by CD Reiss
“Okay, sure.” Another theatrical shrug. “But have you ever thought, in that fucking pea brain of yours, you got a target on your back?” He pushes away the espresso cup. “Then the next guy can drag her in front of Father Fonz and find all of it out?”
“You the next guy, Dami?” I make sure to stress his old pet name.
He rubs the scar on his face, eyes dark and clouded. “Nah. I got respect for the institution of marriage. What I’m saying is…there are guys here and back home…all talking this kind of shit. Thinking she knows where it is.”
“She doesn’t,” I snap. “Neither do I.”
“I’m just warning you outta respect. Your life ain’t worth shit now.”
Do I believe him?
Partly.
There’s a target on my back, and plenty of ambitious men are willing to take their shot at a bullseye. The warning is real. Redundant, but real.
“Thank you, my friend,” I say, holding out my hand.
“I miss you,” he says, shaking.
“The same.” We join in a back-slapping hug. Neither one of us fully believes in the affection of the act.
“I was thinking,” Damiano says, lowering his voice. “If we joined up—Just us.” He moves his hands between our chests. “You and me. Like the old days.”
“The old days weren’t that great.”
“The days ahead can be. We make our own family, the way it always shoulda been.”
He’s pitching peace without acknowledging the war it would spark.
“Thank you,” I say with a pat to his shoulder. “I cannot do it that way.”
“If something happens to Violetta…” He levels his gaze as if this is the crux of the entire offer. “I can protect her.”
Sliding my hand up his shoulder, I grip the back of his neck. It’s all muscle he spent years building when he should have been working on the brain above it.
“She’s mine.” I shake him in a way that could be a threat or could be affection. “Whether I’m alive or dead, she’s mine to protect.”
“You can’t protect her from the grave, you dumb fuck.”
I let him go. He’s right, of course. I can argue that I’ll stalk the earth as an avenging demon, but playing into a fantasy never helped anyone. I take my hand off the back of his neck and lay it on his massive shoulder.
“I’ll think about it.”
Gia comes in from the back with the inventory book. Damiano smooths his shirt and straightens his cuffs.
“Don’t think too long.” He thumbs his nose and sniffs. “I don’t like what I’m hearing on the grapevine.”
He waits for me to ask for details, and when I don’t, he holds out his hand. We shake, and he leaves. He gets into his SUV, backs up unnecessarily to tip another cone, and pulls out.
“Roman,” I say when he’s out of sight. “Find three trustworthy engravers who know how to shut the fuck up.”
“Engravers?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Like, guys who make metal plaques and shit?”
“Yes, Roman. Engravers. Three quiet ones.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
12
VIOLETTA
With my door unlocked, I can move around the property. It’s fortified with armed men who’d stop me from leaving if I tried. I get to know all the rooms in the house except Santino’s office. The double doors are locked, which only turns up the heat under my curiosity.
I help Celia with dinner, chopping onions and seasoning dishes. She seems happy I’m not trying to take over. I eat dinner alone and she won’t let me help clean up.
TV is boring. Scarlett’s away, so even if I had my phone, I’m not getting any texts. All my reading is done, and it’s too early to go to bed.
I feel like Rapunzel, trapped in a tower with nothing to keep me occupied but the hope of a prince calling my name from below.
This must be what caged birds feel like. I want to go to all the pet stores, open the cages, and set the animals free. No one deserves a life like this.
Up in my room, organizing ugly clothes by color, I hear a splash downstairs. I run to the window, putting my hand on the glass as Santino dives into the pool. As usual, he was gone all day, which was frustrating. How am I supposed to learn enough about him to escape?
I rush downstairs to the pool, leaving my upholstery-print swimsuit in the closet.
I hate him, but I want someone to talk to. I’m terribly lonely.
It’s one thing to lounge around all day in comfortable pants, binging favorite shows and texting friends. It’s another when all of that, down to the comfortable pants, has been taken away and replaced by watchful men who are sometimes nice, like Armando, sometimes a little creepy, like Fat Lip, but mostly silent like the rest of the nameless guards.
Anyway, at least Santino’s nice to look at.
“You should go back to your room,” he says as soon as I step outside.
The summer air feels nice on my skin after a day stuck in a climate-controlled room with air as artificial as my marriage. I stretch my legs, enjoying the company and the freedom of disobedience.
Santino gets out of the pool with the grace of a caged tiger.
Maybe we’re both trapped.
“Are you all right?” I ask.
If this man is in any cage, it’s from his own doing and he can deal with it. Still, I want to know why he looks this way. Why he sticks men in front of my door, why he swims as if the world is too small.
“I’m fine.” He looks at me then looks at the door. Pointedly. “I told you—”
“You sent me to my room and split like you had to stop World War Three.”
Dripping wet, he plucks a pack of cigarettes from the table.
“What if I did?” He pokes out a cigarette and puts it between his lips.
“Good job?”
He smiles around his smoke and cups his beautiful hands around a lighter. With a scrape, his face flickers in firelight, and with a snap, he’s in the darkness again. “The danger’s passed, for now.”
“What danger exactly?”
Smoke pipes out his nostrils. He’s a dragon looking down at me as if he just roasted an army to protect his treasure—and the treasure is me. It’s not just that I’m his wife or his property. I’ve seen that in his face, but this is different. It’s more fervent and more still. He’s a particle moving so fast it stays in the same place.
If I find out what is making him feel this way, maybe I can find a way to use it against him. A weapon. My curiosity is less painful when I find a use for it.
“You’re not going to answer me,” I say.
“No.” He throws himself into the chair on the other side of the patio table.
“Why not?”
“Because I say.” He flicks his cigarette and takes a drag. “When I want you to know something, I’ll tell you.”
I murmur the word asshole too low for him to hear, which makes me a coward.
“I need your rings,” he says with his hand out.
I follow his gaze to my left ring finger. The weighty chains that have tied me to him and this place for a week now. They are still beautiful, but they are also still chains. Chains I was told to never take off.
“Why?”
“I’ll give them back.”
Fine. He can keep them forever. I would happily never see them again. They’re a constant, uncomfortable reminder of the life I’ve been thrust into. I all but rip them off my finger and dump them into his outstretched palm.
This life is like a slow death. Given everything I ever dreamed of but nothing I ever wanted, somehow the bareness of my finger forces a question to the front of my mind, and I have no idea if he’ll answer it any more than the last two I asked.
“Why me?” I ask, looking down at my naked hand.
“Why you what?”
“Why did you marry me? You’re the king. You can have your pick of women who wouldn’t ask any questions.”
> It’s not a lie. He’s beautiful. Carved from marble. Tall, lithe, masculine. The most beautiful women in town—many of whom were trained to do nothing but run a rich man’s house—would jump at the chance to marry a man like him. They’d say “I do” without having the words squeezed out of their faces.
I ignore the memory of him manhandling me flaring up in my brain, filling my veins. I can’t fall victim to charms I never found appealing.
“My pick, eh?” He leans back, leveraging a heel on the matching footstool. “I never had my pick. Same as you, the choice was taken from me before I knew I had one.”
“How?”
He shrugs, looking over the pool because he won’t look at me.
“Santino,” I say. “How is that possible?”
“It is,” he says, finally meeting my gaze. “That’s all. Don’t ask again.”
I cross my legs and tap my fingers on the arm of the chair. I’m supposed to be calm and collected, so I don’t say what I want to say, until I do.
“Fuck you.”
“Scusa?” he says, flicking and smoking as if he really didn’t understand me.
I lean over the table to get that much closer to the face of a beautiful devil. “Fuck. You. Santino. DiLustro.”
With a raised eyebrow and the curve of consideration on his lips, he stamps out his cigarette. “Okay.”
Okay what? I think as he stands, sure he’s going to walk away and do something to irritate me further. He’s in front of me, with the bulge of his dick at eye level for a moment, before he leans down and, in a breath, pulls me up from under my arms.
I gasp when he lifts me and exhale in a burst when he bends me over the table.
Is it now?
Is this going to be it? Is he going to turn the hard, thoughtless rush of arousal that I feel when he pushes me down to his own purposes? Is he going to take his pleasure now?
“Say it again, wife.” He kicks my feet apart.
When his hand strokes my ass, my eyes flutter closed. I try to make words, but I’m high on bursts of dopamine. He bends over me, his shape on top of mine, pushing the shape of his erection into where my body splits.
“Tell me to fuck you,” he says into my ear.
I want more. Everything. Skin on skin. I want him to yank my shorts down and destroy my virginity in one violent, cruel thrust.
“No.” I want him to take it, but I can’t offer it like this.
“The next time you tell me to fuck you…” He pushes his hardness against me. The only thing between me and that club is a few thin strips of fabric he can tear away in an instant. “I’m not going to make sure of your meaning. I’m going to strip you naked and tie you to the bed with your legs open. Then I’m going to fuck all three of your holes until I’m empty. Do you understand me?”
Jesus, every cell in my body understands his crude brutality. I’m hungry for it—even as my brain recoils in horror.
“Do you?” He pushes against me so hard the ashtray rattles.
“Yes.”
When he moves away, I can still feel the relentless pressure of his dick against me, but I don’t feel relief. I don’t feel saved from something awful.
As he takes his pack of smokes and goes back into the house, mostly what I feel is the loss of an opportunity.
It is late. I can’t sleep with the swollen ache between my legs I don’t know what to do with. So I count off what I know about Santino DiLustro.
Uno: He has a sentimental side that can be used to escape.
Due: He’s very traditional. Growing up with my aunt and uncle, I can understand what that’s all about. It’s fear of change, and his fear is my advantage.
Tre: He prefers manipulating me, but when that doesn’t work, he becomes controlling, domineering, and bossy.
Quattro: He’s needy. Something in him wants a connection. I can feel it rolling off him whenever he tries to hold a conversation.
Quattro can go fuck itself. I will be out of here and long gone before I risk connecting to this sexy, arousing, beautiful bastard. I hate him, but there are pieces of his humanity floating around that make it difficult to ignore.
Because something in me wants a connection too, and once that happens, I’ll never be free.
13
VIOLETTA
Every morning, I put on his ugly clothes, curse his awful name and his beautiful face, then meet him downstairs for breakfast. I hate that there’s a “we tradition” as much as I hate the fact that there’s a “we” at all.
I put on the lavender, floral shift I find in the back of the closet. It’s the most feminine thing I see, and it feels good to wear something other than slacks and old lady blouses. I’m not here to doll myself up for him, but for me. It’s bad enough I’m trapped. Being trapped and having to dress like a nun is killing me.
The moment I walk into the dining room, Santino’s coffee cup stops between the table and his face.
“What is this?” he asks, flicking his hand in the direction of the dress. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Mocking me. Silly girl-child.
“This is what you left me when you kidnapped me without letting me get my things.”
“I sent men to get your books.”
“Okay, so you want them running their fingers through my underwear drawer?” My cappuccino’s still hot. I blow on it, making a point of not looking at him. “I don’t want you to have to kill anyone.”
I keep my eyes on my coffee as my breath makes a little hole in the foam.
He doesn’t say anything or acknowledge how I turned the conversation against him. As if I don’t matter. He’s impervious to the gotcha because he doesn’t care one way or the other.
“We’re going shopping.”
When I turn, he’s got a smile on his face. Turning over my books must have made him think I’m back on a leash.
“I’ll make a few calls.” He pushes out his chair. “Drink your cappuccino and we’ll leave.”
Leave? Go past the bounds of my jail cell that is this house? I haven’t been anywhere since the wedding. And shopping! Okay, so I hate the man, but this is the first kind-of-maybe-normal thing I’ve been able to do in weeks and I can’t stop my veins from thrumming with excitement.
My cup is empty before Santino can even get out of his chair—while he’s still folding his paper. It’s weird that he reads an actual newspaper when the world is all digital. It’s so…Italian.
The men like things in their hands. Money, newspapers, women. Rosetta tried to warn me, but it went in one ear and out the other.
“Armando.” Santino rings his stupid bell. “The Alfa. I’ll drive.”
So, just him and me. Shopping.
Could I escape? Maybe through a stock room. Maybe hide in a rack of clothes. Who knows what opportunities may unfold?
The car’s brought around. Santino opens the passenger side as if he’s my valet, but I know better. He’s doing it so he has a hand in making sure I’m under control.
“Buckle,” he says, hand draped over the top of the open door.
I reach for the safety belt, but can’t find it. He untucks it from some fancy, hidden place and bends over me. The angle of his jaw is inches from my face and I’ve never smelled anything that could be so crisp and clean, yet so rugged and raw at the same time.
Snap. I’m in.
He stands without turning to me, claps the door closed, and touches the hood as he comes around as if making sure everything in the world is where it should be.
He’s going to be a tough guy to run from.
Santino speeds to Flora Boulevard. The car responds like a passionate lover, hugging curves with both appreciation and affection, leaving me with fingers gripping the armrest, panting like a sprinter. Even if I want to hold a conversation, I can’t. The ride is too breathtaking for words.
He pulls into an underground lot and stops. The trip is over before it even begins, and I find myself wishing for a longer drive.
“My lady enjoys fa
st cars.” He smirks, shutting off the engine.
“I’m not your lady.”
“There are rings that say you’re wrong.”
Out of habit, my thumb touches the fourth finger of my left hand and finds it bare. I realize, right then, that there’s a big hole in my plan to escape. I have no money and no rings to sell. Shit.
“Well, I’m not wearing the rings right now, so I guess they say nothing.”
“Don’t make me put a dog collar on you.”
He gets out before I can call him a disgusting pig—which he is—and takes a little yellow card from the valet before he opens my door. He says nothing. Barely even looks at me. And I’m supposed to get out because—in the end—he’s right. I have a collar on me, and it’s choking me even if no one can see it.
Snapping open my seat belt, I get out of the car and the valet takes it away. Ramp to the right. Elevator a little to the left. Exit door to the street—
“Don’t even think it,” he says, looking down at me.
I’m sheepish, because I know he saw me checking for a way to run but I need plausible deniability. “Think what? I need a bathroom.”
He takes me by the chin. “You won’t get far, Violetta. No matter how fast you run, I’ll run faster. No matter how far you go, I’ll find you.”
Gently, I push his hand away. I don’t want to make a scene in a parking lot, but neither does he. “You’ll find me in a pee-soaked dress if I don’t get to a bathroom soon.”
Santino opens his mouth to retort, but he’s jumped by a squealing girl with a mane of thick, dark hair.
“Cugino!” she squeals.
“Gia, my darling.” He embraces her tightly and joyously. Happily. He’s so affectionate it almost makes me sick. And by “so affectionate,” I mean he displayed some fractional semblance of affection. Up until this point, I thought it impossible. “Grazie for meeting us here.”
“Are you kidding?” She’s upbeat and perky, as always. “I love the shopping!”
