The Woman in the Trunk

by Gadziala, Jessica

  "Just saying, sweetheart. You got options."

  "Are you going to tell Lorenzo?"

  "Not if you don't make me."

  "How would I make you?"

  "Don't know yet."

  "That's not exactly helpful."

  "Tough shit, kid," he said, smirking, smile just big enough to make his dimple peak through. "Don't like the uncertainty, I recommend not getting yourself involved with the family," he told me.

  "I didn't get myself involved in anything. My father did."

  "Little tip, babe," he said, giving me a hard look. "Stop being a victim in your own life."

  Before I could snap at him that I wasn't a victim, that he didn't know what he was talking about, that Lorenzo and this family were who had turned me into a victim of kidnapping and imprisonment, Lorenzo was moving back into the main space, gaze flicking between the two of us, little vertical lines forming between his brows, making it clear my surprise and uncertainty and indignation must have been clear on my face.

  And I maybe took that out on Lorenzo.

  I tried to remind myself as I paced my room that it wasn't exactly misplaced, though, since I wouldn't have been put in this position if Lorenzo hadn't taken me, that I wouldn't have been annoyed with Gio, and snapped at Lorenzo. That I wouldn't be having some grandiose existential crisis as Gio's words kept playing across my mind no matter how many times I tried to fight them.

  Maybe I had been so pissed because there was a sliver of truth in his words.

  I had chosen this life. I had chosen to stand beside my father through all of his screw-ups. And when I was younger, of course, I had no choice. My mother was gone. My father was all I had in the world. And his immediate financial security impacted my life as well. If he didn't keep the bakery running, we would lose it. And the house. And any form of safety I had known.

  But as I got older, after I was of-age, especially, staying and dealing with the constant stress, being shit on by a man who didn't appreciate all the work I was putting in to keep his family business running, to keep his head above water, did sort of make me a part of my own victimhood, didn't it?

  I chose to go there every day, to be scolded, to have my decisions constantly undermined. I took on the stress that he created.

  Those were all conscious decisions I made.

  So, yes, I had been a victim in some respects.

  And I had made myself that.

  The family business was important to me. I had spent so much of my childhood there in that little bakery, learning my fractions as I stood on a stool beside my grandmother who explained it to me with measuring spoons and cups. I was taught patience watching each attempt at chocolate soufflé either burn or refuse to rise before I finally got it right. I learned about community in the connections made with repeat customers. I found pride in working with my hands, in keeping the morale up in the shop even in the worst of times.

  And my grandfather wanted me to keep it in the family.

  I felt like there wasn't a choice.

  But there was.

  Even if it was a bitter pill to swallow to admit that I had chosen my own miseries in life. Yes, even up to and including parts of this kidnapping. After all, had I moved across the country when there had been an urge to do so the day I turned eighteen, no one in the New York mafia would have been able to find and kidnap me to use against my father in the first place.

  Though the actual kidnapping and imprisonment? I refused to own that. It wasn't my fault that these men thought women could be used as pawns in a power struggle or monetary negotiations.

  That said, as the days were going on, I was starting to worry that maybe there would be no terms agreed to. What then? If my father didn't—couldn't—pay?

  He would be killed, surely.

  I was under no delusions about these men. As kind as Lorenzo had been to me, as a whole, he was absolutely capable of murdering my father in cold blood.

  But if he was killed, what would happen to me? Would they let me go, only to strap me with the same shitty deal they had given my father? Always wanting more? Never letting me breathe easy?

  Or would they cut their losses, make an example of me as well to anyone else who had daughters that could be used against their fathers?

  I wasn't sure.

  And, quite frankly, neither option sounded like something I wanted.

  Sure, life was always better than death. But in this case, only very slightly. A lifetime personally indebted to the mafia sounded like hell on earth. It would no longer be something that affected me, but from a distance. It would be there right up in my face every time. And the threats I knew my father faced would be directed to me instead. Maybe even by this man who had been kind to me while he imprisoned me in his home.

  For a couple days there, I had somehow started to view this entire situation like some sort of retreat, some vacation from my normal life.

  I was in a penthouse apartment with every luxury afforded to me. Clothes were bought for me. Food was brought to me. And none of it cost me anything. The sheets were buttery against my skin. The products in the bathroom were more than I could ever afford, no matter how much I tried to trim my already thin budget.

  And, to be honest, it was unexpectedly nice to share some time with another person.

  Sure, I spent all my days with people: bakers and customers and Liane and even my father.

  But my nights were quiet. And, if I would let myself admit it, lonely. I didn't remember the last time I shared a meal with someone. Watched a movie with someone. Made coffee for someone.

  It had been nice, in a twisted way, to play house. To let myself forget that I was supposed to be railing against this, not settling into it.

  I had to get myself the hell out of this situation.

  And if my father didn't make it, I had to find a way to deal with this damn family too. I wasn't going to spend my whole life under their thumb, having them squeeze more money out of me every year for the rest of my life.

  I was going to get out of this.

  One way or another.

  "Oh, hey there, sweetheart," a new guard called to me the following morning, sitting on the couch with a newspaper instead of standing guard at the elevator like I knew he was supposed to be. "I was told you would be done sulking eventually."

  "Sulking?" I hissed, teeth clenching. "He said I was sulking?"

  "That was the word he used," the guard agreed, giving me a nod.

  I recognized him.

  He was one of the guys standing around when I'd been moved from one trunk to the other. Not Anthony, the other one. I don't think I caught his name. But I remembered he'd been wearing a giant belt buckle in the shape of a lion. This morning, the lion was replaced with a vintage ship and hula girls.

  "Well, he's an asshole," I declared, moving off into the kitchen, going for the coffee pot.

  "He sure is. A lovely young lady like you would never sulk, right?" the guard asked, sarcasm heavy in his voice.

  "Lovely young ladies like me don't typically find themselves kidnapped and held for ransom, so whatever reactions we have to said situation, we are justified. Who are you? Where is Christopher?"

  "Chris has other jobs some days. So you're stuck with me. Emilio," he clarified when I raised a brow.

  "Emilio. So, are you an asshole like your boss too?"

  "Depends. I was the one who sent him to pick you up in the first place."

  "So that is a yes."

  "But I went to Lorenzo because the man who was initially supposed to pick you up is the most vicious bastard I've ever met in my life. And I don't think I need to tell you this, but I have known a lot of vicious bastards in my line of work."

  "So, what, I'm supposed to thank you? Gee, thanks so much for sending the slightly better of two evils to rip me out of bed, throw me in a trunk, and hold me captive."

  To that, I got a small chuckle, like this guy didn't let much get to him. "You know, Lorenzo didn't say you had such a mouth on you."
<
br />   "No? Because he calls me hellcat. To my face."

  "And you didn't do anything to deserve that name, huh?"

  "Oh, I deserved it alright. And he has no idea how much worse I can be."

  "But now you're all pissy at him, so he's about to find out, right? I know the deal. I have sisters."

  "And they condone you being a part of kidnapping other girls?"

  "Let's just say this is an isolated incident. We don't snatch women or girls off the streets in this family."

  "Just me then. What did I ever do to be so lucky?"

  "Look, we finally heard from your old man today. Hopefully, everyone can come to an understanding. And then you can go back to your life."

  This was the first time they'd heard from my dad?

  That was, well, unsettling. At best. He hadn't noticed I wasn't around? He hadn't thought to look for me? To go down to Cape May to check the house? Notice that all my stuff was still there, but I wasn't?

  It was sobering to realize how unimportant you were in your only surviving parent's life.

  "I don't know if I believe I will be allowed to go back."

  "If your father complies, you will go back. It's not exactly good for our PR if we start murdering random girls for the sins of their fathers."

  "Right. Just roughing up and kidnapping and holding them against their will then."

  "The way I heard it, you hit your own head," Emilio said, smirking at the mental image Lorenzo must have put there.

  "I think it says a lot about you that you find it funny that I was so terrified that I was going to be raped and murdered, I hurt myself while I tried to escape that fate."

  "I guess Lorenzo was wrong," Emilio said, letting the sentence hang, waiting for me to take the bait.

  And, damn it, I did. "About what?"

  "You getting out of that pissy mood," he said, smiling as he brushed past me to make coffee.

  "I know you think you are so—" I started, tailing off when I heard the familiar whoosh of the elevator.

  My gaze immediately went there. And, damn it, there was something dangerously close to anticipation fluttering through my stomach.

  And not the bad sort of anticipation either. Though, as the doors slid open, and Lorenzo stepped out—shoulders tense, jaw so tight that a muscle ticked there, eyes blazing—I realized maybe it should have been the bad sort of anticipation working its way through my body.

  My pulse quickened as his gaze turned to me, that anger lapping higher and higher.

  "Fuck off, Emilio," he growled, voice even lower than it usually was.

  It shouldn't have sounded sexy, not when he was so pissed off, but there was no mistaking it was. It shivered across my nerve endings, making my stomach feel a little wobbly as those green eyes pinned me.

  "You fucking lied to me," he growled, the sound barely able to make its way out from between his clenched teeth.

  "And I'm out," Emilio said, nearly breaking his mug he set it down so fast on his way out of the kitchen, then down the elevator.

  I should have been worried as the doors slid closed, taking Emilio away, leaving me alone with a livid Lorenzo.

  "I haven't lied to you," I told him, arching my chin up.

  "You fucking lied right to my face," he snapped, fist slamming down on the counter, making my body jolt, the coffee sloshing out of the cup and onto my hands, making me nearly drop the mug on the floor.

  Carefully, I placed it on the counter instead, wiping my hands on my pants.

  "What did I lie to you about?" I asked, proud of how even my voice sounded even though my lower lip felt like it was trembling.

  I'd known fear in my life.

  I'd known fear at the hands of men.

  And the cold, slithering sensation in my stomach made my throat feel tight, made my palms feel sweaty, made the muscles in my legs start to quiver.

  "You let me think you were a fucking teenager," he growled, forcing his hands out of fists, pressing his palms against the counter, making his shoulders hunch forward.

  "I didn't lie to you. You assumed," I reminded him, shrugging, trying to act a lot more casual than I felt while two clashing emotions—fear and desire —fought for dominance in my system.

  The fear, I understood.

  The desire, not so much.

  Maybe it was some cavewoman instinct rearing its misogynistic head. My genes wanted the alpha male of the pack. And, let's face it, when a powerful man like Lorenzo Costa was angry, he was about as alpha as a man could get without bashing someone over the head with a club.

  "A lie of omission is still a fucking lie, Giana."

  "What the hell does it matter how old I am anyway?" I snapped, my own temper flaring.

  "What does it matter?" he asked, tone deceptively calm. "Because you've been walking your ass around my place, throwing around all that sass and all that sweet, and you have made me feel like a fucking creep for noticing it."

  "You're a creep for noticing I'm here?"

  "I was a creep for fucking liking it," he snapped, straightening, moving around the counter.

  "You're not making any sense, Lorenzo," I told him shrugging, even as he moved into my space, toes practically touching mine.

  "You want me to make it more fucking clear for you?"

  "That would be nice," I agreed.

  I wouldn't have agreed had I known what was to come.

  Or, at least, that was what I tried to tell myself. Because anything else would have been insane. Ridiculous.

  One second, there was a couple feet of space between us.

  The next, his chest was crushed to mine, his hand raised, grabbing the side of my neck, pulling me in as his lips crashed down on mine.

  He kissed like he lived.

  Dominant.

  Demanding.

  Hard.

  My initial shocked gasp turned into a ragged moan as his hand slid from my neck and up into my hair, curling, pulling, the pain and pleasure combination spreading from my scalp and lower. Much lower.

  But before my hands could raise from their shocked position against his chest—because, surely, I was going to push him away, right?—he pulled away as quickly as he had moved in, leaving my body buzzing, my mind swirling.

  My eyelids fluttered open, finding him staring down at me, gaze intense.

  "That fucking clear enough?" he growled, turning suddenly, and storming away.

  I stood there for what can only be called an embarrassingly long time, my legs shaking, but this time for a reason that had nothing to do with fear.

  Unless the growing concern about why there was this oppressive pressure on my lower stomach, this clawing need inside, counted.

  But, with a couple deep breaths, I managed to get my brain to think through the fog of desire.

  When it did, though, I realized two things.

  Lorenzo was in his room, if the door slam was anything to go by.

  And there was no guard at the elevator.

  As soon as the thoughts sank in, I was across the floor, pressing my finger desperately into the call button, holding my breath as I heard the swish of the car moving up, cringing when the doors opened, and the familiar ding sounded.

  I threw myself into the elevator, jabbing my finger into the button, waiting for the doors to slide closed.

  They did.

  Just as I heard Lorenzo's voice.

  "Fuck."

  But it was too late.

  The doors were closed.

  I was part of the way to freedom.

  I took a couple slow, deep breaths as the elevator moved downward, preparing myself to run.

  I was not, by anyone's standards, an athlete. The idea of running if some part of me wasn't on fire, or I wasn't being chased by an angry flock of geese, sounded downright idiotic.

  That said, running to escape a chasing made member of the New York mafia—and maybe the weird desire I felt toward him—seemed like a great effing idea.

  The car jolted, making my stomach drop. T
hen the doors were opening, and I was flying.

  I had ridiculously short legs, but they were working for me as I darted across the lobby, as I charged through the front door, making the doorman hiss and jump back as I made my way out onto the street.

  I didn't pause to try to look around, to take in my location. I just ran blindly, knowing that I could get lost just about anywhere in a city as populated as this as long as I could get as far away as fast as possible.

  I had no direction.

  No money.

  No ID.

  No shoes.

  And the latter realization made my stomach drop as I threw myself around a corner, running up the next block, considering all of the various bodily fluids—as well as other liquids—my poor soles were likely soaking up with each passing step.

  I had nowhere to go, not really, but anywhere was better than at the mercy of the mafia. And my father's whims.

  I rushed down another side street, trying to lower the chances of him finding my path.

  My thighs screamed. My lungs ached. Sweat reminded me that while yoga pants and a lightweight sweatshirt were perfectly acceptable for living inside a penthouse apartment with the air conditioning set to glacier, it was not great for summer in a city where the tall buildings blocked anything even resembling a breeze.

  I made it up another block before I slowed my pace, knowing that I would be less noticeable if I was moving with the pace of the foot traffic. I carefully grabbed a pair of flip-flops from a street vender when he turned his back, rushing off before anyone suspected a thing, trying not to let guilt overwhelm me. Sometimes you had to do what you had to do to survive. Even steal shoes, so your feet didn't get bloodied and blistered from walking barefoot through the city.

  On a whim, I waited at the street for the light to change, reaching down to pull up my sweatshirt, deciding the tank top underneath would have to do, wrapping my sweatshirt around my waist as my gaze flicked around, trying to spot an exceptionally tall and stupidly handsome man rushing down the streets looking for me. Or his car with its very familiar trunk. I imagined by now, he had his original one back.

  My stomach was in knots as I moved forward with the crowd, sure hands were going to reach out and grab me from behind, carry me kicking and screaming back to the penthouse. Or maybe I would be moved, transferred to some basement somewhere with a bucket as a bathroom and someone much worse than Lorenzo looking after me. Maybe even that guy that Emilio casually mentioned.