Chapter Three

 

EIGHT YEARS EARLIER

Raven

 

I’m eighteen years old, starting my first year at St. Thomas University in Philadelphia. For a while I’ve been really looking forward to the start of the term. I’m a bit anxious about the new situation, but at the same time, I’m terribly excited too. A whole new world is opening in front of me, and I’m already dying to stand on my own feet at last, and dive into normal life. It’s been five years since the death of my parents. Five painful, long, tearful years. Not that the Bertone family haven’t done all they could. They have me in the palm of their hands, pamper me, I even think they’re overly protective of me. In the chaotic times after the assassination of my parents they took me out of my old school and I completed primary school as a private student. The world as I knew it fell to pieces. I was confused, had nightmares, and even with professional help it took me years to finally regain my peace. But I did it. Although there isn’t a day when my parents don’t come to my mind, by now it’s not mourning that defines my days. I’m surrounded by a loving family, which eases the pain of loss, even if, of course, they can’t replace my parents.

My cousins are older than me, plus, they are Italian boys. A deathly combo. During high school, the boys were always beside me and didn’t let anyone – especially boys – come near me. They almost isolated me from the others. Uncle Emilio put me into a horribly expensive elite high school. In the mornings, a car drove me to the entrance, and after my classes it took me home. I only had a few friends, and I didn’t want to go out with them at weekends. When it came to having fun, at the time it could only happen with my family, my cousins. Not very rosy prospects for a teenage girl. I always had the uncomfortable feeling that my classmates were keeping a distance from me. A while back I didn’t understand what the problem was, but as I’m getting older, I’m beginning to see which way the wind lay. At school nobody discussed this openly, yet there had been a rumour about my family. There were gossips about the Bertones’ underworld contacts, the circumstances of my parents’ death, and these all led to my being isolated from my classmates, even in this elite school for the rich. It didn’t help either that my cousin Chris went to that school. He was a tall, black-haired, always happy joker, and the teenage girls were crazy about him. Their devotion wasn’t even shaded by the dubious reputation of his family background. I often felt annoyed at the way my cousin took advantage of the Bertones’ reputation in front of the girls while the boys steered clear of me for the same name. In a very cool but obvious manner, Chris announced at the beginning of every school year that he and Sandro would send every loser who made a pass at their girl cousin to the bottom of the River Delaware, after kicking their teeth in. I could hardly do anything about that. As a result of the warning, the boys only stared from a distance, maybe whispered behind my back, but none really dared to ask me out. Other than Cody Kremer with whom I had a short fling when we were seventeen – but it was over even before it could start. Although I love my cousins, towards the end of high school I was getting fed up with them. Especially Chris, who replaces his girlfriend every month, but believes a different moral rule needs to be applied to me. How I’d love to teach him a change of views with a baseball bat! The double standards are bothering me more and more, and although I constantly fight with the boys, I’ve never rebelled against my uncle and my aunt’s authorities.

Not until now, when the time has come to choose a university. I’ve done all I could to protest against Uncle Emilio’s will to once again send me to an elite institution for the upper ten. I want to have none of the art history and music culture courses. I dig my heels in and insist on my own plans. I want to study special education, speech therapy and psychopedagogy. And all of this at a perfectly normal, plain university. I’m eighteen, and know what I want. Lately things have gone so far that I’m ready to give up on further education altogether, but I definitely won’t register at the university selected by my uncle.

Luckily, Aunt Claire stands by me and uses all her powers with my uncle. She has worked hard to convince him to give in to my will. When Claire opens the door of my room late at night, I’m already in bed, reading. She doesn’t say anything, just kisses me on the forehead, winks at me with conspiracy, and wishes me good night. The next day, at breakfast Uncle Emilio is acting a little offended and mumbles something under his nose, nevertheless, he signs the St. Thomas University application forms. I’m jumping with joy for having won my first battle against the will of the mafia boss. Although Sandro and Chris eagerly offer to take me, I insist on showing up alone on the first day. The last thing I want is the Bertone brothers parading themselves around at the university, marking their territory, and terrifying my potential friends. I don’t want to stick out of the crowd. I’m already enjoying anonymity in advance, and the fact that nobody is familiar with my family background. I wish to start my university studies with a clean sheet, and I won’t let my cousins ruin my plans – even if they mean well.

 

 

I’ve been studying at St. Thomas for six months, and I feel great there. Like a good girl, I spend every other weekend at the Bertone family estate, and I let them interrogate me about my life on the campus. I give them an account about my days, trying with all my might to keep them away from the university, and I succeed. Since the move, not one of the Bertones has set foot on the St. Thomas campus, and I hope it will remain this way.

In the meantime, I’m absolutely loving my other life where I’m just an average university student without any complications or a dark side. I love my little studio flat where in the evenings I bury myself into my books and try to make friends with young people who have no idea about my past or my family background. I’ve managed to separate my two personalities perfectly, it seems to work really well.

 

 

It’s a bright summer afternoon as I walk back to my flat after the last lecture to put on my gym stuff and go running to finish my day. I love to run. Mostly in the mornings, before the first lecture, I go to the popular running path along the Schuylkill River, wearing earphones. I had never really been an early morning person, but in the past months I’ve learned to enjoy the sunrise, and it fills me with thrill to watch the city wake up to a new day right before my eyes. Even the rhythmical beat of my own heart gives me pleasure, let alone the nice feeling that I’ve done the distance planned. At times like this, after a long, hot shower I always start my day with more motivation.

Sometimes though, like today, my morning laziness takes over. I wasn’t able to get out of bed at dawn, so the training was left for the late afternoon. The simple, four-story apartment building where I live is located on the edge of the campus. My flat is on the second floor. The flats next to mine are larger, so two girls are sharing one, and three live in the other. There’s always a lot of coming and going in the building, and night life is also quite active, which was initially strange, yet I’ve got used to it by now. The neighbour girls drag me along to all sorts of parties, and I enjoy my freedom more and more. There’s a lot to study compared to high school, so I have to manage my time well, but I really like this busy life, and the fact that I can finally be a part of it.

 

I run up the stairs, and in front of the door I rummage through my rucksack before I find the key. While I mess with that, I remember that before running I also have to take care of the washing. I’ve been putting it off for a week, but since I’m spending the weekend at my uncle’s, I won’t have any time for it later. It’s out of the question that I’ll take my laundry to the estate. Not that Aunt Claire or a staff member wouldn’t be happy to sort it out for me, but I don’t want to make it seem like I can’t work things out on my own. I’d hate it if my aunt or Uncle Emilio felt that I’m not capable of managing my own things, and started interfering with my life. That’s just out of the question. I’m an independent woman who stands on her own two feet, and who insists on her newly obtained freedom, being perfectly happy on her own – I motivate myself quietly to do the unpleasant task.

It’s part of the truth that sometimes my plans don’t exactly work out. Like a few weeks ago, when I lost my bag, or maybe it was stolen. I’m not sure how it happened, but my three-hundred-and-fifty dollars were gone. On the bright side, though, my documents were found later. Back then I was angry enough to think for a moment that I should ask Claire for help, but I soon dropped the idea. Following one of the girls’ advice, I registered at a local baby sitter office, so now I occasionally watch children in their homes and get paid per the hour. I won’t say that I’m making a fortune, but at least I’m proud of myself that I can solve the problem without having to involve the family in the issue.

Absorbed in my thoughts, I step into the apartment, pushing the door closed behind me with my heel, but after a step, I freeze. Something’s not right. I can’t hear the door slam. Furrowing my brow, I turn back, and my heart almost jumps out of my chest with fright, and with surprise. With fright, because the door is kept from closing by a long leg covered with shabby denim and ending in a black boot, and with surprise, because the owner of the boot and the shabby leg of jeans is an extremely handsome, dark-haired, blue-eyed boy with a conspicuously gloomy stare. And to hell with it, the emphasis in this case is on the extremely handsome. In my first moment of surprise I can neither speak nor move. I let my eyes scan the boy with a stupid stare, who is by a head taller than me, and is now towering above me menacingly, as he leans against the door frame with both hands. The intruder’s piercing blue eyes attract mine like a magnet. The unknown person’s sudden appearance out of nowhere and his threatening presence should give me a fright, but strangely, I feel no fear. For a few seconds I dreamily fix my eyes on the lushly parting lips, the manly, angular profile, and the powerful, deep blue eyes framed with dark lashes, then I manage to compose myself. I clear my throat and speak with the firmest voice I can muster.

“I’d be ever so thankful if you took your foot off my threshold,” I say, wrinkling my forehead.

“I don’t intend to,” comes the determined answer.

Angrily, I press my lips together, and luring blue eyes or not, I’m now beginning to panic. Above the boy’s wide shoulders, I nervously glance around, but now that I would actually need it, not a soul is around in the hall. There’s silence on my floor. Typical. I grab the edge of the door, and push it inwards, with not much success, of course. The black boot continues to block the door’s way, and the blue-eyed stranger even pushes the door open with his palm, making me reel back a step. It’s becoming more and more embarrassing, and as I stare at my intruder with eyes open wide, I’m seized by ice cold fear. I want to scream out, but as I open my mouth, only a weak, whiny noise comes out of it.

“Are you Raven Bertone?” the boy asks tilting his head, studying my face closely.

“I… I am,” I stutter with bewilderment. Not many know my full name, at least I used to think that, and was extremely happy with the situation.

The boy nods, and with one firm step he makes his way into my flat, slamming the door shut behind him. Terrified, I move to back away, and grab the first object my hands can find, which happens to be a closed umbrella. My heart is thumping in my throat, my pulse is skyrocketing, while I hold the umbrella at my front to protect myself. I’m deep in trouble, there’s no doubt about that. The boy is visibly very determined, whatever his goal is. I don’t have to be a genius to realize that in a possible physical fight my chance is zero against the 6.2 tall, broad-shouldered intruder. While I silently estimate my chances, my eyes involuntarily scan the tense chest muscles and charmingly pulled biceps under the black shirt. His strong physique tells me that he regularly works out or does sports actively. With embarrassment, I divert my eyes from the much too attractive sight, and smack myself mentally for not being able to concentrate. I finally conclude that it’s high time I tried out in practice one of the self-defence sequences I’ve learned from Chris. I wish I had paid more attention when my cousin explained the details, and teased Chris much less for his over-zealousness – I fret with frustration. It won’t do, though, to give up without a fight. Mr. sexy blue eyes will woe the day he provoked a fight with a Bertone girl – I say to myself, making an effort to wind myself up, while holding the umbrella with a shaking hand at my front. I must be a hilarious sight, because the boy tilts his head, and narrowing his eyes he studies me with such interest as if I was the specimen of an already extinct species.

While he visibly makes no haste, I desperately try to recall the sequence called “frontal kick to groin”. Left foot behind, body weight placed back. Or to the front? I have no clue, damn it. Other foot to kick ahead, focusing all strength on the kick. Hand protecting the face. After the kick, back to basic posture, or is it… Run! – The advice of common sense echoes in my brain. I cast another desperate glance at the shut door, my only escape route, fully blocked by 200 sexy pounds of pure muscle. I have no choice but at least to go for it. I take a deep breath, and mustering all my courage, I lift my foot to kick, when the boy speaks again, perfectly distracting me from my plan of action.

“You owe me four thousand bucks.”

 

 

I stare into his face with a shock, my hands drop with the umbrella.

“What’s that?” I ask, tilting my head.

“You said you’re Raven Bertone.”

“So?” I shrug, unknowingly.

“And you owe me four thousand bucks.”

I study his face with narrowed eyes, wondering if, since it turns out the guy obviously has a problem from his neck up, my chances to run are better. An unknown macho who enters my apartment with force and wants to rape me: that sucks. An unknown macho with delusions, who enters my flat with force and wants to rape me, plus demands money from me: that sucks even more.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. There must be a misunderstanding.”

“Raven Bertone. 44, Oak Road. Freshman, special education/speech therapy major,” he gabbles off.

“Correct, but…”

“That’s what you lost in the past two weeks.”

“I lost?” I raise my eyebrows.

“Yes. In poker,” the boy mumbles, with growing impatience.

“Poker?” I repeat dumbly, and touch my mobile tucked in my back pocket. The whole thing is becoming more bizarre every minute.

The guy steps closer, and checks me out with such a lustful attention to detail, from head to toe, that in another situation I swear I’d blush. Now though, a strange, not at all unpleasant wave of buzz runs down my spine, and settles near my belly. I’m eagerly trying to convince myself that the buzz-like wave and this sudden wobbling of my knees is only caused by fright.

“I can’t play poker,” I say slowly, fixing my eyes on him as if under a spell. And anyway, what is this unbelievably sexy British accent? Is he putting it on, knowing that it’s my weakness, or is he really European? – I ponder once again, instead of doing something.

The intruder gulps, then takes a deep breath. He closes his eyes, and shakes his head in such a strange way as if he was trying to shake some thoughts out of his brain that do not fit in there. When he looks at me again, I have the feeling that he’s trying to hide a tiny smile from the corner of his mouth. A totally unsettling, sinfully sexy mini grin.

“Raven Bertone, you see, finally there’s something we perfectly agree about. You’re a lousy poker player,” he murmurs under his nose, while visibly struggling to keep the grin from spreading on his face.

Is he smiling at me, or what the hell? I sulk to myself. At last it looks like he can take control of his facial muscles, he switches back to large, sexy, threatening macho mode, and poke a finger at me.

“Enough of this shit. I need that money, and at once.”

With my free hand, I get the mobile out of my trouser pocket, but before I had the chance to press a button on it, he twists the device out of my hand and pockets it. I’m fuming. This can’t be true. He stares at me with anger, furrowing his brow, and stepping very close to me, he grabs my upper arm and yanks me to himself. I try to back out, but the iron fist folding around my arm won’t let me make a move. Our faces are hardly a few inches apart, his annoyingly charming profile is almost brushing against my forehead, and my heaving breasts are stuck against his broad, hard chest. My breath catches for a moment when I clearly sense the hot radiation of his skin even through his shirt. As I feel the stranger’s heated heartbeat echo in my inside, for a single crazy moment I forget about the outside world. For a second that feels like eternity, we gaze into each other’s eyes, lost. The observant deep blue, perfectly interlocked with the amazed greenish blue. His closeness unsettles me, but these feelings are very far from fright. They are much too close to the hot desire pulsating near my underbelly.

Out of the attractive intruder’s throat comes a deep, gurgling kind of noise when, licking his lower lip, his stare wanders with torturing slowness along my parting lips. I hate it but I can’t keep the goose bumps from covering my body from head to toe as I feel his breath on my face. And I hate it even more that my nipples protrude from under my shirt as a give-away sign as his thumb sensuously runs along the sensitive inner part of my upper arm. Petrified, we stare at one another, and I’m almost killed by the recognition that instead of the mortal fear that I should feel right now, I’m dying to have him push me against the wall, and stick his lips onto mine so that I could taste his kisses. The desire for the kisses of this stranger takes control of me so unexpectedly, with such intensity, that I’m also amazed by it. I have to muster all my strength to be able to lift the umbrella and push it between our bodies stuck together.

The boy’s face jerks as if waking from a trance, and his eyes slowly wander to the end of the umbrella. He gulps before speaking up.

“Are you serious about this umbrella?”

I breathe in with a quiver to give an answer, but it’s pointless to open my mouth. I couldn’t squeeze out a sound that makes sense. “What’s your plan? Do you want to nail me with it?” he asks with a tilted head, and once again, he’s wearing that cheeky grin.

“If I must,” I say with a dying voice.

“It would be much easier to settle your debt, Bella,” he murmurs.

The breath is caught in my throat, I close my eyes. Pain pierces through my heart, and my tears are about to burst. My dad, my deceased father used to call me that when I was a little girl. It must have been out of tactfulness, but nobody has called me Bella in the family for years. I’m struggling with the emotions suddenly showering on me, because now is not the moment to look weak. It will take all my persuasiveness to get out of this unlucky situation. Slowly, I shake my head, trying to force sobriety on myself, hoping with all my heart that I’ll be able to speak up convincingly.

“I have no idea what you want from me. Seriously. I have no clue what debt you’re talking about. I don’t have four thousand dollars, and I’ve never played poker in my entire life. You’re definitely confusing me with someone else. I don’t even know who you are, or what your name is,” I stutter, although the last sentence leaves my lips totally out of control.

“R… Rafe,” comes the hoarse, erratic answer. “Rafe Ha...Harlan.”

I stare at him with embarrassment, tilting my head. What was that? Stammering? – I wonder, because it really doesn’t fit in with the guy’s so far macho-like appearance.

“Please, let go of me, Rafe Harlan,” I breathe, and my eyes go down to his hand still squeezing my arm.

Rafe’s jaw jerks, but his grip eases on me, then he slowly lets his hand down.

“Stop carrying on with me,” he whispers menacingly.

“I’m not. I promise.”

He takes a step back without diverting his eyes from me. I drop the umbrella down next to me and heave a sigh of relief. Surprising as it is, I’m no longer scared. Although the situation would require me to stay alert, I still couldn’t imagine Rafe really harming me. It confuses me that I’m not much happier about not having his chest stuck to mine, and I don’t get why I don’t feel relief over his strong hand no longer grasping my arm.

 

 

Rafe

 

I try to look menacing as fuck, but I’m really not sure it’s working. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I’ve come here with a specific purpose, and I just can’t allow myself to get into small-talking with this chick. I can’t give way to the strange feelings that make me lightheaded every time I get a whiff of her perfume’s flowery aroma. I’m really mad, or at least I should be, but instead I’m busy trying to get that idiotic grin off my face. I don’t understand what’s going on between us, but things are getting out of hand ever since I’ve faced this dark-haired, blue-eyed, pretty little witch. I have no idea what she’s done to me, but when her body was pressed against mine, I swear, my brain was off for a while. Everything went blank, I didn’t even know what I’d come here for.

I have to pull myself together. This girl owes me a lot of cash, and won’t pay up. And that just won’t do in my world. This is not the first case that I have to collect someone’s debt since the poker programme started running online, and it does happen that the little pricks won’t pay for their tokens, but I always find a quick fix to the problem. What’s due, is due. If you play and lose, you must pay up. What am I, the Red Cross? It’s not for fun that I take the risk to be caught running an illegal poker software. I need the damn money.

But this girl! When she blinks those sexy eyes at me with the long lashes, I feel confused and can’t focus. And just before, when she tried to protect herself with that umbrella, like some wild cat, I swear I was close to pressing her against the wall, pulling her head back by her pony tail, and kiss her wildly until she was to cum instantaneously between my hands. Her body gives her away, just like mine does. When I pulled her to myself, her nipples were hard under her shirt, there was no need to look, I could feel them against my chest. Suddenly it’s got fucking hot, I’m all sweat and my dick is also at attention. The touch of her skin under my hands, the lushly parting lips erase the purpose of this visit from my brain, and there’s only one thing clouding my consciousness: what could Raven Bertone’s mouth taste like? What noise would she make if I hungrily kissed into her neck, and sucked her earlobe between my teeth? My dick is pulsing as I think of the sight Her Naughtiness would be, with her dark hair spread over my pillow, her legs squeezing my hips while moaning my name with pleasure. Fuck it! I’ve lost my mind. I must concentrate on collecting the dough, not on her stiff little tits. And the greatest thing about it all is that even my stammer has come back. I can’t remember when I last stammered, especially in front of a girl. How embarrassing!

I shake myself and press my lips together with anger. Strangely, though, I’m mostly angry with myself. The whole visit is turning out to be very different from how I’ve planned it. I’m overcome by the crappy feeling that I’ve come to collect my money in vain. I look at the chick, and somehow I don’t think she’s lying. I can hardly imagine that Raven would be an obsessed gambler. I don’t really get it myself, but this partly fills me with a strange satisfaction, on the other hand, though, it’s a damn bad sign regarding the missing four thousand bucks. Of course, you never know. Perceptions are often misleading. A pretty face and a shapely butt are no guarantees for credibility. She might as well be a great actress – I ponder, while never averting my eyes off her.

Then I remember the phone. This even comes in handy. I definitely have to find out the truth, so I take out the mobile from my back pocket, and press the screen. There’s a lock, I note, cursing to myself.

“Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she protests, and jumps to reach for her phone.

I lift it high, preventing her from taking it from my hand. Although she’s not short, she stands no chance against my arm lifted above my head. She tries a few times, then folds her arms in front of her, sulking. God, this woman drives me crazy – I complain to myself. Obviously, she doesn’t want to make a complete idiot of herself to jump around in front of me like some plastic ball, with her arms stretched high, so she just sends me some killer looks. If you could kill with eyes, no doubt I would be dead meat by now.

“You can’t do that. You have no right,” she sulks, with arms folded in a grumpy manner, which only results in my eyes wandering straight to her accentuated boobs. When she realizes what I’m looking at, with embarrassment – and not too much wisdom – she pulls her top lower, making the signs of interest her body is showing, even more visible. I run my free hand down my chin. I’m in deep shit. “Give it back at once!” she murmurs angrily.

“I can see you’re worried that something might come to light from Miss Bertone’s hidden secrets. What could be stored on this mobile phone?”

I raise my eyebrows provokingly, and a few times, I wave the phone in my hand from side to side.

“My stuff is of no concern to you,” she yells threateningly.

“Calm down, Bella! I don’t care about your private life,” I say with pretended ease, even though I’m talking nonsense, because with every minute I spend near her, I’m more and more interested in the details of her life. “But we can clarify the issue real quick. If I find the online poker application on your phone, you’re in big trouble, missy, and I will not leave this place until one way or another, you settle your debt,” I say, looking straight into her eyes, as her face turns red. Not a typical situation for me.

“All right. Go ahead,” she shrugs unwillingly.

I let down my hand, and quietly look at her with expectation.