Page 71 of Fatal Fantasy

“I’ll have you know, Jasper Masseria, I make the meanest french toast on the West Coast. Sit back down in that chair and keep watch while I whip us up a midnight snack,” she snarks, the sharp sting of slapping skin bleeding into the bedroom, but her sweet giggles quickly replace it, and when I glance at the clock, I realize we only slept for a few hours.

After resting, my legs tend to get stiff, causing me to climb out of bed slowly, but after a few stretches and my cane, I’m good to go, perched against the doorframe as I watch Carter work in the kitchen.

Back at Emory, we only ever ordered takeout, especially after she was drugged and almost kidnapped, so color me surprised when she gathers all the ingredients for french toast, the cabin coming with a fully stocked fridge and pantry, at my request.

They call this cabin ‘The Honeymooners Escape’ and I dubbed it perfect for our getaway, especially since the add-on services that the host offered made it easy for us to come and go without the stress of shopping.

Just the sight of her in domestic bliss has me sporting a semi, her tangled curls tossed in a messy bun on top of her head, Massi’s blood-stained t-shirt falling right above her knees, and even though there’s no music on, she’s humming and swaying her hips to whatever’s playing inside her head.

“Baby girl, it smells delicious,” I say softly, trailing my hand along her exposed shoulder so as not to scare her, and she tips her head back, eyes meeting mine with a sleepy smile painted on her face.

“I’m sorry if I woke you, I was absolutely starving,” she inhales a deep breath, smirking as the pan on the stove sizzles, the sweet scent of cinnamon filling the air.

“Make mine a double?” I ask, kissing her forehead before she returns her attention to the food cooking, flipping the slices of bread with a flick of her wrist.

After a few minutes, she delivers two plates stacked with syrup-covered toast, the carb overload smelling like pure heaven as she leaves a sticky kiss on my cheek, doing the same for Jasper while he sits on his perch, watching out the window with an eagle eyed focus.

“This is fucking incredible, my little Michelin star chef,” Jasper groans around his bite of food, the syrup dripping down his chin as I occupy a spot on the couch, tapping the cushion until Carter joins us.

It’s reminiscent of our days at Emory, sharing a meal around the same table, and although those days were a bit dark considering what she was hiding, I’m thankful that we’ve found that again, even if under different circumstances.

“You better be careful, Carter, we might make you the resident cook once we get to our forever home,” I chime in, the first bite of her french toast dancing along my taste buds.

“I grew up around chefs my whole life, so they taught me a thing or two in the kitchen. My father was very particular about his meals, but they’d make whatever I wanted, and most of the time, they’d let me watch or pitch in. I have quite a few recipes that’d knock your socks off,” she smirks, feeling quite proud of herself as she lets us into another part of her life, nothing but the truth dripping off her lips.

It makes sense, the girl who is skilled with every knife or blade known to man can cook, but I’ll wait until she handles a steak before passing down my judgments.

“What else should we know about your childhood, baby girl?” I ask, hoping the open line of communication stays open, and we can absorb every drop of information she’s willing to share.

It’s a few minutes before she speaks again, the silence hanging over the three of us like a dark cloud, the only sounds coming from the clanking of forks, or in Massi’s case, the dropping of his cleaned plate onto the table.

“It’s sad, right? That I’ve worshiped my father since I was little, but can’t think of a happy memory that doesn’t involve training or torture?” She inhales sharply, dropping her head onto my shoulder in defeat, but I prop her up, staring into her pretty baby blues.

“You’re all of my happy memories, Carter,” I say, gently stroking her cheek, keeping a stranglehold on her focus, not allowing the sadness to invade her mind.

After everything he did, Carter is still struggling with the idea of murdering her father, the thoughts flooding her with reasons to back out, but I won’t let her succumb to the masterclass of brainwashing he put her through, especially as an impressionable young adult.

That’s what the training sessions truly were, his way of creating and controlling the most loyal soldier this world has ever seen, but Massi and I are here now, putting an end to the vicious tyrant and giving Carter a chance at a final escape.

“Welcome to the club, Principessina,” Massi snarks from the chair, never taking his eyes off the front window, but keeping himself present in our conversation.

“Soon we’ll all be fatherless,” she laughs, but it doesn’t reach her eyes, a certain sadness within them that I’ve seen too many times recently.

Before anyone can even process her dark humor, the satellite phone rings again, all three of our eyes meeting as Carter exhales a deep breath.

The sun is just starting to rise over the horizon, birds can be heard chirping outside the window, but for some deranged reason, her father is calling at this ungodly hour, likely to rile Carter up even more than she was yesterday afternoon.

“Should I answer?” She asks, holding the phone in her hands while it continues to ring incessantly, the sound bouncing off the empty walls like a boomerang.

“Answer it,” Massi replies coldly, his grip tightening around the weapon as if the Don were going to show up right outside our door.

“Hello?” She whispers, placing the phone in the center of the table, and the room is so silent, I’m sure a mouse could crawl across the floor and be heard.

“There’s my little lady. I’ve missed you, Carter,” a voice says, and Carter is visibly repulsed, her body erupting in goosebumps that trail from her neck, down her thighs until they reach her toes.

“Vincent. What do you want?” She groans, keeping up an act over the phone, but I can see how his voice is affecting her, the tears threatening to spill from her water line as his name leaves her lips.

“Making sure you remember our deal. I can’t be left standing at the altar in front of some of the most powerful people on the West Coast. That kind of embarrassment would destroy my reputation, and wouldn’t bode very well for you,” he sneers, a righteousness in his tone that makes my skin crawl, like he’s convinced a few carvings on her skin is still enough for her to comply.