BANG BANG

Richard's POV

I need to get the fuck out of here.

My hands are still shaking from the argument, and my jaw is aching from how hard I've been clenching it. Antonella started this shit. She pushed and pushed until I snapped. Now my daughter looks at me like I'm a monster. Like I'm the reason her mother is crying.

Maybe I fucking am.

I storm down to my wine cellar to grab my favorite whiskey—the one I only touch on special occasions. Apparently, my wife reminding me what a fucking failure I am counts.

I don't bother with a glass. I take a deep swig straight from the bottle.

I need to fuck this anger away. And I know exactly where to go. I take my jacket from the chair I tossed it onto earlier.

"Get the car ready, we're leaving." I bark at my driver as I step outside. "Take me to the other house."

The secret mansion. The place only a few know about. And the place where Lana is.

As we drive, my thoughts spiral. I remember my last words to her.

"Women like you don't get to walk side by side with men like me."

What the fuck was that? Why did I say that? She never asked to walk beside me. She never begged for my approval. Yet I felt the need to constantly put her beneath me.

Every time she looks at me with those eyes, every time she retorts every time she hesitates to crumble beneath my grip, I feel something crawl up my spine.

I don't know what it is. And I don't fucking like it.

By the time I arrive at the secret mansion, my mood is no better. I push open the door, stepping inside. Lana is there. She doesn't say a word. She doesn't even fucking look at me.

And I know exactly why.

I don't acknowledge it though. I don't apologize. Instead, I strip off my suit jacket, toss it onto the couch, and turn to her.

"Get a chair." I command. "You're going to be my therapist today."

She doesn't react at first. But then she scoffs with her arms crossed. "Get a chair? What am I your maid now?"

I smirk, tilting my head. "No. You're my prisoner. So do as I fucking say."

Her jaw tightens and her nostrils flare, but she does it. Because she has to. She grabs a chair and sits, and that's when I notice the dress.

It's short. Too short.

Her porcelain, smooth and perfect legs are on full display. My dick likes it, but that isn't the distraction I am looking for now.

I force my eyes away. "Go put on something longer."

She glares. "Nothing you had Luca get me are long."

"I don't care. Make it work."

I can see fury in her eyes, but she gets up and storms out. Minutes later, she returns with a thick duvet wrapped around her lower half. She stares me down, daring me to comment.

I chuckle briefly at the sight of her lower half. "Better."

I grab the whiskey, pouring two glasses. One for me. One for her. I hold hers out, "Drink," but she doesn't take it.

"I don't drink."

I smirk. "I didn't ask you. I'm telling you to fucking drink."

Her lips press into a tight line. Reluctantly, she takes the glass, her fingers barely graze mine. Then, she raises it to her lips. But I stop her.

"Cheers first."

She freezes. I see it—the pure hatred in her eyes. She doesn't want to share anything with me. Not a drink. Not a fucking moment. But she has no choice.

Her glass meets mine with a soft clink. And then, she drinks. And I wear a smirk on my face as I watch her.

Lana's POV

Ricardo insulted me.

Not just once. Not in passing. But deliberately, as if my existence was beneath him. As if the mere thought of me standing next to him was offensive.

Women like you don't get to walk side by side with men like me.

All I did was ask a harmless question, yet he felt the need to cut me down. And now he wants me to sit here, drink whiskey with him, and play therapist like everything's fine?

I don't want to hate him.

But Ricardo Borrelli is a man begging to be hated.

He clears his throat, and his broad frame stretches out in the chair, with the whiskey glass resting between his fingers. His stare is heavy, weighing down on me like he expects me to crumble.

"Tell me what you think of me," he says.

I scoff, leaning back against the chair. "Do you want the truth, or do you want me to lie to you?"

Ricardo smirks as he pours himself another drink. "Why do you think I brought whiskey?"

Fine. He asked for it.

"The truth hurts," I warn. "And it's fucking bitter. Hope you can handle it."

The smirk slowly fades from his face. He doesn't look amused anymore. He is now only watching me with an assessing gaze. "Try me."

I fold my arms as I tilt my head. "Why do you have me here, Ricardo? In this big mansion?"

"That's not the answer to the question I asked you."

"It's a build-up," I abruptly say. "I'll get there. Just answer me."

He exhales sharply, swirling the whiskey in his glass before taking a sip. "Because you crossed me. You sold me out. And for what?"

I shake my head. "That's not entirely true."

"Then tell me what is."

I watch him carefully, letting the silence go on for a while between us before finally speaking.

"You have me here because you want to fuck me."

Ricardo scoffs, but he doesn't interrupt, so I continue.

"You love fucking me. It makes you feel like a man again. You could've killed me the moment Luca found me, but instead, I'm here, in designer clothes, eating fancy meals, fucking the man who claims I betrayed him, playing therapist, and drinking whiskey like this is some kind of twisted date."

Ricardo scoffs. "I know you sold me out. I know you're protecting someone. And yes, I like fucking you. That's one of the reasons you're not dead yet."

He leans forward. "Now answer my fucking question. Tell me what you think of me."

I pick up my glass, swirling the liquid before bringing it to my lips. I take a sip, then smirk.

"I thought you didn't drink," Ricardo murmurs, watching me closely.

"I like this topic," I reply, setting the glass down.

I hold his gaze. "I think you're putting on a facade. I think your toxic trait is knowing the truth yet asking questions like you want me to tell you otherwise. You know yourself. You know what you are. I don't need to tell you. It's not like you're gonna change anyway."

Ricardo licks his lips, tilting his head as he watches me. "You know the saying—real is rare, and when you're about it, it feels so wrong to explain."

I exhale a laugh. "That's a nice way of saying I'm not gonna explain why I am the way I am."

Ricardo doesn't deny it.

So, I lean forward. "What if your bad habits are trauma responses?"

Ricardo's entire face shifts, like I hit something he didn't want me to touch. It's quick, but I catch it. Then, just as fast, his expression hardens.

His elbows are on his thighs like he's about to stand up. "What the hell are you insinuating?"

I don't back down. "You know I'm not lying."

Ricardo scoffs, then he sits up fully. "You know what? Fuck this."

He grabs his glass and hurls it at the wall. I flinch slightly as the liquid drops from the ruined portrait. "What the hell.."

I stand quickly, and the duvet wrapped around my legs falls to the floor. Ricardo's eyes drop to my bare thighs. For a split second, everything changes. His breathing deepens, and I can see it; his dick is hard.

He grabs my wrist forcefully and abruptly, yanking me closer. His grip is tight as my body presses against his. He's seething and he murmurs in my ears.

"Award for worst therapist of the year goes to you."

I shift my gaze up at him. "No, it doesn't. The award should go to you instead. For the worst patient of the year."

His fingers tighten around my wrist. "You really think that?"

"It hasn't even been fifteen minutes, and I already found a way to trigger you." I try to wrench my arm free, but his grip only tightens.

Ricardo's voice drops lower. "The things I let you women say to me these days…"

Lana exhales sharply, tilting her head. "What about the things you do to make us say it?"

Ricardo goes mute. For a second, I think he's going to snap, like really snap. But instead, he chuckles. It's a brief one before he shoves me against the wall.

"You're gonna dance for me," he demands. "You amuse me."

I clench my jaw. "I'm not a dancer."

Little did I know, he wasn't joking. Ricardo's smirk fades and his expression turns cold. He reaches into his waistband, pulls out his gun, and points it at me.

"Dance for me. Now, or I won't hesitate to pull the fucking trigger.."

My back is pressed against the wall, and my breathing is shallow. The sight of the gun doesn't scare me as much as it should. Because I know for a fact he won't do it. He needs me.

"I'm not dancing." I say through gritted teeth.

Ricardo's eyes lock onto mine. He chuckles briefly and then,

BANG.