Bound in Love (Bound to the Bad Boy Book 3)

by Alexis Abbott

  “Oh no. I am so sorry,” she says, those big brown eyes going shiny with tears. “I can’t imagine how you must feel. You poor thing.”

  I take her hands in mine and give them a squeeze. It was so weird, having a woman so much younger than me, someone I just saved from an abusive man, become so maternal to me in turn. But it feels nice to have someone show me some softness. The past couple days have been so sharp, so painful, that it’s almost a relief to not have to be strong right now. I can just be honest, even if I can’t tell her every detail.

  “I’ll be okay. I think,” I assure her, hoping desperately that I’m right about that.

  “You will be,” she says, nodding vigorously. “You can handle it. Look at you, traveling all by yourself in a foreign country. You will be okay.”

  I smile even as I can feel my eyes burning with tears. Somehow, hearing this young girl say it, I can almost believe that it’s true. That I will be alright. But I don’t want to think about it much more right now. We’ve got a long ride ahead of us, and I need a distraction. So I decide to turn the spotlight back on Francesca. After all, I’m obviously not the only one here with a tragic backstory.

  “Enough about me,” I say, “what about you? Who was that guy messing with you on the platform? And was I right to step in and intervene? I didn’t even think about it—I just did it.”

  Francesca tosses her thick, golden-brown curls over her shoulder and her pretty face turns sour at the mention of the guy on the platform. She crosses her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes. “That was the father of this baby, if you can believe it.”

  “What happened?” I push on, leaning forward to show my interest. And I am truly interested—I need to think about someone else’s story for a change.

  “He’s a big, stinking stronzo is what happened,” she proclaims. “That bastard has ruined my life for too long. He wasn’t like that at first, you know. We went to school together, Pietro and me. We have known each other since we were very small. He used to pull my hair when he sat behind me in class, but everyone said he only did it because he liked me. Of course, my mama said to watch out for him, that he doesn’t respect his mother and so he cannot be expected to respect me either, but I was stupid. And in love. I trusted him, you know? I thought he could be the one. Childhood friends! Everybody said we were so cute together. We’ve been dating since we were fourteen years old. I thought we were going to be together forever and everything would be perfect. How could it go wrong, you know?”

  Her cheeks flush red and I can see that she’s on the verge of tears. I give her a sympathetic look and shake my head. “It sounds so perfect, doesn’t it?”

  “Si! Exactly! I had no idea he would turn out to be so… so… orrendo. For a few years, it was all okay. He went out too much, he stayed out too late. He talked to other girls, sometimes right in front of me, just to cause a scene and make me cry. But he never laid a hand on me. I told myself that as long as the worst he did was make me jealous, I could deal with it. Some people have it so much worse, you know? That’s what I told myself. He never laid a hand on me until about a year ago. And it came out of nowhere. One night I was cooking dinner and he came home from work looking so angry. I asked him what was wrong and he yelled at me, said he got fired and now he had to come home and be interrogated by his own girlfriend. I wasn’t interrogating him, though. I just asked him what was wrong. I thought maybe I could make him feel better. But then he hit me. Just slapped me right across my face,” Francesca says tearfully, pointing to her left cheek. She sniffles.

  “Oh my god,” I breathe, shaking my head angrily. “I can’t believe he did that.”

  “It was bad,” she agrees, wiping her eyes. “That was only the first time, and I thought it was only going to be the one time. I thought it would never happen again. But he never apologized, and it only got worse from that day on. He couldn’t find a new job and every day he gave up a little more and a little more until finally he just stopped even looking for work. He just stayed home all day while I went to work. I am—was—a waitress at a cafe in our neighborhood. At night, he would go out with his friends to drink and party. And then he would come home after midnight and wake me up. He was always angry when he came home. Sometimes he would just go to sleep on the sofa. But other times he would get me out of bed and pick a fight with me. I was so tired, working all the time, but he would drag me out of bed and hit me.”

  “Francesca, that’s horrible,” I tell her, my heart racing with fury. I feel like this girl is my sister, my responsibility. Like I need to protect her. Hunt down that awful man and make him pay.

  She nods, clearly struggling to regain her composure. I can relate. It’s hard to keep all that pain tucked away. It’s always trying to break free, burst through and break your heart again.

  “And then,” she adds, lowering her voice, “five months ago, I found out I was pregnant. I don’t know how it happened. I was so careful. I’ve always wanted a baby, but I knew it wasn’t safe to have a family with Pietro. If he hurt me so badly and I am a grown woman, how much damage could he do to a little child? I couldn’t put them through it.”

  “Of course. That makes sense,” I assure her.

  She continues. “I had to hide it from him. And I wanted to escape, but I couldn’t just leave. I know it sounds crazy, but I still loved him, and I kept thinking if he could just find a job and feel like a man again, he would stop hurting me. I’ve been with Pietro for six years. I didn’t want to give up on our dream. I still thought maybe he would come around, that I had nine months to figure it out and make him love me again.”

  “How did you keep it a secret from him?” I ask her, confused. She stares down at the table, looking sorrowful again. Then she looks back up at me and shrugs.

  “He just thought I was getting fat. He called me names, made fun of me for gaining weight. He even tried to make me skip meals, saying he wouldn’t be caught dead with a fat girlfriend.”

  “What an asshole!” I burst out.

  “It didn’t even cross his mind that I might be pregnant, and I didn’t want him to know, so I just let him think I was gaining weight instead. The insults were still better than him finding out I was pregnant,” she reasons. “I thought once he started working again, he would stop mistreating me, and then I could come clean and tell him. So at first, I just looked around, trying to find work for him in secret. I asked everyone I knew. I tried everything. But whenever I suggested anything, whenever I told him there was a job opening, he would only get angry with me. He said I was just like his mother, bothering him instead of treating him like a man.”

  “That’s not fair,” I tell her. She nods.

  “I know. I was only trying to help. But the longer he was out of work, the worse he got. I began to realize that there was no hope for us. No hope for the baby if I stayed with him. It was time to move on, to escape with my child before Pietro could find out I was pregnant. So I started hiding money from him. I was building a little escape fund so I could buy a ticket and leave. I was going to start over somewhere else, find a place to live and a new job and support the baby all on my own. I don’t know anyone who has done that. But for me, it seemed like the only option. Finally, I saved up enough money to get out. I was going to buy train tickets and put a deposit on an apartment in Salerno, get a museum job. I was all ready to go,” she says.

  “What happened?” I ask.

  “Well, about a month ago when I came home from work, Pietro was still at home,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I was surprised to see him there, because he was usually out with his friends when I got off work. But he was there, and he was waiting for me. At first, I thought maybe he was going to apologize to me, stop his routine of spending all my money and disappearing during the night. But then I realized he was holding the little box where I was keeping my escape money. He found it. He found all of it.”

  “Oh no,” I gasp, feeling sick.

  “He was so mad at me. He screamed at me, called
me horrible names. He said I was a snake, a lying whore, for keeping all that money away from him. He dumped it all on the floor and told me to pick it up and hand it back to him. I did what he told me to do, but then I begged him to please just let me take the money so I could leave. I asked him to please just let me go.”

  “What did he do?” I almost hesitate to ask.

  Francesca sighs. “He spent it all. Everything I had in that box. He took it with him when he went out that night and spent every last euro. And when he came back in the morning, he kicked me out, made me go stay on a friend’s couch. Even though I pay for the apartment. Of course, my friend was angry. She called Pietro on the phone and yelled at him for treating me so badly, but when she was scolding him she accidentally let it slip that I’m pregnant. She said ‘Pietro, you’re a bastard for mistreating the woman you love, especially when she’s carrying your baby.’ And then it was out.”

  “What did he do?”

  She rolls her eyes. “I don’t think he even knew what to do. One minute, he would yell at me, saying he would never be a father to our child. The next minute, he would curse me for keeping it a secret from him. He told me to get the hell away from him, but then he said that if I ever tried to leave him, he would kill me. I didn’t know where to go. I was so afraid to leave the house that I couldn’t go to work. I lost my job. All my money went to paying for the apartment even though I wasn’t living there anymore. Then, last night, he showed up at my friend’s house. He screamed and banged on the door until I came out. He had a baseball bat. He said he was going to beat me until I wasn’t pregnant anymore.”

  “Holy shit,” I mutter.

  “I was lucky. My friend called the police and they took him away for the night. But I knew I couldn’t stay in town. Not anymore. So this morning my friend drove me to the train station and I bought a ticket to Taranto. I knew he probably wouldn’t follow me there. He’s a born-and-raised Napolitano. He wouldn’t leave Napoli for me,” she explains. “But somehow, he found out I was leaving. He showed up at the station. He bought a ticket to get through the security and followed me to the platform. He grabbed me, said whether I lived or died, it was all up to him. Not me. He said he was going to throw me in front of a train. That’s where you came in.”

  “I had no idea it was that bad,” I murmur, totally shaken.

  Francesca nods, a sad smile crossing her face. “You saved me, Serena. I don’t know what to do when I get to Taranto, but at least I’ll be away from Pietro. I’ll be alive. Because of you.”

  I reach across the table and take her hands. “I don’t know what I’m going to do when we get there either, but I know one thing for sure—we’ll do better if we stick together.”

  Her smile widens, her big brown eyes glittering. “Okay.”

  I t’s late afternoon when we arrive in Taranto, the two of us achy and exhausted from traveling while pregnant. When we step off the train into the tiny, dimly-lit station, a wave of panic seizes me. I realize that I have no clue where we are and no clue where to go.

  “Have you ever been here before?” I ask Francesca.

  She shrugs. “Once, when I was a kid. I don’t remember much, though.”

  “Well, first things first: we need to find somewhere to stay for the night,” I say.

  Francesca nods. “Si. It’s not safe to be out after dark. Not for… girls like us. But I don’t have much money left. Pietro—he took my purse as soon as he found me.”

  I turn to her and take her hand. “Don’t worry. I can pay.”

  She shakes her head, those curls bouncing around. “No, no. I couldn’t possibly accept your money, Serena.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m not going to let you sleep in the street. We can find a hotel somewhere, get a room for a couple nights until we figure out what to do,” I tell her firmly, not taking no for an answer. I’ve already kind of adopted her as my sister, my responsibility.

  “Are you sure?” she asks, looking genuinely torn-up over the idea of my paying for her.

  I smile. “Of course. We’re in this together.”

  We walk out of the train station and immediately Francesca hails us a cab. We ask the driver to take us to a hotel, any hotel, and he drives us into the city center. We get out in front of a place that looks a little ritzy for our taste. I have money, but I don’t know what lies ahead for me in the future. I don’t know how long this money is supposed to last me. So we walk a couple streets over and find a hotel that looks considerably less fancy. We go inside and Francesca talks to the concierge desk clerk, booking us a room for the night.

  The sun is sinking down over the horizon when we go up to our room, both of us dog-tired and overwhelmed. It’s hitting me just how strange our predicament is—two young pregnant women in a foreign city, with no luggage and no plans. We order some food for delivery and settle down to eat, turning on the television to distract from how awkward and bleak our situation seems.

  After dinner, Francesca says, “Ugh, I’ve got a craving for ice.”

  “Pregnancy craving?” I ask, lying back on one of the beds.

  She nods. “I don’t know why, but every time I eat now I want ice after.”

  I laugh. “I suppose there are worse cravings to have.”

  “That’s true,” she agrees. “I think there’s an ice machine on the floor below us. I’m going to see if I can get some. I have some change in my pocket Pietro didn’t find.”

  “Okay. Be careful,” I tell her, feeling like a mother hen. She smiles and heads out, wobbling just a little bit with her hands on her belly.

  I hoist myself up from the bed, thinking of taking a shower before bed. I walk into the bathroom and turn on the water, but just before I start taking off my clothes, I hear a knock at the hotel room door. I frown, confused for a moment, and then I realize it’s probably just Francesca having forgotten to grab her room key. I walk over to the door and open it.

  Immediately, I’m shoved backward, someone bursting through the door and slapping a hand over my mouth before I can scream. He pushes me against the wall and shuts the door behind him, his eyes black and shiny in the dim light.

  “Quiet,” he hisses. “I don’t hurt you. You Serena De Laurentis, si?” His English is broken, but I understand well enough.

  I just barely nod, hoping that this guy isn’t about to kill me.

  “Bene. They send me to help. I am Costa fratello. We supposed to meet at train station, but you not alone. I follow and wait. Who is the other girl?” he asks gruffly.

  He takes his hand off my mouth.

  “That’s just a girl I met on the train. She—she’s in trouble. Like I am,” I explain.

  “We must go. Before she come back.”

  “No,” I protest. “I’m not going to just leave her behind.”

  “Cannot trust her. Could be enemy informatore.”

  “Francesca? No. She’s not an enemy. She’s just a girl who needs help. I’m not going anywhere without her,” I tell him emphatically.

  “We go now. Quick.”

  “No!” I shout, and he cups his hand over my mouth again. I glare at him, balling my hands into fists. He searches my face with his eyes for a minute. Then he sighs.

  “You trust her?”

  I nod, still staring him down. The man groans and releases me. I back away from him and fall back onto the bed, my heart racing. He looks over at me. “When she come back, we go.”

  “Okay.”

  A few minutes later, Francesca comes back in carrying a little bucket of ice chips. She’s humming to herself, a smile on her face—until she notices the man in the room with us. Her eyes go wide and she stops in place, like she’s paralyzed at the sight of him.

  “Who—who is this?” she asks softly.

  The man looks her up and down, then gives me a nod. My shoulders slump, relief taking over. “He’s here to help us, Francesca. He knows my… my people back home. He’s going to take us somewhere safe.”

  “Are you sure?” she asks, lo
oking at the man sidelong with suspicious eyes.

  I get up and walk over to link my arm with hers. “Yes. We can trust him.”

  She turns to me and shrugs. “Okay. But I’m taking the ice with me.”

  I smile. The man leads us both out of the room, down the stairs, and into the lobby. We leave the room keys by the front desk and walk down the street. The man helps us into an old-fashioned, classic black car, and drives us off into the night.

  6

  SERENA

  TWO MONTHS LATER

  I wake up to the sound of a rooster crowing, as I often do, just before dawn. I open my eyes, letting them slowly adjust to the near-darkness of the bunk room. Across the property, the rooster cries again, and I smile to myself. He’s getting a little overly excited about his job as alarm clock for the women’s shelter commune, but that’s okay. We keep him around because the lady chickens like him, and the lady chickens give us eggs. Most of the eggs, we sell at the local weekly open-air market along with produce we grow and breads we bake, but we keep a good portion of the eggs we collect and the plants we grow for our own kitchen, as well.

  It was nearly two months ago that the mysterious Costa contact showed up in my hotel room and whisked Francesca and I away to this place. At first, we were both overwhelmed, in shock at how drastically our lives changed in such a short amount of time.

  Francesca, of course, fit in quickly. She speaks Italian fluently, and she’s so young and bubbly that everyone adores her.

  I, however, struggled to get by. In the space of several months, I’ve gone from a New Yorker with a bright future and my own business to an essentially homeless, friendless foreigner in a country I’ve never lived in before. The guy who brought us here assured me that he would get word to my mother back in the States, tell her that I’m okay and that she should not go looking for me under any circumstances. I’m sure that conversation, if it did indeed happen, was not a particularly enjoyable one. But whatever he told her must have been pretty convincing, because she hasn’t shown up on our doorstep to take me back to New York yet.