She met his eyes with her own. “The last time you drew someone, you ended up in prison. Learn from experience, Christopher. Besides, I have to get back to Brooklyn to pick up my daughter. That’s your cue to let me out.”

“You mean, you don’t like the stench of rotten meat?” He unlocked the door and she walked into the open space. It felt as if she’d been released from jail. Suddenly, her head began to spin.

“You look pale,” Donatti said. “Maybe you should rest.”

Rina felt weak. “Maybe for just a few moments.” She fell into a chair, her head having exploded into a million pinpricks. She propped her feet on a box. “Gosh, I’m so dizzy!”

“It’s breathing in all that alcohol in confined quarters.”

“It didn’t bother you.”

“I’ve sucked up more chemicals than a laboratory hood. My brain’s used to it.” Donatti regarded her. “I could draw you just like that.”

Rina covered her face with her purse. “Go away! Go to sleep. I’ll let myself out.”

“Sure. In a minute.”

He waited a minute. In fact, he waited five minutes—the time it took for Rina to doze off. Fifteen minutes later, her sleep was deep. The purse, which had covered her face, had slid down to her chest and rested on her bosom, rising and falling with each breath she took. Donatti watched her slumber, his eyes studying her face and body. Even in repose, she maintained modesty, her legs crossed at the ankles, her dress pulled down to her knees.

He’d wake her in an hour. While he waited, he went to his art-supply cabinet and with great effort lugged out his charcoals and several pads of paper. Though he sketched Rina, his thoughts, as always, drifted to Terry. His longing for her was so all encompassing that his throat clogged. He wondered what she was doing, if she ever thought of him when they weren’t together.

Terry had been right about one thing. He wasn’t marriage material. Nor was he paternal material. Though he loved Gabriel on some egotistical level—something that had emanated from his debilitated loins—he purposely kept his distance. Maybe Gabe could live the life that fate had prevented him from having. But it wasn’t just karma that had turned him bad. Had Donatti been of stronger character, he could have pulled away. But he wasn’t that strong—and he was that lazy. Equally as important, his current life was a rush—exciting, unpredictable, a chemical and sexual high. He was too entrenched to go back. He, like Esau, was a natural hunter.

His eyes drifted onto Rina’s outline. He had told her he didn’t force women. And that was true. He didn’t force women—unless he wanted to. Rules were good until they weren’t good. Then he broke them. There was a time—not long ago at all—when he had thought about fucking her in every orifice, using every position known in the Kama Sutra while she begged him not to. Yeah, he’d force her at first. That was the thrill. Then, of course, she’d get into it. She’d start moaning and groaning and plead with him not to stop. She would buck under his weight, writhing in pleasure until she’d ultimately give way to orgasm. And then after she had come, after every cell in her body had been spent from climax, he’d pop her: a quick shot to the chest, exploding her heart. His final revenge on Decker because the motherfucker had taken Terry away from him.