I make a mental effort to get my mind out of the past. I’m out now. It’s behind me. One year of my life for carrying an unlicensed firearm and parole. Considering I planned on killing the guy before he ever pulled the gun on me, it could have been a lot worse. I guess I’m lucky the Bianchis were willing to bribe whoever they did to get me out so soon, but it feels like a deal with the devil. They probably think they have me bought and paid for now, but they are idiots if they really believe that. I’m Leo fucking Citrione. No one buys me and no one owns me. Anyone who says otherwise can happily test me on it. My only loyalty is to my family. That’s it. I watch out for my little brother, Angelo, which is what got me in prison in the first place, and I give respect to my cousins, Vince and Damian, up in New York.
Maybe the Bianchis were in such a rush to get me out because they were afraid I’d talk to the cops. But I don’t beg. I did my time quietly. The cops tried to offer me deals and get me to rat out associates. They got nothing from me, just like this therapist isn’t going to get shit out of me. The judge said I had to come here, but he didn’t say I had to talk.
I’m the only one in the waiting room until a young guy in slacks and a dress shirt comes in. He lifts his sunglasses and rests them in his hair, putting his hands on his hips and glaring around the waiting room, as if something is pissing him off. A few seconds later, a very thin guy with tattoos rushes through the waiting room and leaves. I check the time, 10:27 a.m., time to meet my therapist.
When I stand, the young guy in the slacks turns his head to look at me. “Who is your appointment with?” he asks.
I ignore him, bumping him with my shoulder as I pass into the hallway lined with offices.
“Excuse me,” says the guy. It’s immediately obvious that he isn’t used to being ignored. He has the bearing of a guy who comes from privilege and isn’t used to being blown off. “I own this building. You can’t just ignore me! Sir!”
I don’t turn to face him, but I stop in the hallway, hand bunching into a fist that begs to break something. I turn my head, just slightly so I can see him from the corner of my eye.
“I was asking you…” he starts, but trails off when he meets my eye.
I guess he sees something he doesn’t like, because he takes a step back. Maybe he’s not as stupid as he looks.
“You done?” I ask. He’s smart enough to keep his mouth shut, which is good. The truth is I got a taste of prison, and I would rather stay out if I can help it. Punching rich pricks in a therapist’s offices is probably a real quick way to violate my parole and wind up back behind bars. I would still enjoy breaking his teeth if he wanted to try me.
I continue down the hall and find the door with “Dr. Connors” on the nameplate, yanking it open.
29
Julia
The door swings open. No knock, no quiet voice asking if it’s a good time. A shadow falls over the room. The man standing in the doorframe dominates the space like nothing I’ve ever seen or felt before. I would know he was in the room even if I was blindfolded. The air itself seems to charge with electricity, making the hairs on my arm stand on edge. The small voice in my head that normally diagnoses and evaluates people falls silent for the first time since I started graduate school. I listen for it, search for some way to understand this dark figure striding into the room and helping himself to the chair in front of my desk, but there’s nothing, just an empty void, like soundless night rushing into my ears.
His eyes haven’t left me since he entered, and I’m not sure if I’ve breathed. He has dark hair, dark eyes, and a few days worth of beard growth that only makes his perfect jawline even more defined. My throat is dry as I take him in bit by bit, marveling at how every last detail is perfect. He wears a black suit with a black undershirt and black slacks. He has his buttons undone enough to show the tattoos that cover his chest and just barely touch the base of his neck. I notice tattoos on his right hand and fingers as well.
“Aren’t you supposed to ask me questions?” he asks. His voice is deep and smooth. It makes me jump, realizing I’ve just been ogling him since he walked in.
“Y-yes. Let’s get started?” I ask, rather than say. Make statements, not questions. I take a deep breath, trying to recover some semblance of professionalism. Real great first impression.
He leans back in the chair like he owns the place, kicking his leg over his knee as he narrows his eyes at me. “It looked like you got started the moment you saw me.”
I blush. When have I ever blushed in this office? This is my space, where I’m in control. Yet here I am, blushing like a schoolgirl while this man devours me with those bedroom eyes. “It says here you have a history of violence, Mr. Citrione.” I say, looking down at his file, anywhere but into those eyes that are like burning coals, lighting a fire in my chest that snakes between my legs and makes me flush.
Wait… where have I heard that name before? I suddenly remember Damian Citrione, Callie’s husband. Holy shit. If this guy is even remotely related to Damian, he is bad news. Really bad news.
“You want to talk about history? I thought you were supposed to ask me how I feel.”
I purse my lips, getting a little irritated by his attitude. “I’m here for you. If you want to talk about how you feel, let’s talk about how you feel.”
“How about I tell you how I could make you feel?”
“Mr. Citrione—”
“Leo,” he interrupts.
“Leo...I need you to take this seriously if we’re going to make progress.” My voice sounds more firm than I feel. I make the mistake of meeting his eyes again and it’s doing all the wrong things to me.
He licks his lips with a slow seductiveness. I can’t seem to look away, like every motion is designed to draw me in, to lure me closer to him until he gets what he wants. He folds his hands in his lap and I notice how strong they are, how powerful. Jesus, why am I getting so turned on imagining those hands on my skin?
He stares at me unapologetically, eyes roaming my body, lingering on my breasts and mouth.
I feel my nostrils flare and my nose twitch. It’s a bad habit I have when I get angry, and I of all people should know not to telegraph my feelings. “What are you doing?” I snap.
“Taking you seriously.” The hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth puts me over the edge. He’s fucking with me.
I finally regain some sense of control, using my anger to force a calm face. I stare silently at him, using one of the oldest psychology tricks in the book. Sometimes silence is the best prompt, the best way to dig an answer from your patient.
Normally the silent treatment works within seconds. The patient first grows uncomfortable with the situation and then seeks to fill the silence, often choosing to speak about themselves, opening up the lines of communication.
Leo Citrione is different.
He is perfectly at ease in the silence, happy to sit and examine me with those eyes of his that are somehow both cold and full of heat at the same time. Well, if he wants to be Mr. Hardass, I can let him. He’s easy enough on the eyes that I’m perfectly content to just sit here and take him in. Although, I do wish I could stop my mind from wandering and flashing vivid images of his beautiful face between my legs, or from wondering how far down his body those tattoos go.