by S Williams
She smirks on her way out the door.
I watch her leave. Does she think she’s intimidating me? My father received death threats and warrants for breakfast. This isn’t anything new.
One thing Daddy taught me was to never fear a woman. A woman will always carry some sort of emotion. A woman is much easier to manipulate and much more lenient than a man. When Patanza told Axe Man to let me come out and pee, that was her femininity showing.
When the door is shut completely, I turn back around and take in the bedroom. The bedspread is turquoise and white. It’s a beautiful, unique design, with a sheer white canopy that can’t be beat. I walk towards it and start to touch it, but then I remember the blood on my hands.
Seeing it makes me cringe, and my stomach forms in knots.
It’s not my blood, and it has to go.
I hurry to the bathroom. The walls are made of white and blue tile, the shower as well, the glass clean and inviting. I walk towards it, but on my way in I can’t help but take a look at the mirror.
I stop dead in my tracks when I catch sight of myself.
Deep, dark circles have formed around my eyes from lack of sleep. My hair is frizzy and matted, and there’s a red splotch on my forehead, where I hit my head when Axe Man gave me a beating from hell.
My lips are so raw and chapped that I see the blood between the cracks. I lick them and it burns. My wedding day makeup has run down my cheeks. I look dead already.
But that’s not the worst of it.
The worst is my dress.
My beautiful wedding gown.
It’s torn.
Bloody.
Ragged.
It’s no longer ivory. It’s smeared in dirt, oil, grime, urine, and way too much blood.
I snatch my gaze away, tears forming at the rim of my eyelids. I start the shower and strip out of my dress immediately. I keep watch of my surroundings as I wash.
I may be getting treated humanely now, but I don’t know what’s in store for later.
The steam fills my pores and I stand beneath the stream, soaking up the water, making sure every single part of me is thoroughly cleaned—every part but my still-raw wrists.
I think about what Ronaldo said in that cell, about making the king notice.
I think I did the job.
If I hadn’t stabbed Axe Man, he wouldn’t have given two shits about me. It probably would have been me getting the beating instead. I hate that my violence led him to his, though.
After my shower, I grab one of the fluffy, white towels on the handle bar and wrap it around my body. I rub my hair dry with a smaller towel and then walk out of the bathroom, peeking around the corner.
When I know no one is around, I tiptoe to the closet, across the soft, tan carpet.
Flipping the light switch, I step inside and when the closet is illuminated, I am stunned.
Patanza wasn’t kidding. There are clothes of every size here. Some look worn, but most of it is new.
I take down a pair of jeans my size, a long-sleeved gray shirt, and some tennis shoes.
I walk back to the bathroom and stare into the mirror. Normally, I’d do my hair, makeup—all of it. There is a jewelry box on the shelf beside the mirror, but I won’t use any of this stuff. It’s not mine, and I am not a puppet they can toy with.
I do decide to use the bandages they have to wrap my wrists, in hopes that they’ll continue to heal without getting infected. I hiss and stomp as I pour the alcohol on each one before wrapping them.
Besides that, nothing else matters. I’ll let my hair air dry and walk around with purplish bruises around my eyes. That way he’ll know just how much damage I incurred because of him. Because of his people.
I walk to the door, pulling it open slowly.
Patanza is standing in the hallway like she said she would be. Her hands are behind her back, her brows dipped as she focuses on me.
“It’s about damn time,” she mutters, pushing off the wall. “Let’s go. You have less than an hour.”
“Do I really?” I ask as I walk quicker.
She looks over her shoulder but doesn’t respond.
Instead, she marches down the stairs, and I follow her lead. I take in the portraits on the walls. There are four of them. All of them have a different man on them. All of the men have straight faces and cold, dead eyes.
It almost feels like they’re watching me.
I don’t know why, but the sight of the portraits sends me chills. I assume they are the boss’s ancestors.
When we make it downstairs, Patanza makes a right. I frown as I look to the left where the kitchen is.
“I thought you said we were going to eat?”
“We are.”
She doesn’t look back. She continues walking. Warily, I follow her, keeping watch of my surroundings. I don’t realize how nervous I am until I feel my fingernails digging into my palms.
I loosen my tightened fists as we walk down a long corridor. There are more portraits on the walls, but they aren’t of people. They are paintings.
All beautiful.
Clearly masculine.
Dark and chilling.
There is a signature at the bottom of each one. A large D and some scribble.
As I study each one we pass, I realize the same person has created them all. One of them of a young boy bent over catches me off guard.
The others were scenery photos but this one is gritty and sad.
The boy is bent over, staring down at his bloody hands. In front of him is a sea, but it’s not a normal blue one. It’s crimson, the waves high. A village surrounds the boy. He seems pained…in agony.
I don’t blink as I stare at it. The main thing that gets me is the blood on his hands—as if he did something he never should have done.
“Let’s go.” Patanza’s agitated voice slices through my thoughts and I blink rapidly, hurrying after her.
When we are at the end of the corridor, she opens two white french doors and walks in. Inside the room is a dining table. This table can seat at least twenty people.
In the middle of the table, on the left side, there is a place already set up. A silver tray has been placed there, and I can smell the food from where I stand.
Salty.
Sweet.
Savory.
My mouth waters and the urge to shove Patanza out of the way just to get to the food seizes me, but I maintain control. I don’t want to look desperate or greedy.
She shuts the door behind us and then steps to the far corner. “Go. Eat.” She lifts a hand, gesturing to the covered tray.
I side-eye her before going for the food. With each step, I’m taking in the set-up of the dining room. The high ceilings and large chandeliers make it appear elegant, but the portrait on the wall across from the door is what throws it off scale.
It’s a portrait of the boss. It’s like the others along the stairwell. His face is serious, his jaw locked, but unlike their eyes, his aren’t as dark or cold.
His brown irises swim with confidence and wickedness, yes, but there is also something else there.
I can’t exactly put my finger on it, but I know it isn’t a bad thing.
I pull the chair out slowly and it scrapes the floor. My eyes flicker up to Patanza. Hers are narrowed, watching me very carefully.
I sit down and slide the wooden chair in, studying the domed serving tray. I look to the right and there is only a spoon. It’s plastic.
I look up at her again and a smirk is on her lips, but she’s no longer looking at me. Her arms are locked tight over her chest.
No knives or forks. I’m glad they are taking me seriously.
I lift a hand and take off the lid. A waft of steam runs across my face and the mouth-watering increases. There’s baked chicken, broccoli, and a sweet potato with butter and cinnamon inside of it.
My insides are in a frenzy now. My belly rumbles with joy. I pick up the spoon and immediately dig into the potato. The smooth, sweet taste sweeps
over my taste buds and I shut my eyes for a brief moment, sighing.
It’s good.
So good.
I dig into the broccoli with my hands, leaving the spoon standing in the sweet potato. My teeth bite into the chicken, snatching off a piece and chewing quickly. Bite after bite seems to only get better.
I’ve had way better meals than this, but it’s been six days since the last time I’ve had a decent one, minus the protein-filled breakfast given to us this morning. I moan as I eat more of the sweet potato.
A door across from me opens up rapidly and a tall, young man walks in with a pitcher in one hand, a cup in the other.
I pause on digging into the chicken, swallowing the chunk that’s already in my mouth. He looks at me with quirked brows, moving quickly as he meets at my side.
“Té?” He places the cup down and lifts the pitcher of iced tea in the air.
I bob my head. “Yes, please.”
He pours away and I pick it up quickly, guzzling it down. When I’ve finished, he pours another, but I take note of his stunned expression.
I can’t believe I’m being so barbaric, but for all I know this could be my last meal. My last day. Like Patanza said, I better make it count.
What the hell, right?
“Thank you,” I breathe, smiling crookedly as I place my half-empty glass down.
He simply nods his head, topping my drink off before walking back out of the dining room. I catch the look he gives Patanza and she shakes her head, laughing silently.
They’re mocking me.
I couldn’t care less.
I finish my meal in a matter of minutes. By the time I’m done, all that’s left is the peel of the potato, specks of green from the broccoli, and the bare bones of the chicken.
Patanza pushes off the wall and flicks her wrist. “Clean yourself up,” she mutters as she steps closer.
I grab the hand towel that was beneath the tray and wipe off, pushing out of my chair and standing as I do. I toss the towel down and then step over, looking towards the french doors. A shadow appears. Someone is coming.
Patanza notices me looking and turns around to look at the door.
The tall, skinny man with white hair from the cells walks in and looks from me to her with a ticking jaw. “She done?”
“Yes.”
“Good. He wants to see her now.” The white-haired man looks me over in my new clothes. His eyes broil with lust. I snatch my gaze away, staring at the tips of my shoes.
“Okay. We’re coming,” Patanza states.
“No.” He holds a hand up and she stops in her tracks. “He asked me to bring her.”
She thins her eyes at him for a moment. Then she looks from him to me. Stepping back, she gestures towards the tall man and I press my lips together, trudging forward.
He steps back, allowing me to walk past, and I feel him looking right at my ass as I do.
I hear Patanza scoff but not much else. The man slams the door behind him and then steps around me, licking his lips.
“This way.” He walks down a darker hallway. There are lamps on, but it’s darker, not as bright as the corridor with the paintings.
His heavy boots squish on the marble floor and my sneakers squeak as I try to keep up. We walk for what feels like two whole minutes before we finally reach a staircase that goes down. He hustles down the steps and I take them one-by-one, my thumb rubbing over my wedding ring.
Two brown double doors appear at the end of the hallway when I make it down. The tall man meets up to it and knocks twice. I stay at least five steps away from him.
“Adelante!” The boss’s voice rises and the tall man opens the door right away. He flicks his fingers for me to follow.
My mouth feels dryer, but I follow him in. Slowly.
When the door is shut behind me, I look towards the boss. His hands are behind his back as he stands in front of a blank, white canvas. Above the canvas is another portrait hung on the wall. It’s way bigger than the rest I’ve seen. In fact, every portrait inside this room is.
The walls are a dark brown color. On the wall to my right, there is a two-seater sofa. To my left, a single black chair. The ceiling is tan and vaulted with spotlights hanging from them, shining on each creation.
A staircase is across from him. A tall table between us.
I look up, and see more paintings above, a bed with a headboard, and candles. A violin is on a stand up there, and my brows dip at the sight of it. For some reason that violin just doesn’t fit in here…and neither do I.
Mom used to play violin. She was really good at it, too. She tried to teach me but I never had the patience for it. I did love listening, though. I loved to be entertained. That’s probably the reason I’ve been caught in a jam such as this one.
Toni was my entertainment. He made me laugh, swoon, and cry. My eyes burn as I think of Toni. And then I focus on the boss with a scowl.
“Leave us,” the boss commands.
The tall man turns quickly and walks out, shutting the heavy doors behind him.
I rub my thumb across the ring again, the thick cut diamond. The boss picks up a small black container and walks to a sink behind the staircase that I didn’t previously notice.
He runs the water, filling the container, and then comes back. After placing it down, he rolls up the sleeves of his shirt. I just realized that he’s changed clothes. He’s now wearing a white button-down. It’s much more revealing. His arms are thick and definitely sculpted.
Raking a hand through his sleek hair, he finally turns to look at me. His firm gaze travels over the length of my body, and when he sees my outfit, he glowers.
“You have a full wardrobe of dresses, skirts, blouses…but you decide to wear jeans and a regular shirt. Strike one.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I ask boldly.
He places his hands behind his back again, pacing the area near the canvas slowly.
“You have questions. Lots of them,” he notes. “Well, let me start off by telling you my name. Most call me Jefe. My real name is Draco Molina. But I suppose you can call me…sir.” He flashes a wicked smile.
“How did you know I was a Nicotera?”
He looks up, a spark in his eye, his lips flat. “I just knew.” He faces the canvas again.
“You knew my father?”
He turns halfway, glancing over his shoulder. “I knew him well, yes.”
I debate on whether I should ask my next question. The truth is I’m afraid to know the answer. If I know, then I’ll definitely know my fate.
“Was…” I release a ragged sigh. “Was he an enemy of yours?”
He frowns at the statement, turning around to face me completely. “If he was my enemy, do you think you’d still be alive, standing in front of me in clothes that I bought and food in your belly that I told my cooks to make?” He shakes his head, wagging a finger. “I am not your enemy, little girl.”
I narrow my eyes. “You are my enemy.”
“Excuse me?”
“You had my husband killed!”
He lets out a bitter chuckle. “You mean Trigger Toni? Yeah, I had him killed. It was a personal order, in fact, and it needed to be done.”
His smugness is like a stab in the gut and the heart. I grimace as I storm forward, rushing around the tall art table. All of my morals are lost, my rage on full display. I stop just in time to save myself. I don’t get too close to touch him. Just close enough to really see him.
His tan skin is clear of any markings or scars. His lips are fuller than I thought. Pink. His eyelashes are long and thick.
His eyes flash with an amount of intimidation I’ve never seen before. He inclines a brow, his glare telling me to choose wisdom over stupidity.
It would be dumb of me to hurt or threaten him, but I need answers. Now.
“Why?” I demand.
“Why what?”
“Why did you have my husband killed?”
He folds his arms. “He was a li
ar. A pig. A rabid animal that needed to be put down, gently or not. He was a murderer—”
“Yeah, and so are you!”
His face changes. He drops his arms and steps forward with flared nostrils and a clenched jaw. “Watch your fucking tone around me, little girl. I allowed you into my home. Show some goddamn respect.”
“Respect the man who left me alone with those brutes? Why should I?” I challenge, and I am terribly afraid of his answer.
He looks me over before locking eyes with me again. “Because if you don’t, I won’t be so keen to let you live. Having you here burdens me more than it aids me. Don’t make me end up breaking your precious little neck.”
And he could, with hands his size. My petite frame is no match for him, no matter how bold I want to be right now.
My lips smash together. I step back several steps and fold my arms tightly over my chest. “I’d rather be dead than in the same home of the man that killed my husband.”
“Oh really?” He scowls. “Then go. But don’t expect my protection. It won’t be easy finding your way out of here, but even if you do manage to escape, the damage that’ll be done to you will be beyond repair. While you are here, under my fucking roof, no one touches you. But when you’re out of my hands…well…” He flashes a devilish smile. “…I don’t give a fuck what happens to you then, niñita.”
An eerie smirk sweeps across his full lips. He’s so full of himself and it truly grates my nerves.
As badly as I want to run, I can’t. Not until I figure out where the hell I am and actually have a plan to back myself up. For all I know, we’re in the middle of nowhere—on an island or something. It has to be the right time. Anything could happen to me.
I’m surrounded by ignorant pigs and their grimy thoughts. I know it’s ironic to say, but the boss seems like the most decent of them all…but no kindness now will ever be able to make up for what he’s done.
“Can I go back to the room?” I ask, and hate that my voice cracks.
“Go.” He turns his back to me, picking up a paintbrush from the cup on the stand.
