His Broken Princess

by V. F. Mason

  “Eugene!” The deep, low voice snags my attention, and I follow the sound, only for my eyes to widen at the man to whom it belongs.

  He has to be one of the handsomest men I’ve ever seen. He has naturally tanned skin, high cheekbones, and emerald-green eyes that remind me of a tiger. His broad shoulders suit his height and muscular physique, only adding to the power rolling off him in spades. He’s wearing a white shirt with rolled sleeves and navy blue trousers that give him an edgier look. Several tattoos grace his skin on his neck and knuckles, and each one of them has either Celtic knots, Italian words, or just symbols that make little sense to me.

  In short, “Oh my” are the only words appropriate to do justice to this guy.

  “Stop drooling over him,” Eugene growls, and I glare at him, crossing my arms.

  “I’m just noticing the man.” Then I turn back to him, sliding closer to Eugene, because the stranger scans me from head to toe and something flashes in his eyes, but he covers it up with a smile. “You are not alone this time.”

  “I brought a guest. She loves Italian food, but she’s skeptical this is the best place for it.”

  The stranger sighs. “Ah, newcomers. Always need to impress those.” Then he comes closer and splays his palm open, waiting for my hand, and I put it in his so he can give me a light kiss on my knuckles. “Pleased to meet you. My name is Emilio Giovanni.”

  Holy moley, this is Sorcha’s man?

  You go, girl.

  But also, no wonder he gives off crazy vibes, since he’s a mafia man and all. While I don’t have any physical reaction to him, I still withdraw a little and bump into Eugene’s chest.

  Men that participate in violence of any kind inspire nothing but fear and panic in me. Who knows when the mood strikes them to inflict harm on innocent people? “Nice to meet you. I’m Lila.”

  “Sorcha talks about you a lot.”

  “I bet.” I push the words out, fidgeting with my hair, and then notice how both men share a look.

  Emilio clears his throat and whistles to a passing guy. “Alfonso, please take care of my guests.” Then he points at the table at the left corner, secluded from everyone else. “Your usual one.”

  We sit down, with the server quickly giving us menus and a bright smile that could blind anyone, because his teeth are so white. “Our special today is tomato soup. Any drinks to start?”

  “Umm, wine please. Red wine, any brand,” I say, and he writes something down and then waits for Eugene.

  “Just tea. Also, I have a special meal planned for us. Tell Rick that Eugene is here.”

  The young man nods, grabs the menus, and dashes off in the direction of the kitchen, I assume. “I didn’t even get a chance to order.”

  “Don’t worry; I have all the best dishes ready for us.”

  “Aren’t you the thoughtful one?” I tease, and then my brows rise when Alfonso comes back and pours wine into my glass and has Eugene’s tea ready for him. “Food will be here in ten.” And just like he came, he speeds away once again.

  “I already like the service,” I mutter to Eugene’s laughter and put the napkin on my lap. “So, Emilio is your friend.” I decide there is no point in beating around the bush; plus, I want to hear his opinion of this man. Eugene has never lied to me, and while Sorcha might think Emilio hung the moon and stars, reality can be very different.

  “Yeah, we studied at the same college,” he answers curtly, but I don’t take the hint and try again.

  “An odd friendship.”

  He picks up his glass of tea and asks, “Why?”

  “Well, he is a mafia member and you are—”

  “Weak, geeky?” he interrupts, and I huff in exasperation, sipping my wine.

  “That’s not what I meant.” Although it’s such a lie, because that’s exactly what I meant. Opposites attract and all that jazz, but really, why would a man like Emilio spend any time with a man like Eugene?

  Amusement dances in the corner of his eyes as he studies me. “You are a bad liar.”

  “Come on, Eugene. You know good and well I’m asking for a friend.”

  “I think your friend has no questions about Emilio.” He rests his back on the chair. “You, however, have plenty.”

  “He’s dating my best friend, and he’s a mafia man.” I hiss the last part, looking around, but people are all engrossed in their own conversations.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So if he’s dangerous, she shouldn’t be with him.”

  Eugene frowns, playing with the rim of his glass. “Why? He loves her very much; I can tell.”

  “But it doesn’t mean she’s safe with him.” Love is good and all, but when shit hits the fan, it won’t save you. Besides, when you are in love with a person, you see him through rose-colored glasses. “Doesn’t mean he won’t be violent to her.”

  “No one can guarantee anything in this world, Lila. Sometimes you have to trust a person.”

  I open my mouth to protest, but that’s when Alfonso brings pizza and two pasta dishes. “Dear God, do you put magic ingredients into it to smell this good?”

  Alfonso puffs his chest and winks at me. “No, our cook is just that good.” He salutes us and dances off again. Based on this, I think Emilio either pays them a good salary or no one wants to piss off the boss. I’ve never seen service this efficient in my life!

  “Regarding Emilio—” Eugene picks up a slice of pizza and pushes part of it into my mouth to shut me up, and the rich taste of parmesan cheese and the softest of doughs instantly hits my tongue, and a moan slips past my lips. “This is—” He pushes the slice again, and I munch on it, greedily biting again. “—the best freaking pizza in the world.”

  “Lila, stop talking about another man on our date,” he orders, and for the first time, I detect steel in his voice. I swallow the piece and nod before the action even registers in my head. “Sorcha will handle her romance herself. She doesn’t need your help. Let’s talk about the gallery show.”

  Instantly. my mood sours. I grab the fork and dig into the pasta, swirling spaghetti onto it. “I already said no.”

  “And I don’t accept your answer.”

  I barely hear his voice, because the pasta tastes even better than the pizza. “Seriously, whoever their cook is… God bless him.”

  For a second, his gaze softens, giving me something akin to adoration, but it’s replaced with annoyance quickly. “You have to say yes to the art show.”

  Exhaling heavily, I come clean. “Dad has forbidden me to paint, okay? So, the minute you decide to have this show and Dad hears I’m in it, the show might as well not happen. So please accept my answer.”

  “I don’t care about your dad. He can’t control me.”

  A hollow chuckle erupts from me. “Yeah, right. He controls everyone.”

  “He controls those who have less money than him,” he corrects and leans forward. “I have much, much more. Accept the offer.” Again, his voice makes it almost impossible to refuse, then add to it his glorious eyes, and a girl might have a problem with her own speech.

  “Why is it so important to you?”

  “Because art is your sanctuary.” My breath hitches at his description, but he’s not done yet. “It’s what brings the smile to your beautiful face and brightens your eyes. Art is your oxygen, Lila, and I’m telling you to stop breathing through the mask.”

  Although he talks about the work, his words have such a different meaning when another image hits me.

  Like all the men who hurt me on that night, cutting my oxygen supply and forever giving me a mask. No matter where I go, they surround me and prevent me from truly living, because their imprint is everywhere.

  My hobbies, my studies, my life, everything taken away in one night, and since then, I do nothing but exist.

  Is such a life worth living? When you feel like time stands still?

  “I… I…” I stand up, the napkin sliding down my knees. Hoarsely, I say to Eugene, “I need a moment please,�
� and then dash toward the main door, because handling all the emotions he’s awakened by removing the lid from my Pandora’s box is frightening.

  “Lila!” he shouts my name, but I push through the bodies harder, finally getting to the exit and rushing into the cold night, gulping breaths. Slowly, as the air fills my lungs, the suffocating feeling disappears. “Lila,” he says, closer to me now, and then he palms my head, tipping it up to meet his gaze. “Hey, pretty girl.”

  Placing my hands above his, I whisper, “I’m messed up, Eugene.” Tears roll down my cheek, but I don’t wipe them away. I want him to see my pain so he’ll know why this can never happen. “I can’t function normally after—” I lick my lips and clear my throat. “I can’t talk about it either. Not now, and maybe not ever. You don’t need this kind of mess in your life.” He presses me against his chest, where I rest my cheek and listen to his heartbeat, which allows me to calm down and feel so protected… like nothing can harm me while I’m with him.

  Why have I never noticed this sense of power around Eugene?

  He runs his fingers through my hair and rocks me in his arms, while murmuring, “I can handle everything, pretty girl. You’ll see.” He leans back so I face him again, and he rubs away the tears with his thumbs. “All you need to do is trust me and give me a chance. I promise, I will never bring you pain.”

  Staring into his hazel eyes, I believe every word he says, and somehow, he awakens the dormant emotions living inside me, bringing warmth to the places in my heart I thought were forever frozen, creating longing in my soul.

  Even though it’s not an easy road, I take a deep breath and whisper, “Yes.”

  He covers my mouth with his, giving me a gentle kiss that barely touches my lips. It’s more like he shows the preview of what’s yet to come. For a moment in time, we are alone in this world, completely wrapped around each other where nothing but us exists.

  For a moment in time.

  * * *

  Him

  Eugene gives her one thing I won’t ever be able to.

  Peace.

  How can I give her something I’ve never had myself?

  Chapter Six

  New York, New York

  Fall, 1979

  * * *

  Lila

  “What the fuck is wrong with her?” I hear Ben say, although it seems like the voices come from far away, and I can barely understand them through the buzzing in my ears.

  “I have no fucking clue. I didn’t even drug her,” Ken replies, and then shouts, “I told you not to use pliers!”

  “Oh, shut the fuck up,” Sam says, and I hear a match being lit, and then he exhales audibly, my nostrils twitching at the smell of smoke. “She probably fainted.”

  “They never faint.” Panic laces Roger’s tone, and then, by the sound of his shoes, he comes closer and touches my forehead, and while I hate his touch and mentally roll into a ball, not knowing what his next blow will be, physically I can’t move a muscle.

  It’s like my body no longer listens to me. “Fuck! She has a fever.”

  “So? They all do. Let’s fuck her and kill her,” Ken says, and the smell of his cologne invades my space as his hands glide over my skin, digging his fingers into my hip. “She is hot.”

  “I don’t have sex with corpses, you fucker.” Before anyone can say anything else, a loud siren shakes the walls, and I feel a vibration underneath me, like the entire building is shaking.

  “What’s that? A fire alarm?”

  “How the fuck should I know, Ben?” Roger slaps my forehead again and then fists my hair, pulling me up. He slaps my cheeks several times, probably expecting me to open my eyes, but I keep them closed despite the pain; maybe then they will leave me alone to die in peace.

  I can’t take any more of their torture.

  Tears threaten to slide down my cheeks, but I hold them back, playing the part, and finally he sighs. “She’s out. If it’s a fire alarm, the cops will be here soon. Let’s leave before it happens.”

  “All the evidence!” Tim shouts, and the sounds of rustling bags disturb me. “We need to take the weapons away.”

  “No need. They won’t trace them to us anyway,” Sam assures him, and then says, “Spread isopropyl alcohol over everything and light it. They won’t find jack shit.” Then he leans toward my ear, because I’ve forever memorized the sound of his breathing; it will plague me for the rest of my life. “Cry, cry, cry, my little angel.” Ben joins him on my other side and murmurs the ending. “I’m going to listen to it while bringing you your life’s salvation.” I have no idea what it even means, but they’ve repeated it multiple times through the night. Is it some kind of ritual?

  Then they kiss me on the cheek, and revulsion rushes through me, but I swallow back the acid in my throat, and everyone runs away as the siren continues to sound.

  The smell of smoke slowly creeps to me, and my eyelashes flutter open, only to see the place being surrounded by the spreading fire. I notice my loosened state. Tim franticly tried to wake me up so much they removed all the chains.

  Barely breathing through the pain, I try to get up, but I cry out in agony due to the wound on my stomach that’s covered with a white cloth, now soaked red. Without warning, dizziness causes me to sway to the side.

  Nausea hits me, and I cover my mouth, holding it back.

  I try again, but my elbows slide off and I almost fall, barely hanging on the edge. This time, I allow the tears to come as desperation from my situation settles in.

  No matter what I do, I won’t be saved tonight.

  The fire reaches the table and slides closer, and that’s when I see the shadow on the doorjamb and blink my eyes harshly only to find a man standing in the smoke, wearing all black. “No!” I shout, expecting the men to have come back, but he is so different.

  The energy that comes to me reminds me nothing of danger but rather absolution. He quickly steps inside, and only then I see the black oxygen mask on his face.

  He places a mask on me, ordering in his deep, husky voice, “Breathe.” And then he picks me up in his arms, taking me away from hell on earth. Slowly, the smell from the mask spreads a smile on my face.

  And then everything goes blank.

  Shifting to the side, I want the machine beeping loudly next to me to shut up, but no matter how much I move on the bed, the sound doesn’t go away. Annoyed, I snap my eyes open, only to close them again as piercing pain assaults my forehead, and it feels like tiny needles are injected in my skull all at once.

  Taking a deep breath, I repeat the action, and this time it’s easier, although the bright sunlight that greets me makes my eyes water. “She’s awake.” A woman wearing green scrubs and smiling widely leans toward me and murmurs, “Welcome back, Lila.” Warmth fills her voice while I look at her, confused, not understanding what’s going on.

  Why am I in the hospital? “I—” I cough from trying to speak through a dry throat, and she quickly gives me a water cup with a straw.

  “Slow, honey. You’ve been unconscious for three days. We’re so glad to have you back.” She softly pats my cheek, and I jerk. All the flashbacks hit me at once.

  All those men.

  All their torture.

  All their touches.

  “No!” I shout and sit up, only to groan when a stabbing throb cuts through my side. “Don’t touch me again, you bastards!”

  Despite the pain, I hit the medical person with all my might, and then several people rush inside the room, shouting, “Sedate her. Now!”

  “Calm down, Lila. It’s all right. You’re going to hurt yourself.” The woman soothes me even though I’ve acted unkindly toward her, but I can’t be soothed.

  Because I’m still in that horrible room.

  Someone injects me with a needle, then exhaustion overcomes me, and slowly I drop back on the bed, closing my eyes.

  “Hey, pretty girl.” Sorcha’s voice snags my attention from the huge-ass window next to me that showcases the beautiful hospi
tal garden, which reminds me more of a fairytale castle than a psychiatric ward. They don’t officially tell me that’s the hall they put me in, but it’s not hard to guess with how skittish they are around me.

  But then again, nothing but the best for our family. “Hey,” I reply, rising a little, and Sorcha quickly runs to me, adjusting the pillow behind my back. “Careful, babe. The stitches just started to heal,” she chastises me, but I just shrug. “Lila.”

  I wave my hand, stopping her before she gets into another speech where I want to strangle her. “I’m okay. I’m sorry if I’m not all sunshine and roses after the attack.” She doesn’t miss the jab in my words, but instead of shouting at me or getting annoyed like I expect and want her to, she huffs and drops onto the chair next to the bed.

  “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s going on.” Then she places her hands on mine, near where the IV drip puts vitamins in my system. They are telling me, due to my lack of appetite, they need to fuel my body. Or maybe they secretly think this will help to calm me down?

  “What happened, Lila?” Sorcha asks again, and I open my mouth to lie to her as always. That I don’t remember. That I have no clue.

  Or at least that’s the story my parents ordered me to run with for now.

  But I can’t. Instead, I shut it and shake my head. She taps her foot and wants to say something, when a loud knock echoes in the room and Doctor Caroline enters, smiling brightly. “I see we have a visitor today.”

  “You’ll see my face every day until this girl”—Sorcha points at me—“gets better. She might be grumpy, but”—she moves her head to me, focusing her green eyes on me—“I love her to pieces.” She squeezes my hand and I nod, acknowledging her words.

  I might act like a bitch, but the feelings are mutual. “That’s good.” Caroline glances at the chart and quickly writes something on it. “All your stats are good. No infections or internal damages. The wound on your stomach is healing nicely, and thankfully your liver wasn’t damaged, although it was a close call.” She exhales a heavy breath. “There is nothing that can be done about the scars for the time being. Anyhow, I’ve arranged a meeting with the top plastic surgeon in the country, Doctor Keith.” Doctor Caroline comes closer and glances at the machine, satisfaction reflected on her face. “But overall, you’re good,” she says, then fists her hand, and I recognize the gesture.