no grown-ups in my life. I arrived to school late—if at all—since Monica’s driver often ran errands for her, leaving no time to take me. I was unkempt. Smelled. Fell behind on homework. By the end of the first semester, CPS knocked on our door.”

Shortbread’s fingers tightened over my leg. I studied the sunroof, refusing to see the pity in her face.

“The natural solution would be to hire nannies, but my parents had been burned before. Past nannies constantly broke their NDAs, blabbing to the press. Zach’s mother offered to take me for a few weeks, months—however long it took.”

By then, Zach and I had become inseparable brothers.

“Ultimately, Senior couldn’t bear the shame it would bring to his doorstep if people knew he handed his only child over to strangers. He was bitter and angry at Monica for failing her only job—to be a mother. So, he found a solution. He sent me to his younger sister in Milan.”

Sabrina Costa was the definition of hot mess. The love child of privilege and stupidity.

The woman spent her time jumping from one toxic relationship to another without taking a breath. She filled her days with parties, shopping, and scoring cocaine without her family’s knowledge.

Her drug habit had taken her across the ocean, to somewhere her parents couldn’t monitor her every move.

Dallas brought my hands to her lap, wiping them of burger grease. “They uprooted you in the middle of a school year?”

I nodded. “Since I didn’t speak Italian, my parents decided I should be homeschooled by Sabrina, who I doubt possesses more knowledge than a Little Einstein music box.”

Perhaps I was being harsh. Surely, the music box knew more colors and animal sounds than my aunt.

“The minute I arrived in Milan, I realized where things were headed. Sabrina didn’t spare me a single minute. She constantly went out, partying and staying with her rotating boyfriends. I was alone in her apartment. Just me and the textbooks Senior dropped me off with. Once a week, she would return with a bag or two of groceries, but those hardly covered two days of meals.”

Shortbread’s jaw tensed as if bracing for a physical hit.

“I managed, okay?” A hollow chuckle escaped me. “I always found tins of food lying around. Sometimes, I’d only eat a few spoons of tomato paste a day. Dry pasta—I didn’t know how to make it. Tuna cans were a real treat. Whenever she brought some over, I had a blast. Eventually, even those deliveries stopped. One of her boyfriends took over.”

Dallas stiffened beside me, the wet nap clenched in her fist. Darkness blanketed the park. Somehow, we’d missed the sunset.

“The first day I met him, he took me out. I was so happy. It marked my first time leaving the apartment since I arrived almost a month before. I thought Sabrina finally found someone who wasn’t a total piece of shit. Gabe told me he’d take me to eat, and he did, only it wasn’t at a restaurant. We arrived at a fighting arena in the outskirts of Modena.”

Shortbread’s eyes saucered at the word arena.

And still, she said nothing.

“He led me to a cage, locked me inside, and told me if I wanted to eat, I needed to win. I didn’t. Not for the first four rounds. In fact, I didn’t even fight the first two matches, I was so stunned. They opened the cage and nudged me to the center of the arena with a cattle prod, where an orphan a few years older beat the shit out of me.”

The wet napkin slipped out of her hand, sailing toward the pedals.

“I later learned to fight harder against the heavier orphans. They were hardened, more vicious, filled out from countless victories, each of which was rewarded with a meal. A small meal, but food was food. I hadn’t eaten in days.

“After the fifth fight, I snapped. I kicked, punched, clawed. Anything to win. And I did. They had to pull me off the kid. He was probably a year older, seven, but I’d beaten him so bad, they had to carry him away.

“They gave me my meal. What Gabe never told me was how good it’d be. I hadn’t had a cooked meal in a month. So, when they offered me half a plate of risotto, I would’ve fallen to the ground if I weren’t already on the dirt in my cage.

“Gabe took me home and told me he broke even on his bets that day. That with a little practice, he saw great things in my future. He even stopped at a market to get me junk food. That got me through a few days, and I was happy to please him if it meant I could eat that risotto again.

“We went to the arena every weekend. When I won, the hosts offered me a home-cooked meal. Gabe would drive me home, dish out fighting tips the whole way, and buy me groceries. But I never wanted to leave the arena.

“I wanted to fight. I wanted to eat. Eggplant parmigiana. Linguini alle vongole. Ricotta gnudi. They gave me barely enough to survive the days between my fights.

“I was so jealous of the orphans, who got to stay and fight every day. The others—kids like me and poor kids with families—only came weekends.”

I swallowed hard, finally daring to meet her eyes. They were dry, accompanied by a tight jaw. She refused to see me as the charity case I was, and for that, I was grateful.

“Eventually, I learned to carry a container with me. A little tin I’d dump my reward into to stave me over while I waited for the next fight.” I flipped it in my hand. The gum inside rattled against the metal.

“It was only six months. Four of which I spent with Gabe. He was Sabrina’s longest relationship. Still is, probably. He kept her supplied, so she kept him. But eventually, it ended, and I never saw Gabe again. The day he left, he told me good luck. That he wouldn’t visit. I got so angry, I tossed this”—I lifted the case, pointing to the tiny dent in it—“at his head. Then I bawled like a fucking baby. With him gone, I was back to relying on Sabrina for food.”

I didn’t tell her that some days I had nothing to eat. That my weight deteriorated until I looked like a four-year-old. That my bones stuck out of my skin so badly, it hurt to lie in bed and sleep.

I didn’t tell her two of my teeth fell off. That my hair became brittle and thin, hanging like a gloomy cloud atop of my head.

“My aunt had little food in her apartment, but she had plenty of gum. Her jaw used to lock from all the cocaine she snorted, so she stocked a good amount. It helped dull the hunger. I would chew it throughout the day.”

I’d only made the unfortunate mistake of swallowing gum to fill my stomach once.

It resulted in a pain so bad, I crawled my way from spot to spot for two whole days. It reminded me I couldn’t go to the hospital should I need to. That I had to take care of my body and never put myself in a situation like that again.

“That’s why you’re obsessed with gum.” Shortbread fingered the case still in my grip, almost reverently. “It’s your safety blanket. It helped you through your worst nightmare.”

“It helps me stay calm,” I admitted.

“And the noise? Why do you hate noise so much?”

“It reminds me of the arena. Of the audience. They had their favorites—me, mostly. I fought the hardest. Won them the most money. Eventually, they cheered every time my cage shot open. Each time I landed a punch, broke another kid’s ribs, whatever—they roared out their satisfaction. It felt like the noise would drill into my skull.”

“The scars.” She nodded to herself, as if putting together all my screwed-up pieces. “So, what happened? Who took you back?”

“Senior.” I opened the door to toss the wrappers in the trash then returned. It took no more than thirty seconds, but it provided me with the fresh air I needed. “He came at the end of the school year to check on me. Didn’t like what he saw, to say the least. Flew me back to Potomac, hired two nannies, and warned Monica that if she didn’t pull herself together, he’d divorce her and gain full custody of me.”

Wow—she shaped her mouth around the word, rather than said it. “Seems like he had a glimpse of realization he should do better by his son.”

“More like he realized Monica wouldn’t provide him with any more heirs and wanted to keep the one he had alive.” I snarled. “So, this is why I keep myself well-fed every four hours. Why I chew gum. Why I hate noise. Why I’m quick to fight like it’s an instinct—because it is an instinct. I strive for control. Anything short of complete power is unsatisfactory to me.”

An emotion I couldn’t pinpoint erupted across her features. Something between anger and pride.

She leaned over the central console, taking my face between her palms. “You prevailed. Look at you. Gorgeous. Successful. Accomplished.”

“Fucked up,” I completed, my lips chasing hers, demanding to be kissed.

She kissed me slow and steady but kept the passion out of it.

When she pulled back, she patted my stomach. “I hereby promise to make sure your tummy is always full. It will be no hardship, trust me. I’m a huge fan of food myself.”

She was trying to make light of it.

While I appreciated it, there was no need.

“I’m better now.” I brushed my thumb over her maddening freckles. “Well, mostly.”

“I will be a good momma to our children. I promise. I’ll put them first, always. And to heck with their daddy.”

I believed her. It was one of the things I enjoyed most about Dallas. She had the instincts of a mother. Her child would never go unclothed, hungry, or dirty.

Dallas clutched my shoulders, pressing her forehead to mine, breathing me in. “I know you’ve been hurt beyond words. The people who were supposed to be your protectors—Monica, Senior, Morgan—all failed you. But if one day your heart opens up…I hope I’ll be the one with the key to it.”

I am already indecently in love with you. Only, you can never know.

Her power over me would be so complete, so destructive, if she ever knew the strength of my feelings for her.

Dallas Costa frightened me. She wasn’t Morgan. She didn’t need a key to my heart.

She’d already kicked down the fucking door.