COME OUT AND PLAY — BILLIE EILISH
"i love it when you're awfully quiet."
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Roughly two days ago, Dominic and I had been invited to a private art showing, courtesy of the WMA, at a museum downtown. The information that he gave me about the event was brief, but he told me that the invites were very specific, and none of them were sent to the Russians after the issues they'd caused at the auction.
"Mr. and Mrs. D'Angelo, it's a pleasure." The woman greeted us, her voice carried a hint of formality, and I was surprised she even knew us directly by name. Although, the slip-up with my family name was barely noticeable, it still lingered in the back of my head.
Dominic's lack of reaction surprised me. Usually attentive to such details, he seemed distant, his focus was elsewhere. "The pleasure's ours, thank you," I responded myself with a small, sweet smile before entering the gallery.
The size of the space immediately intimidated me; the high ceilings and fresh hardwood floors echoed with the hushed murmurs of guests, the walls were decorated with all kinds of different pieces, each one different from the other, and the air was filled with the scent of old wood and the faint aroma of wine.
Contrasting from the auction, the atmosphere was much more relaxed, and I felt more confident now that there weren't about a hundred people who looked like they wanted my head on a stick upon my entry. In fact, it seemed as though most of the guests around us were minding their own business.
I glanced up to Dominic, tapping him gently on his forearm to catch his attention. "Did you tell them that my last name was D'Angelo?" I asked as curiosity got the better of me— just as it usually did.
"Oh, fuck. Sorry, I didn't mean to—" Dominic's response was immediate, a hint of concern in his voice as he realized the mistake.
"It's okay, really. I was only wondering," I reassured him, offering a small smile to ease any tension; because in all honesty, I didn't mind it at all.
He ran his hand up by back before his gaze quickly began to sweep across the room, his eyes, a piercing shade of blue, flicked from person to person; paranoid. I felt his hand move from the small of my back to my thigh, the fabric of my dress bunched slightly under his touch as he patted me down; though I noticed a shift in his demeanour.
"Where's your gun?" he asked.
"It's in my purse," I replied, my voice steady despite Dominic's unusually serious tone. My hand instinctively reached for its strap, holding the bag tighter against my body. I could feel the slight weight of the gun pressing against my side, a reassuring reminder of its presence.
The palm of his hand rested on my back again, his touch was commanding as he guided my steps to take a turn. Before I knew it, he had led me down a dimly lit hallway, the distant sounds of the event fading behind us until we were standing in front of a nondescript bathroom door.
"What?" I questioned, confusion evident in my voice as he shut the door behind us.
He began to loosen his tie, his fingers deftly undoing the small knot. "Your weapon needs to be more accessible. If someone starts firing, you won't have enough time to reach it." With practiced ease, he bent down onto one knee, then casually lifted the hem of my dress up, exposing the right side of my leg. "Hold this, please," he requested, his tone both focused and oddly intimate.
I took the fabric, gently lifting it up for him. He wrapped the tie around my upper thigh with a quick hand, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the urgency of the situation. The knot was firm but not uncomfortable, leaving a small gap between it and my skin.
"Is this too tight?"
"No. Is there a reason for this though? Should I be worried?" I asked, opening my bag, the zipper undoing softly to retrieve my gun. I handed it to him, and he took it from me, his grip firm yet gentle, and skillfully slipped it into the makeshift holster he had made.
Standing up from the ground, he brushed off his clothes with deliberate movements, his dark hair falling into his face. "It's just a precaution." He pushed it back before his hand drew to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose, he closed his eyes briefly, as if trying to ward off an impending headache or suppress something else.
"Are you okay?" I prodded, genuinely concerned.
He didn't reply, only nodded in agreement to my question. I stepped closer and took his pressed my hands to the bottom of his neck, and I gently turned his gaze towards me. "Hey," I whispered, my voice barely above a breath, and kissed him lightly.
As I pulled away, he caught me by my waist, his grip firm but gentle, pulling me closer to him until we were nose to nose. His eyes locked onto mine with a small intensity, and without a word, his lips met mine again, this time more urgent, more insistent—like he needed it, needed me.
Something about him had been off since last night, and I couldn't quite shape what it was. Usually, I'd find it comforting when he was as quiet as this, but not this time. His mind wasn't in his head, not then, and certainly not now. There was a distant look in his eyes, as if he were lost in thoughts that he couldn't share.
I tried to ignore the feeling, to push it aside and enjoy his hands on me, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't shake the sense of unease that lingered between us. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, feeling the heat of his body against mine, my fingers found their way into his hair.
As he pulled away, his expression unreadable, I searched his face for some sign of what was bothering him. But all I found was a mask, carefully crafted to hide whatever was wrong. I knew I should say something, that I should ask him what was wrong, but the words caught in my throat.
I was afraid of what his answer might be. "Dom—" I started, but he interrupted me before I could finish.
"Maybe we should go," he suggested uneasily as he took a step back.
Why was he acting like this?
I hesitated, unsure of what to do. A part of me wanted to press him, to demand answers, but another part knew that pushing him now would only push him further away; and after all, maybe I was just overthinking it.
Although that wasn't what my gut was telling me.
Reluctantly, I nodded, and the sound of the door opening was quickly followed by raised voices echoing down the isolated and expansive hallway. I stepped outside and turned to see a couple at the end of it, and as quickly as it had started, their voices began to lower, their words turning inaudible.
A blonde woman stood there, her back pressed against the cold, rough texture of the wall. Her gaze was fixed on the man in front of her, his presence looming over her. His hand rested against the wall, effectively blocking her from leaving the space. The woman, surprisingly calm given the circumstances, didn't seem to be struggling. Her body language was passive, almost accepting of the situation, which— oh, shit.
That was Lena.
Dominic's grip on my hand was light as he pulled me away from the scene unfolding at the end of the hallway. His expression was grim, his jaw set in a tense line. I stumbled slightly, caught off guard by his sudden urgency.
I turned back to Dominic. "Was that—?"
He nodded, his expression unreadable. "Yes," he responded shortly, his tone clipped.
I never brought it up after that.
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We'd begun to wander through the corridors, the artwork loomed large on the walls, each piece commanding attention with its intricate details and devoid of colours. The cost of each was displayed on elegant gold plaques, and were enough to make even my comfortable eyes widen. Most of them ranged from hundreds of thousands to seven fucking figures.
In my personal opinion, the pieces weren't terrible, but they weren't exactly worth their prices either. They were no better than what a local and undiscovered artist could've done, and were really only raging off of filthy rich murderers.
What bothered me the most, though, was the large frame that we were both staring at that moment. It was a simple piece—a white base with a few black paint strokes. That was it. And yet, its price plaque read 2.5 million dollars— and I'd bet you the same amount of money that people would actually find it fascinating.
I think I might've been modern art's greatest cynic.
"These are disgustingly overpriced," I remarked as I leaned against Dominic's frame, arms crossed over my chest, unable to hide my disbelief at the exorbitant costs.
I decided that it would be best not to bring up what happened in the bathroom, both for my peace of mind and his, especially at an event like this where people seemed to be a foot away from us in every direction.
He laughed, his tone somewhat lighthearted. "I could buy twenty of these and it'd hardly put a dent in my bank account."
"I would kill you."
"I know," he said simply, his eyes twinkling with satisfaction.
I shook my head, unable to suppress a smile, and nodded towards another painting that had captured my attention. I took a moment to appreciate the artwork, its colors and textures speaking to me in a way the others hadn't. It was a piece that seemed to breathe life into the room, a stark contrast to the pretentiousness of some of the other overpriced works.
It was a simple yet elegant oil painting of a rose garden, with the focal point being a winding pathway that meandered through the centre. Along the path, an arched concrete trellis adorned with climbing scarlet and blush roses. "That's in Italy," Dominic pointed out, his tone quiet.
"Is it really?"
"I went there, once," he continued, his gaze lingering on the painting. "For you."
A small smile curved on my lips. "My birthday roses?" I asked, remembering the roses that were surprisingly still alive, and were placed in an heirloom vase on the dresser of our room.
As I felt the presence of someone between us, a tap on my shoulder made me turn. It was Lena, her hair elegantly braided and with small white flowers—the same ones she had worn at the auction.
"Excuse me for interrupting, but I think you might want to save your conversation for later," she suggested politely, her voice carrying a hint of concern. I glanced at Dominic, noting the tension in his posture, before turning back to Lena. "Sono qui," she muttered.
Over the course of nearly four months of living with Dominic, I'd picked up on some Italian. It wasn't anything major, but out of a sentence, I might be able to decipher a couple of words. Dominic had been patient enough, unknowingly teaching me the basics when he spoke to the men who worked for him, and it had paid off in small ways, like understanding simple phrases or greetings; so I wasn't an idiot, nor incapable of putting two words together.
They're here.
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A/N.
i got grounded guys... save me
↳ i know that these past few chapters have been pretty boring,
and i'm sorry to have you waiting so long for these updates,
but things will start to pick up again— promise.
words (2000)