Unholy Intent

by Natasha Knight

  He’s found good doctors, I have to admit. He always was a vain motherfucker. But the damage is still there, and it must have scared Cristina half to death.

  “The girl,” he says, instead of answering me.

  “Is mine.”

  “Was that the blood diamond on her finger?”

  “You have a keen eye.”

  “One has to with you for a brother. That diamond belongs to the head of the family.”

  “Correct.”

  He finishes his drink, but I don’t miss how his jaw tightens. “When’s the big day?”

  “Tomorrow. I’m glad you’ll be here to bear witness. I’d ask you to stand as my best man, but well, you’re no one’s best man, are you?”

  “Fuck you, Brother.”

  My smile almost reaches my eyes. I turn to grab the bottle and bring it back to refill his glass and mine. “What do you want, Lucas? Why are you back?”

  “What do you mean? This is my home as much as yours.”

  “This place isn’t a home for either of us.”

  “If that’s the case, then why did you stay? You could have walked away.”

  “You know that was never an option after you left. Now, what do you want?”

  Moving to sit on the sofa, he’s thoughtful for a long minute. Doesn’t have that smug asshole expression on his face for a sliver of time.

  “Do you have any idea how it feels to have someone look at you and have the reaction she had?”

  I hear resentment in his words, but there’s more. There’s sadness. A sort of resignation.

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t,” he says when I don’t reply.

  “She was unprepared.”

  “You think it goes better when they’re prepared?”

  I’ve thought about this. Thought about it a lot. “No, I don’t.”

  “Well, you’re right. But do you know how it fucking feels?” He gestures with a nod to my hand. “You deal with that, but you can wear a glove. I don’t have that luxury.”

  “Your doctors are good,” I say. I mean it. Last time I saw him, it was a lot worse.

  “Like you said, they’re putting me back together piece by piece. A sort of Frankenstein.” He shakes his head, mouth in a sneer. “But answer my question, Brother. Do you know what it feels like to have a woman scream when she sees your face?”

  “Why don’t you tell me. You clearly want to.” Resentment marks my words too. That and guilt.

  I should hear it, shouldn’t I? I owe him that much. Because he was right in a way. It was my fault. I was driving.

  And maybe subconsciously I saw my opportunity to hurt him and took it. I mean, I’d been taking the fucking hurt for as long as I could fucking remember. Would anyone even blame me?

  I drink my whiskey.

  No.

  That’s not how it happened.

  And what followed the accident, I certainly never intended that.

  “The Gates of Hell.” He gestures toward the entrance, changing the subject. “Fitting for this hell. You’ve gotten better.”

  I nod my acknowledgment of the compliment. I’m still waiting for him to continue with the other topic.

  He stands, walks toward me. “You got everything you wanted in the end, didn’t you?”

  “No one gave me a damn thing. I earned it all.”

  “Damian Di Santo. Head of the family. A man more feared than even our father was in his day. Business is good, I hear.”

  “I worked my ass off to get here after Dad dropped the ball and you disappeared.”

  “And now you get the pretty girl, too.” He goes on as if I haven’t spoken.

  My jaw tightens at the mention of Cristina like it didn’t at those other things.

  “What’s it like to have it all, Brother?” he asks.

  “Tell me what it feels like to have a woman scream when she sees you, Lucas.”

  “You don’t want to know, Damian.” He puts his empty glass down. “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.” He walks away. “Long fucking life.”

  “Brother.”

  He stops and turns back.

  “Tell me.”

  He studies me, eyes narrowed. Resentment. Not sadness now. “You and your fiancée have a big day tomorrow. Get some sleep. You look like shit.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You already fucked me when you drove our car onto those fucking tracks.”

  I step toward him. “That’s not how it happened, and you fucking know it.”

  “How does revenge taste? That’s what it was, wasn’t it? For all those years you took it while you think I stood by and let it happen? While you think I wanted it to happen.”

  “I didn’t realize the fire damaged your brain, too. The accident was caused by Joseph Valentina. And I lost as much as you did.”

  “No, not quite as much,” he says and stalks away.

  “Lucas.”

  He stops and turns again.

  “It was us against them once. Or don’t you remember?”

  He snorts, and even in the dimly lit rooms, I see his pain. “That was a long time ago, Brother. You just make sure your girl stays out of my way or she’s fair game, ring or not.”

  4

  Cristina

  I took shelter in his arms.

  After seeing his brother, I felt safe in Damian’s arms.

  “What’s the point of keeping you when I’m through?”

  I groan as I make myself remember what he said, then push the covers off and get up. Something is seriously wrong with me.

  I walk into the bathroom only pausing for a moment on my reflection—I’ve looked better—before bending down to open the cupboard under the sink. Inside I’d hidden the knife I took from the hallway. After cleaning it, I’d stored it here, and now, given the circumstances, I’d feel better sleeping with it under my pillow.

  But as I look through the cabinet, which is stocked with toiletries, I empty everything onto the floor to find it missing.

  I’d hidden it inside one of the boxes of tampons.

  For a moment, I doubt whether or not I’m remembering clearly. I go through the cabinet again, and then all the drawers, but I don’t find it. The knife is gone.

  Damian had asked me about my walk the morning after. Did he have my room searched once we’d gone to the city and confiscated the knife? Was it Elise?

  “Crap.”

  I straighten, meeting my eyes in the reflection. I really do look like shit.

  Turning on the tap, I wash my face before going back into the bedroom. I test the doors to double-check they’re locked before I get into bed. I can’t sleep, though. My mind is racing, and that eerie tune keeps playing in my head.

  Lucas Di Santo is alive and well. Sort of.

  And he scared the crap out of me.

  I feel superficial in a way. He was scarred in the accident that changed all our lives. But it wasn’t just the damaged skin of his face and neck that scared me. It was what I saw inside his eyes.

  There’s a darkness inside him.

  Damian has it too, but it’s different with Damian. Or am I willfully blind where Damian is concerned because I’m drawn to him? Because I want him?

  God. What is wrong with me?

  I think about Liam. About Damian letting me see him and giving us time alone together. He didn’t have to do that. And I think about that last night in the city. When I pushed him and when he could have done anything he wanted, taken anything he wanted.

  He hadn’t.

  He’d walked away.

  “After humiliating you, idiot,” I tell myself and roll onto my side.

  And besides, he’s taking more tomorrow. He will force me to marry him. And he will finish what he started that night. He’s not walking away this time. I have no doubt.

  But that’s not what has me worried.

  He’s right that my denying that I’m attracted to him, that I want him, is a lie. Even now, I shudder at the thought of him on top of me, the feel of him, h
is weight, pressing against me. The idea of him inside me makes my belly flutter. I hate myself for it, too. But it’s the truth, and if I lie to myself, aren’t I giving him that piece of me too? He’s already taking enough.

  Give me what I want and when the time is right, I’ll let you go.

  Do I believe him? Would he let me go?

  And when will the time be right? After one year? Damian chooses his words with care. I am very aware of that.

  But there’s something else. Something about the way he looked when I asked him if I was supposed to die in payment for his sister’s death. His father may have decided that to be my fate, but Damian has not. Maybe, like he said, there is something human left inside him.

  I need to be smarter.

  Better.

  More cunning.

  I need to be like them. I need to learn from them, from father and son.

  Sons.

  And sister? Where does Michela stand in all of this?

  And ultimately, why does Damian need me? For the foundation? It’s written in the foundation’s bylaws that only a blood descendent can inherit The Valentina Foundation. The foundation will dissolve, and any remaining funds donated to the various charities should the Valentina line somehow end. He can’t kill me, or the foundation goes to my uncle, to Liam, or even Simona.

  My father was the eldest of the brothers, so it went to our line, but if I hadn’t survived the accident, it would have gone to my uncle, then Liam and his kids or even Simona if it came to that. There’s no risk of it dissolving.

  But he needs me to keep control of it.

  I roll onto my back and stare up at the lavender canopy over my bed. A vain part of me wonders if he chose it to match my eyes. He seems infatuated by them.

  I groan. I have to stop being such an idiot when it comes to Damian Di Santo. And I need to find a way out of his bed tomorrow night. Not because I don’t want to be there. I do. And that’s exactly the problem.

  Because there’s more at stake than my body.

  5

  Damian

  “What the hell is that doing here?” I ask of the gown Elise is lifting out of its garment bag. The two women who have been hired to do Cristina’s hair and makeup stand by and watch while pretending to unpack their gear.

  “Your father thought it would be appropriate,” Elise says.

  I look at it. I should turn away but can’t. Instead, my gaze locks on the dark stains. On the torn, charred once-white lace.

  My stomach heaves.

  I meet Elise’s gaze. She’s watching me. I take a step toward her, towering over her. She leans away.

  “Do you think it’s appropriate for my bride to wear the wedding gown my sister died in?” She may not have died that night, but she may as well have. Annabel was gone. We all knew it. Machines kept her alive after the accident.

  “Your father—”

  “Is senile and dying and most importantly, no longer your master. Be very careful, Elise.”

  “Sir, I—”

  “Give me your key to Cristina’s room.” I hold out my hand.

  She clenches her hands together, unsure what to do. Elise has run this house for as long as I can remember. Even when my mother was alive, my father relied on Elise’s cruelty and always had an ally in her. She ruled over my mother, too.

  “Key. Now. Before I tell you to pack up your things and get the fuck out of my house.”

  She fumbles with the key on the chain. It was a mistake to give it to her. And I’ll need to have the locks changed anyway. I don’t trust her not to have made a copy for my father.

  Lips pressed together she hands me the key.

  “You make a mockery of my sister’s memory. Take that thing and go.”

  She hurries out, and I pocket the key, then turn to the women. “Simple. I don’t want her overdone.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I find the dress I’d chosen in its box in a corner. I pick it up, carry it to the bed, and unpack it. I feel the women’s eyes on me as I arrange it on the bed, thinking how appropriate it is. I set the shoes on the floor at the foot of the bed and turn to the women, who stand ready.

  “Nothing underneath.”

  If they find that strange, they don’t comment.

  Giving them a nod, I walk down the hall to Cristina’s room and unlock the door.

  When I enter, she’s just coming out of the bathroom, steam spilling out behind her, a towel wrapped around her torso and one piled on top of her head.

  She stops short when she sees me and defensively puts her hands to the knot of the towel.

  I look at the tray Elise brought up earlier.

  “Why didn’t you eat?”

  “I don’t have much of an appetite.”

  “Wedding jitters?”

  “What do you think?”

  It’s late afternoon, and the sun is just beginning to set. I wonder if she realizes she has one of the best views of the sunset from here.

  “We won’t have dinner until late.”

  “I’ll survive.”

  “I don’t want you passing out.”

  “I’m not that fragile. And if you’re referring to last night, that was different.”

  “Suit yourself. Are you ready? The women who’ll prepare you are here.”

  “I can prepare myself.”

  “I’m sure you can, but tonight is special. It’s our wedding, after all,” I deadpan.

  “Speaking of, isn’t it bad luck for the bride and groom to see each other before the ceremony? Although I guess why stop now? Bad is the only kind of luck I’ve had ever since the night you walked into my life eight years ago.”

  “Leave the drama to my brother. Let’s go.”

  “Where?”

  “Down the hall.” I go to the door and gesture for her to follow.

  She slips into the closet and emerges a moment later wearing a sweater and a pair of jeans, then walks out into the hallway.

  With a hand on her lower back, I guide her to the room where the women wait. I turn her to face me before I leave.

  “Do I need to post a guard?” I ask in a voice low enough that only she’ll hear.

  “I won’t go wandering around. I learned my lesson.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. I’ll be back to take you to the chapel.”

  “Chapel?” Her eyebrows arch.

  “Of course. I’m Catholic.”

  She looks confused. “Are you serious?”

  “About being Catholic?”

  “No, about the chapel. I mean, if you believe in God, which I don’t think you do, I’m pretty sure he’d condemn what you have planned.”

  I give her arms a squeeze. “Maybe you’ll get lucky and I’ll be struck down by lightning.”

  “One can wish.”

  She turns away and I know the moment her eyes fall on the dress because she spins back to face me, mouth open in a surprised O.

  “One more thing,” I say, reaching into my pocket to take out the phone. I toss it to her, and she instinctively reaches out to catch it.

  She looks down at it, then up at me.

  “Never gave you an engagement present. Be good, Cristina,” I say and walk out the door.

  6

  Cristina

  I stand there staring at the phone in my hands, not believing it. When I touch the screen, it comes to life. There’s no passcode.

  There’s a missed call. When I check it, Damian’s name pops on the screen. I look at the contact list and his is the only number programmed. He must have called it in order to save his number in here.

  “Are you ready, miss?” one of the women asks.

  I look at her. “Just a minute,” I say and walk toward the window, turning my back to them.

  I dial Liam’s number. He answers on the first ring, and I instantly feel a combination of relief and elation.

  “Hello?” he says again when I don’t speak right away.

  “Liam. It’s me. Cristina.”

  “Cristina?�
��

  I smile, realizing that smile feels strange on my face. Almost like I’ve forgotten how to do it.

  “It’s so good to hear your voice.”

  “I don’t recognize the number.”

  “It’s a new phone. Damian just gave it to me. Well, he tossed it at me and left, so I guess it’s mine.”

  “Where are you?”

  “I’m at the house in Upstate New York.”

  “Dad told me what’s happening. Are you okay?”

  I glance at the ring on my finger. “I have to be. How about you? How are you?”

  “I’m all right. Worried about you.”

  “I’ll be fine,” I say, not sure I will. “Are you still staying with your mom?”

  “I go on weekends. I have to be in the city for school.”

  “Miss?” one of the women says.

  I turn to her, and she mouths that they need to get started.

  “I have to go.”

  “Already? Can’t we talk for a minute?”

  “I can’t right now. But I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

  “Cris?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You’re really going to do it? Marry that man?”

  Backing up, I slump on the edge of the bed because the reality of this hits me like a fist to my belly. I wipe my eyes with the heels of my hands.

  “Miss? We need to dry your hair.”

  “I don’t have a choice, Liam. The alternative is worse.”

  “How can—”

  “I have to go. I’m sorry.” I disconnect the call. I need to get through this evening. This night. And if I keep talking to Liam, I’m going to break down.

  I steel my spine and stand, looking back at the dress.

  It’s black, not white. Not that I care because this wedding is a sham, but this dress and the veil are more appropriate for a funeral than a wedding.

  “Are you ready?” one of the women asks as I lift the lace veil, feeling the weight of it. I wonder if that’s in my head because it’s a delicate lace even as dense as the pattern is.

  I turn to the woman. “Yes,” I say, dropping the length of it.