Russo Saga Collection

by Nicolina Martin

  I’m glued to the window as we pass over the coastline to France, little villages, vast fields. It’s gray and winter, sadly not a lot of snow, though. We went skiing a few times when I was a kid. I miss the snow. I should have moved north and not to fucking San Francisco. I squeal when we pass over Paris and I take in the wide river running like a serpentine through its city center, and the actual Eiffel tower!

  The pilots take turns taking a break while we refuel, but I’m not let out of the plane. Clearly, Salvatore reaches me even here. At least I get a whiff of French air when they open and close the door. And a heavy smell of fumes from the fuel.

  We don’t make another stop. Flat fields. Snow covered mountains that feel so close that I think I can touch them. Ocean. Blue, glittering ocean.

  We traveled into the night, smacked into the Earth shadow that came rushing toward us over the Atlantic, we met dawn in Paris and now the sun shines relentlessly from a near-cloudless sky. Pressure builds in my ears and the seatbelt sign is turned on again. I’ve been pleasantly buzzed the whole time, having had wine with my meals and drinks in between. Who knows what awaits me? I imagine a convent, or a dungeon, chains and shackles. How the hell can he imagine I won’t try to get away as soon as I have the chance?

  One of the pilots comes up to me. “Time to buckle up, ma’am. We’re about to land.”

  I glance out the window and see nothing but mountains. “Where?”

  “It’s a small strip of a private airport.” He turns to leave, and I grab his arm.

  “What’s going to happen to me?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “Our job was to take you here. I expect someone will meet you. Put on your seatbelt now.”

  I snap it in place across my hips but as soon as he’s back in the cockpit, I unbuckle and make a dash for the fridge, grabbing the last little bottle of Vodka. I need liquid courage if I’m gonna survive this.

  The airfield is tiny, and I hold my breath as we land, clutching the armrests. I’m not generally afraid of flying, but damn, we stopped a few feet from where the tarmac ended. To the side stands a black car and a man, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, looking very casual apart from the gun on his hip. I look pleadingly at the co-pilot as the stairs descend. This isn’t normal, don’t leave me here! But I don’t speak. I’m trapped in the claws of their capo, and maybe they are too?

  The heat slaps me in the face as if I walked into a wall and I gasp for air, sweat breaking out all over my body in my thick outfit. As I set foot on the uneven white concrete I realize I still don’t have shoes. I look at the barren mountains surrounding us, the rough dry grass, the barracks, and give up all resistance.

  I’m not going anywhere.

  “Hi,” I mutter to the man, who is admittedly quite hot. He’s tall and dark, sports a thick beard, his muscles bulge beneath his pristinely white T-shirt.

  “Buongiorno, Signorina.” He holds open the backdoor for me. The motor is running and the air inside is blessedly cool.

  “Oh, please tell me someone speaks English,” I groan.

  The man hops in the front and turns halfway around, firing off a huge smile. “Si. I do. But where you’re going, I’m not sure many do.” His accent is heavy, but his English is good.

  I shuffle forward, eager for any sliver of information. “Where am I going?”

  “A little village in the mountains,” he tilts his head to the left and I look where he’s indicating, toward the winding, dusty gravel road, disappearing in the distance.

  I catapult backward as we suddenly move. “Who lives there?”

  He shrugs. “People.”

  I fiddle with the belt, locking it in place. “Do they also work for Salvatore?” I have to shout to be heard over the engine. We’re rocking back and forth, dodging potholes and bumps. I have my heart in my throat the whole ride.

  My driver shrugs again. “They’re just people, Signorina. Good people. You will see.”

  ‘Relatives in Sicily. Treat them with respect.’

  His words make my throat clench. What if I don’t live up to his expectations? Who are these people? I see hardened, rough mafiosos before me, like in the movies, hats, a cigar in the corner of their mouths, machine guns. My mouth goes dry as we approach flat, beige stone buildings. This is it. A kid runs across the road and my driver honks his horn, making a sharp turn into a narrow alley that soon opens to a square. We come to a stop in front of a house looking much like the others. Every window has cascades of flowers in front of them. It looks peaceful, well cared for.

  My driver honks repeatedly until a woman comes rushing out of the house. He hops out, greets her with cheek kisses and then opens my door.

  “Signorina. This way.”

  The old lady is completely dressed in black, has gray hair and leathery, weathered skin. She takes both my hands and shakes them as I step out of the car, again struck by the heat. She looks me over from top to toe, her gaze stopping at my sock-clad feet. She turns to the driver, gestures to me and to the sky as a string of words I don’t know pour over us. The driver shrugs, answers something.

  “Hey, what’s she saying?”

  “She wonders why you’re dressed like that.”

  I turn to her with a grimace. “Long story.”

  “This is Signora Maria DeCata. She will take care of you. I must leave.” He throws up a hand in a greeting, hops in the car and disappears in a roaring cloud of dust before I can even answer.

  “Vieni, vieni, Signorina!”

  She waves for me to come with her and I follow, stepping into the surprisingly cool, semi-darkness of the house. Maria keeps talking, gesturing. I shake my head and gesture to my ears. I have no clue what she’s saying.

  “English?” I ask.

  She stops and frowns, holds up a hand. “Attesa.” Then she disappears out the door and leaves me alone.

  I’m alone. Left alone. With an open door. Are they absolutely clueless? My heart speeds up. Maybe I can actually get away from here? I think of the mountains, the long, dusty road and the barren land. Not without shoes. Not without a car. I put the thought away for now and sink down on a chair by a sturdy, wooden kitchen table. Soon enough I hear women’s voices and Maria steps inside with a woman in tow who seems to be about my age. She grabs my shoulders and kisses both my cheeks.

  “I’m Alessandra. Welcome to Bietini.”

  I must look like a question mark.

  “Our village. We have been told to take care of you. You can come with me.” She looks me over. “Do you have a bag?”

  I shake my head as I stand. “I’m so happy that someone speaks English!”

  Alessandra laughs. “I am the only one, I think. No bag. Hmm. You need clothes. And shoes.”

  I nod eagerly and she waves for me to come. “Grazie, Maria,” she says and kisses the old woman on the cheek.

  The stone paving is hot and it permeates through my socks, burning the soles of my feet. Sweat breaks out again and I tear off the shirt, leaving me with only two layers of clothes on my upper body instead of three. I feel like I’ll pass out any moment. My head spins and maybe I shouldn’t have had that last Vodka. My throat is parched. I’m about to ask her how far we’re going when we make a sharp turn into a little alley and she pushes open a door to a two-story building.

  “We have arranged a room for you, Chloe. I’ll find you something to wear. Are you hungry?”

  “No, but I’m thirsty. It’s hot!”

  “Yes, we have winds from the Sahara.”

  “Sahara? Africa?”

  Alessandra laughs. “Yes. It’s close. I’ll be back soon. Your room is upstairs to the right. The other door is the bathroom. You can’t miss it. There are bottles of water in the kitchen. Make yourself at home.”

  Africa? It hasn’t really struck me until now where I am.

  I make a quick survey of the house and find a rustic kitchen with a counter full of vegetables and several plastic bottles of water, like she said. I drink eagerly and move on to a sm
all living room with a couch, an armchair, a couple of tables with crocheted tablecloths, and a TV. On the far side of the room is a door that leads to a bedroom. Upstairs I find my designated room, and the only bathroom in the house. I can’t help wondering if I have been given the best bedroom. The walls are painted white. There is a fairly large, four-poster bed that must have been built in place, a wooden closet, an armchair and a little side table. There are no decorations other than a tiny painting of Mary and Jesus, hanging on the wall above the top of the bed. Sheer, white curtains cover the window that has a view of a backyard and the mountains. It’s dead quiet. I wonder how many houses there are here, how many people, and where everybody is.

  A slam of a door from downstairs makes me jerk. I meet Alessandra halfway down the stairs. She has her arms full of clothes.

  “I’ve found a few dresses I think should fit. And shoes.” She winks.

  “Thank you! I don’t know how I’m ever—”

  “Oh, that’s not an issue, Signorina. We are happy to help Signore Salvatore.”

  I freeze when I hear his name, spoken so casually out of the mouth of this girl, showing none of the fear everyone back home seems to harbor.

  “How… do you know him?”

  “My grandmother was a cousin to his father. I think.” She frowns, and then laughs. “We stick together. Now, go change. I’ll make us some soup. Do you like basil?”

  I nod. I don’t even know what I nod to, too overwhelmed to think straight.

  I spread out three flowery, knee-long dresses on the bed and drop the pair of leather sandals on the floor. I’m so excited that I almost bounce when I shed the grimy clothes. Salvatore’s clothes, I realize as his scent wafts up.

  “Hey,” I shout down the stairs, “can I take a shower?”

  “Of course,” she shouts back. “The towels are fresh.”

  The bathroom is tiny, but cute, the basin and toilet painted with little pink flowers, a pink rug on the floor.

  Revived after a quick, cool shower, I pull a dress over my head, and realize to my horror that I have no underwear. Fuck. I follow a mouthwatering scent downstairs and find Alessandra by the stove.

  “Feel better? You’re very pretty, Chloe. You’ll be like a beacon among us with your blonde hair. I can see why he would choose you.” She pinches a strand of my still-damp hair. “Set the plates, please. We can eat shortly.”

  Choose me? I scoff inwardly as I look at the shelves and take down two deep plates.

  “Are there… I don’t have any underwear.” My cheeks heat up.

  She stops and turns. “I’ll fix that. I’m sorry, it didn’t occur to me. Let’s eat while it’s warm and I’ll help you after.”

  Alessandra gestures for me to sit, then she scoops up tomato soup in our plates and breaks a piece of bread, handing it to me before she breaks another piece for herself.

  “Thank you!”

  “You’re welcome.” She laughs. “Eat. You need it. You can do the dishes after. I’m not used to living with someone. I’m definitely going to take advantage of that.”

  “Oh please, put me to use. I don’t want to be a burden.”

  The soup is the most delicious thing I’ve ever eaten. It’s salty, spicy, everything my body needed. The calm atmosphere, the silence, the sparsely furnished house is everything my soul needed.

  “How many people live here? What do you all do?”

  “We’re about forty. Mostly farm work. I teach.”

  “Oh?” I perk up. My kind of person! “What do you teach?”

  “Everything,” she says. “I’m the teacher.”

  Heat creeps up my cheeks. Of course. “How many kids? What ages are they?”

  “Seven. Between five and fifteen, then they have to go to the city.”

  “I’ve worked with children too.” My heart clenches at how distant it seems now. I left that life when I left Kerry in Chicago. And then everything was taken from me. Still, here I am, on a white-hot island in the Mediterranean Sea, eating soup. Life is suddenly turned on its head again, and for once it’s not awful.

  “What did you do?”

  “I… was an accountant,” I say, hearing how stupid it sounds.

  Alessandra frowns and I explain about the community center for autistic children.

  “Sounds like you loved it.”

  “I did,” I say and look out the window, averting my gaze. The one who ruined it all is her relative. I have to remember where I am.

  “Maybe you want to come with? I’d be happy to have someone with me. You can help with English!”

  I perk up. “Can I? I’d love that!”

  That night we have dinner with one of the families in the village. There are women of all ages, children, and older men. I don’t see any men between their twenties and sixties. I’m about to ask Alessandra about this mystery when someone calls my name and holds out a cell phone.

  “It’s for you,” says Alessandra.

  My heart shoots up to my throat. There can be only one. I sneak into the living room and close the door.

  “Chloe,” I say on an exhale.

  “How are you finding your new accommodations?” says a smooth, well-modulated, very well-known voice. It’s almost a relief to hear him. At least it’s something familiar.

  “It’s… different.”

  “Are you being a good girl?”

  I swallow as heat shoots through me. I don’t even think he means it that way, but his deep baritone makes it sound so erotic that I squirm. “Was I ever anything else?”

  Salvatore laughs. “I can think of a number of occasions.”

  “Hardly my fault,” I mutter. “Why am I here?”

  “Would you rather be with me? That’s a nice change of tune.”

  “That’s not what I said.” Also, I don’t even know what I mean myself.

  “That’s what I hear.”

  I roll my eyes. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “So cocky now that I can’t spank you.”

  “Beat me, you mean.”

  “Or ravage your pussy until you scream.”

  I gasp and clench my thighs, stifling a moan that threatens to escape.

  “So tell me, Chloe. Are you still bored?”

  I scoff.

  He gives out a short laugh. We both know the answer to that. I’m definitely not bored today.

  Salvatore clears his throat. “On a more serious note. You’re with relatives of mine. You’re to treat them with the utmost respect at all times.”

  “Did you come from here?”

  “Ah, no. I was born in Chicago. My parents came from the village. These people are brothers, sisters, cousins, you name it, of my parents.”

  “Where are all the men?”

  “Working.”

  “What? Where? Oh wait—”

  “Yes. They’re in the business.”

  “But you wrote—”

  “The people you see around you tonight don’t know the details of my work. And it stays that way. You are under no circumstances allowed to talk about me. I have instructed them to care for you, that you are important to me, and that you’ll be staying a while.”

  My mouth goes dry. “Am I?”

  “Staying?”

  “Important.”

  Salvatore doesn’t answer immediately. I hear him breathe. “I take care of my property. Buona notte, Chloe. Behave. I’ll know if you don’t.”

  “Salvatore!”

  “Yes,” he says, suddenly sounding eternally tired.

  “Why did you send me here?”

  “I have been attacked. We’re going to war. No one around me is safe. You know this better than most, which I am sorry for. I can’t have any distractions. Having you raped is fucking distracting. Having Ivan in the ICU is fucking distracting.”

  “David!” I gasp.

  “My son has left the country with his mother and extended family. Thank you for thinking about him. I appreciate that. I’ll send for you when I can. I expec
t to find you where you were left off. Now, good night.”

  He disconnects.

  My brothers? I want to scream. What about them? Their time was up today. Did you hurt them? But the line is dead and the number didn’t display. I can’t call back.

  Property? A little hope sparked in me when he called, at the mirth in his voice, sounding almost like a man I could like. Now my heart sinks. Property! That’s all I am to him. A piece of meat. I might as well be a comfy couch.

  I return to the main room and hand back the phone. The laughs sound hollow, as if I’m in a tin can. It doesn’t matter anymore that I don’t understand the conversation. I wouldn’t have been able to follow it anyway.

  That night I dream of violence, of terror, and it’s not Christian anymore, or Salvatore, who hurts me. When I wake, sweaty, my heart nearly beating its way out of my chest, I wish I’d had his strong arms around me again, rocking me safe. I hug a pillow tight and try to sleep, but my brain won’t let the images go. I’m not sad or scared. I don’t feel ashamed. I wish I could have shot my attackers again and again. I’m so grateful for Salvatore’s trust when he handed me the gun. I needed it so badly.

  Chapter 24

  Luciano

  Hearing her constant distrust irks me more than I’m comfortable with. I have other matters at hand, other things to worry about. She isn’t fucking happy with anything I do. She’s not even happy being away from me, for fuck’s sake. Bietini is nothing more than a few houses thrown together in the mountains, but life there is quiet and peaceful.

  What the fuck will it take to make her less hostile? She will need to drop her attitude. It’s driving me fucking crazy.

  Then I remember her brothers, and my resolve to release them. Was it only yesterday? Time gets warped when it feels as if more happens in a day than what usually happens in a week. I tap the number to Dustin as I move through the house.

  “Sir,” shouts a servant who comes dashing as he sees me. Dustin answers at the same time.