Death Do Us Part

VIII. Domenico

Domenico

My list of tasks this week seems endless, but It's not in my nature to complain about all I have to do as my fathers underboss. It's a tough job, but it's mine, and no one can do it better than I can. Typically I'd dive head first into my work, setting aside all distractions to chip away at responsibilities, but today my preoccupations revolve around an infuriating women with piercing green eyes.
Every time I try to dig deep and grasp at focus, to reach into my mind and set aside everything I don't need at the moment, she's there, invading the darkest corners of my brain with her smart mouth and taunting eyes.
The last three hours have been a steady cycle of me slowly losing my mind. I'll think of her, become frustrated for allowing myself to think of her, try desperately to push her from my thoughts, and then I'll refocus on a task for all of thirty seconds before she comes creeping back, smirking at me like she knows just how unnerving and obnoxious she is.
     When I can't take it anymore, I slam the binder of papers I was reading from on my desk, sending a few loose pages sailing off of the edge of the black oak wood. In my haste to get outside into the fresh air, I nearly send my chair flying back, but it lands back on its front wheels with a loud thud.
     Warm April sunshine hits me as I open the double doors to my office's private balcony. Thirty stories below me, the streets bustle with noise of a mid week work day, tiny blurred shapes of color moving around each other on the packed sidewalks. I wonder how many of those people walking below my building are thinking of someone they wont want to, or maybe I'm the only one that can't get a grip.
     A floor below me, loud pop music blares from the open windows of someone's apartment. Most of the residents of this building are single business men, older affluent people, or young married couples. Rarely do they allow people with children to move in, and even more rarely do they allow young singles looking to live with roommates.  
     To appease the residents who pay top dollar to live a life of serenity and peace, the leasing office typically rent the spaces of the lower floors to residents who are more likely to disrupt and cause noise complaints; people with young kids, trust fund babies and wealthy college students, and bachelors who can hardly afford this place, but want the bragging rights of living in one of Manhattans most elite and sought after buildings.
     Somehow, two girls in their early twenties managed to slip through the cracks and secure themselves an apartment on the upper floors where the square footage is bigger, the spaces more stylish and upscale, and the amenities more luxurious and exclusive.
     They moved in maybe six months ago, and ever since, they've been racking up violations and complaints from the other tenants. They have loud parties all the time and a near constant stream of guests coming and going at all hours of the day and night. They don't pick up after their hoard of dogs when they take them for walks. Even when they don't have guests, they blast loud music as often as they like, and park in reserved spots even after ample warnings not to do so.
     Basically, they are tenants from hell, and the splitting headache pounding in my temples is finally going to make me do something about it. I try to be a fair neighbor and let them live their lives so long as it doesn't majorly disrupt me, but even I've been the source of a few complaints to the security office, so I know first hand that the girls will only receive their hundredth warning.
     Fuck that. They might not comply with the requests from other tenants when cowardly communicated through the security team, but they sure as hell will respect me showing up on their doorstep, telling them face to face what I think of their disrespect. I'll quiet them down so I can go back to being tormented by my fiancé in peace.
     The calm, floating elevator music is at odds with the anger fuming inside of me. A quick check in with myself tells me that the source of my anger isn't the girls at all, but my aggravating fiancé, who'd probably delight in knowing she's so deeply imbedded her little claws into me, that I can't even get through an afternoon of work without flying off the handle because I can't get her off of my mind.
     This is all her fault, the little fucking brat. As I'm riding elevator down to the 29th floor, I check my phone, facial recognition logging me into the software I'm using to keep an eye on Gianna.
     Created by the brilliant son of my accountant, the program is an excellent way to track people unknowingly, so long as you can find an inconspicuous object to hide the technology in. The fucker graduated MIT with honors at twenty five with a masters in engineering and computer science, and a spotless attendance record and GPA. He's nothing short of a genius, and I thank my lucky stars everyday that his Polish father emigrated to the U.S. and nutted in his Italian mother.
     The ring had to be disassembled to insert the tracker, the diamonds removed and the band melted down and remolded. It was tricky, figuring out how to get the tracker into the ring without the hot metal damaging and melting it, but after some trial and error, my guy figured it out.
     Without Leon and the programs he's created, I wouldn't have intel and eyes on half the enemies I do, but it's not proving to be as helpful with my fiancé because she's on the opposite end of the continent, and I know nothing of the area or locations she frequents.
     Anytime I see her on the move somewhere that's not school, home, or the gym a down the street from her student housing building, I start freaking out, wondering where the hell she's going, or if she's with anyone.
     I find myself glued to the app at all hours of the day, checking it like my life depends on it, like it's my lifeline. This need to know the constant whereabouts of a person who isn't a direct threat to me is so new and foreign for me, not to mention downright confusing.
     I don't even like this girl, yet I'm cross referencing her class schedule like a maniac, letting it drive me mad whenever she has free time, because I worry what she's doing with it.
Perhaps this fear is irrational and misplaced, but the second I met her, I saw something in her eyes that supports my suspicions that she's not the good little Italian girl her parents think she is, that there is a wild rebellious side to her that I will have to tame if my life is ever to know peace again.
It's in the mischievous glint in those jade circles around her irises, and the obnoxious tilt of her smirk when she says something swift and biting. I bet she gets away with absolute murder living away from home, and I'm sure Enzo does nothing to keep her in line.
That won't be happening when she's back home with me. I'll keep her under lock and key until the day she proves to me that I can loosen the reigns and give her more freedom. The unity our marriage will provide depends on it, and I won't have her fucking things up for both of our families and embarrassing me by acting however she pleases.
The elevator chimes and slides open, and I can already hear the music much louder on their floor. I pocket my phone, moving swiftly down the hallway to the source of the ruckus. I lift my hand, the metal of my watch clinking a ring the doorbell. I wait for the sound of lowering music, or some sign that the occupants of 4B are aware that they have a visitor, but Taylor Swift blares on, the pop star crooning about another failed relationship with a man she misjudged as her true love.
When it's obvious they can't hear me over the sound of their speakers, I knock, banging on the wood of the door so hard that I worry the large ring on my right middle finger might dent the door. Finally, I hear the sound of a lock being turned and the door swings open, revealing a young redhead with a large margarita glass in her hand. The icy drink is three fourths gone when she answers, but she sucks the rest down through a neon colored straw as she stares up at me, never breaking eye contact.
Pale blue eyes travel the expanse of my body, up and down and back again until she's satisfied and grinning deliriously through puffy, swollen lips. "Well hello there," she chews the end of her straw in what I'm sure she believes is a seductive manner, not knowing that I couldn't be paid all the money in the world to give a redhead another shot. They are insane. "Can I help you with something?"
I hardly hear her words, reading her lips over the music that is practically deafening with the door open. Three little rat dogs circle her sandaled feet, yapping and growling at me.
"Would you mind turning your music down please?" I try to get my voice even, while still projecting loud enough for her to hear. Not loud enough evidently, because she furrows her brow and tilts her head.
"What?" She says, bikini clad body leaning against the door frame.
"Your music!" I bellow louder, my jaw grinding. "It's too loud! All of the floors around you can hear it!"
"Oh," she chuckles, her eyes widening. She disappears from view, but leaves the door wide open, her yapping dogs retreating away from me when they realize their owner is no longer here to protect them. The music lowers to a much more desirable volume, and she returns with the three rats, and her blonde roommate in tow.
The blonde also wears a bikini, though hers leaves a lot less to the imagination, as she is noticeably curvier than her thin as a rail friend. She's also sipping from a margarita cup, and two identical Pomeranians follow her, joining the dog pack looking to take me out for daring to come to their home.
"Oh my gosh," blondie smiles at me, stepping behind the redhead to get a better look at me. "You're penthouse guy," she beams, adjusting Versace sunglasses on top of her head.
"Excuse me?" I don't make it a point to buddy up to any of the other residents here. Aside from Mrs. Healy, the old divorcee who lives across from me in the only other apartment on the top floor, I don't even say hello to any of them. I don't know any of their names, so I shouldn't expect them to know mine, but I don't really like being referred to as 'penthouse guy.'
"You live above us," she clarifies. "Well you're one of the people that does anyway. We always thought it was you and another dude living up there, until last month when we finally saw that old woman walking her dog. Now I'm super fucking jealous of her." She eye fucks me just as her friend did. "I'd love to be across the hall neighbors with you."
"Oh my god, Kenzie," the redhead blushes, pushing at her friends shoulder.
"What bitch? I told you men like their women bold." They giggle together like I'm not even here. "We should ask the old woman to switch apartments with us Harp, she and her dog don't need all that space to themselves. What is it, like four bedrooms?" She eyes me, lifting the rim of her glass to her lips, sipping the sugary drink.
"Yes. I-"
"How many square feet again? Like 3,800 not including the terrace, or something like that."My back molars grind together as I watch dollar bills explode behind her eyes. They can't be older than twenty three, and I wonder what she and her friend do for work to afford such a nice place at such a young age. Whatever she makes, it's clear she's not satisfied with her lifestyle and is looking to move up, or maybe this is just her idea of charming banter.
"Something like that," I mirror, focusing on the open space above her to keep my eyes from rolling around in my head. "Look ladies, I-"
"That would be like so perfect for us," the girl who I now know as Kenzie, turns to the redhead. "A room for each of us and then the doggies can split the other two rooms. We'd have a bigger kitchen, bigger closets, a wrap around terrace. Ask the old woman when she'll be ready to move out," she laughs at her own joke, her companion giggling beside her, but looking a bit bashful at the less than polite turn this has taken.
"Mrs. Healy has lived in 2A a lot longer than any of us has even lived in this building. I think she's quite content where she is. Anyway, I didn't come to discuss square footage and closet sizes girls. Penthouse guy would like you to keep your music down, and I don't just mean right now. I mean generally... like as often as you can manage."
The redhead frowns, looking a bit embarrassed at being scolded, but blondie doesn't seem the least bit fazed or concerned that she's upset someone.
"Mmm," she hums finishing off her drink. "Were we being too loud? We didn't mean to be obnoxious penthouse," she fake pouts. "We were just celebrating with a little cocktail and some T Swift, because our girl here finally got her lips done today." She motions to the stretched, irritated lips of her roommate, the injection sites marked with clear red dots of blood. "What do you think? She went to the same Doctor I go to. See, twins."
Kenzie pushes her and red's faces together, the two of them making a show of pouting and pushing out their lips. Kenzies are healed, but still look ridiculously large, especially compared to her roommates, who's results aren't near as dramatic and cartoony. Poor girl better stop that shit before she ruins her face, before she takes it too far like Kenzie.
"Stunning," I deadpan, clearing my throat. "Well I hate to put a damper on the celebration, but this building is home to a lot of working professionals, and some of them conduct their work from home. I think they all, along with myself, would appreciate if you minded the noise coming from this apartment."
"Do you work from home?" Redhead asks me, medicated lips struggling to close because they are so swollen. She bats her long eyelashes, and I can't help but think what a shame it is that she's gone and messed with the balance of her face. I can tell she's very pretty without the unnaturally puffed up mouth, and I can't imagine she'll look that much more normal once it settles.
"Occasionally, yes. Today is one of those days."
"We are so sorry. We'll keep it down, we promise."
"Yeah, we really are so sorry," Kenzie nods in agreement, batting her eyelash extensions at me. "We'll work on being more courteous."
"That would be appreciated, thank you." Before I can leave, Kenzies hand darts out to grab hold of my forearm.
"Wait don't go. You should come in and have a drink with us." I eye where her hand holds my arm, wishing eye contact alone was enough to burn her hands off of me. "You've been working really hard, I can tell by that little vein right there in your neck," she points to my throat. "You should take break and have a margarita with us. You deserve it. I'm Kenzie by the way, this is Harper."
She couldn't make it any more obvious than she already is, that she's trying to entice me with her body, fingertips trialing down my bare forearm, back arching slightly to push her chest out more.
The redhead behind her doesn't seem as comfortable flaunting her body, but does her best to appear casual and sexy, leaning against the door frame.
I'm standing there fighting the urge to tell both of them to fuck off, when suddenly it all clicks into place, the reason for my mood and my obsessive thoughts over Giada and who she might be screwing across the country.
Sex. I haven't had sex in over half a month.
That's why I've been so crazed over thoughts of someone touching her or getting into her pants. It's not jealousy, or even my naturally territorial tendencies or pride. It's sexual frustration, a build up of tension at the loss of schedule with the few women I allow in my bed.
     I hate to use sex in the same idea as something as rigid as a schedule, because I prefer the spontaneity of an unplanned fuck as much as the next man, but that's more or less what it's become. Downtime isn't something I come across often, so I have to fit my trysts in where I can.
     I've stepped away from my need to constantly have a woman under me, and I'll prioritize business over pleasure any day, but even a man with my dedication to his work needs release. I've got a feeling either of these women would be more than happy to give me what I want.
     Would it be so wrong of me to take what I need? I'm not yet married, and even though my ring is officially on the finger of my future wife, it doesn't make our relationship any more real. Why should I deny myself sexual gratification for the sake of someone who wants nothing to do with me?
     It would be so easy. I could bend Harper over the counter and pound into her while she eats Kenzie out, then make them switch. There's probably nothing they wouldn't do to keep me happy, nothing they wouldn't allow me to do to them to satisfy me.
     This sort of power is enough to go to any mans head, and enough of a reason to accept their offer, but a flash of green eyes and a frown of contempt plays behind my eyes every time I blink, and I feel like I'm being watched and judged. She's thousands of miles away, but I can hear Giada as if she's right next to me.
     Go ahead. It won't be the first or the last time you make a fool of me. Don't stop on my account. I already know exactly what kind of man you are.
     My fists clench at my sides, teeth sinking into the insides of my cheeks as the vision that's been haunting me all day comes to life, finding her voice inside my head. I really must be going mad.
     That stubbornness that blazes endlessly inside of me wants to take the bait, if only to be able to say that my fiancé isn't in control of me, that I do what I want. I spare another glance at the girls in front of me, their salacious smiles telling me exactly what will happen if I follow them inside. They are like sirens luring me to my death; death in this case being shame, and a possible visit to a health clinic.
     Do I accept the risk involved purely for the sake of  proving to myself that I can put my dick wherever I want, or do I walk away and listen to the warning bells in my head telling me that this is a really bad idea.
     "Sorry to disappoint you girls, but I don't think my fiancé would approve." They glance at each other, matching frowns etched into their face.
     "You don't have to worry about a thing getting back to your fiancé. It is just one drink after all, and we're very discreet." Kenzie smiles up at me sweetly, swirling the remnants of her beverage in her glass.
     "I'm sure you are," I sigh exasperatedly. "My answer remains the same. Please keep it down ladies." I turn on my heel, leaving them standing in their doorway. They stare at me through the open elevator door, wearing matching opened mouthed expressions. Surely they thought I'd never turn down their advances, what with the combined power of their sexual pull and all.
     There's a sort of satisfaction I get from walking away, but it quickly fizzles out as the elevator doors close and I'm left again with my thoughts, and the girl who won't leave them. I close my eyes again, and I see her smirking victoriously. She won this round, and she wasn't even here for the battle. I'm definitely losing it.
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