Modern Fairy Tale

by Proby, Kristen

  At least now I won’t have to worry about where he gets his next meal.

  My gaze lifts to Gio, a mixture of fear and gratitude in my heart. He must have watched me for a while to see me put food out on the fire escape.

  And he’s watching me now, a strange expression on his face. “You always wanted a dog.”

  A clench inside my chest. “Thank you for bringing him.”

  His eyes flicker with something painful and sweet. It looks like he’s going to open up to me. My breath hitches. Please, please. Then he pulls back, the walls slamming down again.

  “The engagement party is tomorrow night,” he says.

  Before I can respond, he turns and leaves the room. The lock clicks into place.

  Lupo growls at the door from beneath the bed. Apparently he trusts Gio even less than he trusts me.

  Gio didn’t trust me when I first talked to him either. He was a surly teenage boy, convinced that I would be stuck up. Or that I was toying with him, that I would tell my father that we had talked and get him in trouble. It took time for him to open up to me, for him to trust me.

  I claimed he’s just like my father, and in some ways that’s true.

  My father would never have brought this dog along.

  The soldier or the boy. The monster or the lover. Which one is he? I think he might be a little of both, but the two can’t exist side by side. They’re fighting each other, battling within him. It remains to be seen which side will win.

  * * *

  I don’t see Giovanni the rest of the night, which is a relief. I need time to think about what he’s become—and what he wants to turn me into. A mafia princess. No, that’s what I was. He wants to make me his queen. A dubious honor when I don’t have a choice.

  The shower holds the same kind of soap I use now. The closet has all my old clothes. This place is a curious mixture of old and new, a rabbit hole I’ve fallen into—everything too large or too small, upside down and color-bright.

  My sheets are the same pale-pink paisley that I slept in as a child. The same sheets I slept between when I dreamed of Giovanni. The same sheets where I first touched myself, tentative and curious.

  When I pull back the knit white blanket, only the faint smell of flowers rises up. No dust.

  He prepared for this.

  Of course I know he did. The way he had Lupo transported here ahead of us proves that much. As do the toiletries in the bathroom. He was watching me, stalking me.

  He protected me too.

  I rest my head on the pillow, gaze trained on the locked door. Waiting for his return, dreading it—wanting it. Lupo stays under the bed, in much the same position, I’m guessing.

  How is it possible I can sleep this way? In a place I thought I’d never come back to, held captive by a man I thought was dead? Maybe the drugs are still in my system, because the room narrows and then goes black.

  When I open my eyes my stomach growls with hunger.

  Or maybe that’s the sound of Lupo growling.

  I sit up in bed just as a lock turns in the door. I’m wearing a nightgown with a scoop neck and cap sleeves—modest enough, but I still hold the pink sheet up to my chest as the door swings open.

  It’s not Giovanni.

  That knowledge sets off a firestorm inside me, relief an inky fuel, anger a lit match. I don’t really want to see him or his cold eyes. I don’t want to find out all the horrible ways he’s changed. But I don’t really want him to ignore me either.

  And I’m cold. So incredibly cold in these old clothes and old blankets. I still remember the heat of his gaze, the hot brand of his fingers around my wrist.

  If he’s going to hold me captive, the least he can do is hold me.

  The man who enters the room has dirty blonde hair and a sharp suit. The effect is ruined by a blue dog leash in his hand. “Where’s the mutt?” he says, clearly annoyed to be assigned this task.

  Romero. I think that’s his name. I was never really invited to the parties where I might have learned their ranks, the way my sister, Honor, was. Supposedly it was because I was younger, but everyone knew the real reason. Because I wasn’t really blood.

  I hold my hand out. “I can walk him.”

  His eyes are pale and almost dead. “Put the dog on the leash if you want him to go outside. Either that or he can piss in your room.”

  I’m not willing to test that theory, so I hop out of bed and grab the leash. Lupo rumbles as I reach for him under the bed. I’ve never forced myself that near to him, so I’m half expecting him to bite me. Instead he freezes as soon as my hand touches his wiry fur.

  “That’s right,” I croon softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  I snap the blue leash to a matching blue collar nestled in his fur. That means someone else has gotten close to him. They must have in order to get him here. I hope they didn’t hurt him. For that matter, I hope he didn’t hurt anyone else. Even if they might have deserved it. I don’t know how far Giovanni’s leniency will go.

  “Be a good dog,” I whisper as I tug him out from under the bed.

  He yanks his head against the collar as if testing how far he can go. His eyes are suspicious when I hand the lead over to Romero.

  “He’s nervous,” I say, hoping he won’t push the dog too far and too fast.

  Romero gives me a hard look and turns, yanking on the leash. I hold my breath because the last thing I need is a made man losing his temper on a stray dog. Giovanni may have me under his protection right now, but I doubt that extends to my dog.

  Lupo follows the man outside, body sunk low, tail between his legs.

  Only then can I breathe out a sigh of relief. And inhale the scent of bacon.

  A young woman enters the room and closes the door with her hip. She’s carrying a tray laden with plates of eggs and toast and fruit. There’s a small silver pot that must have coffee.

  She sets the tray down on the small round table. There are two antique white chairs around it, but I doubt she’s planning on staying. I’ve never seen her before, but I can’t waste this opportunity.

  “What’s your name?”

  She doesn’t look up from where she’s setting out silverware.

  “Please,” I say, approaching her. “I’m being held against my will.”

  She pours a cup of steaming coffee. “Cream?”

  There’s a faint accent in her voice, but I can’t place it. “Please help me.”

  She pauses, and I feel her distress vibrate in the air. At least she’s considering it. “I can’t.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  “Does it matter?” She stands back. “Eat now. I have until he returns with the dog to take the tray.”

  “At least sit with me.”

  Her lips purse. She doesn’t want to, but there’s not really anywhere else to sit. “It’s not right.”

  “None of this is right. He drugged me. He—”

  “Mr. Costas is a good man.”

  Her loyalty hits me hard—not only because it means she won’t help me. Also because I used to have that kind of unadulterated trust in Giovanni. Not anymore. “He’s forcing me to marry him. He’s going to force me to…” I can’t even speak the words, not where he’s concerned. Force me to have sex with him. As much as I know he’s changed, it’s still impossible to believe he’d do that.

  She looks pained, and I have to wonder at the exact nature of her loyalty to him. Giovanni wouldn’t be the first man to use the household staff to meet his needs. My father certainly did.

  A pang of jealousy hits my breastbone. I ignore it because that doesn’t matter.

  He’s probably been with a hundred women.

  And now it’s hard to breathe.

  “Senorita, are you okay?” Her voice sounds far away.

  I feel her guide me to the chair, and I’m grateful for that. My hands grasp her, keeping her close. I meet her dark gaze, pleading. “Just a message, so my sister knows where I am. So she knows I’m not dead.”


  Her lips part, and I’m praying, hoping. Nothing comes out. Her brow furrows. Genuine worry shades her brown eyes, and I think she might actually do this for me.

  A sharp yip comes from the hallway, and she jerks back.

  Seconds later Lupo dives into the room and under the bed. Romero appears, looking disgruntled, his suit askew. “Let’s go,” he says, not waiting until the girl complies.

  She gives me one last worried look before hurrying out.

  The door closes. The lock turns.

  She didn’t agree to send a message, but she didn’t say no either. I’ll ask her again when I see her. I’ll get down on my knees and beg her. I really do want my sister to know I’m okay. Maybe she can help me escape, but even if she couldn’t, I know she’ll rest easier if she hears from me.

  And I am desperate to break free. I don’t want to think that Giovanni will do what he says. He wouldn’t. I’m sure he wouldn’t force me to have sex.

  Don’t push me, bella. You won’t like what happens.

  I want to believe he wouldn’t, but I’m terrified to find out for sure.

  Chapter Ten

  The low murmur of male voices bleeds through the door.

  Lupo’s ears perk up, and his growl fills the room. He had another walk at lunchtime. I had a bowl of soup and thick focaccia bread, but the girl wouldn’t talk to me again. She wouldn’t even meet my eyes. I may be captive here, but at least they’re keeping me well-fed.

  I’m expecting Romero again or maybe the girl with a late afternoon snack.

  So it’s a shock when Giovanni walks into the room.

  I saw him yesterday, so I should be used to the way he’s changed, his expression harder, shoulders somehow more broad. Is it possible for him to be taller than he was at eighteen? He definitely seems that way. He may as well be a giant the way he fills the room.

  And he’s carrying something. Not a tray of food or a leash, though.

  A dress.

  Something shimmery and glittery gold is draped over his arm. He sets it on the bedspread in front of me. “For tomorrow night.”

  Lupo growls, but he ruins the effect by backing up until he’s underneath the bed.

  I narrow my eyes. “How do you know it fits?”

  His gaze flickers over my body, and suddenly the tank top and jeans I’m wearing may as well be see-through lace. It’s like he can see all of me, every inch of my skin, every shadow and curve. My body responds with inappropriate heat, starting in my core and spreading outward to harden my nipples.

  His eyes darken. “Try it on.”

  He makes no move to leave, and I have no desire to undress in front of him. “I’m sure it fits.”

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  The amusement in his voice turns my stomach. How dare he find this funny. I could be in chains, could be beaten and starved, but it’s hard for me to be grateful. I’m a captive just the same. “Oh, let’s see. Food, check. Water, check. Freedom? Not so much.”

  His amusement evaporates like a drop of water on hot concrete. “Freedom is for other people. People who aren’t born the daughter of mafia royalty.”

  “They’re dead,” I mutter through gritted teeth. My mother didn’t care enough to stick around. My father…well, let’s just say I would have preferred for him to care a little less.

  “Which makes you their heir. But you know this.”

  “I know there are people who would use me. I just don’t understand why you are one of them. Where is the boy who held me in his arms when I cried? What happened to the boy I loved?”

  A moment passes in utter stillness. I didn’t mean to let out so much frustration. And I don’t expect a real answer, because he hasn’t given me one before. He shifts, and I push up from the bed, backing into the wall. No, I don’t expect a real answer—but he might do something worse. He might punish me. He might prove just how bad captivity can be.

  He turns just enough to shut the door. It closes with a quiet, painful click.

  A shrug of his large shoulders drops his jacket to his hand. He tosses it on top of the dress, and it’s a strange intimacy, seeing our clothes mingled together. Next his fingers work at the buttons of his white shirt.

  My breath strangles in my throat. “Giovanni. What are you doing?”

  He doesn’t answer except to continue working the buttons, exposing more deep bronze skin and sculpted muscle. Down, down, to the sprinkle of dark hair in a sharp V.

  I’ve seen naked bodies before, many of them. Amateur models undress almost daily in the art building for classes to draw. I’ve shaded that line down the middle, sketched those indentations arrowing down. I have run the tip of my pencil over a hundred different bodies, but never have I see one as hard and as strong as his. He’s all muscle, no fat—not even the kind of padding that makes a body warm and comforting. There’s nothing comforting about the way his abs ripple as he takes off the shirt.

  “Gio,” I whisper.

  I thought I had more time before he forced me. I thought he’d wait until we were married, even if that’s only days away. God, I thought he wouldn’t really do this to me.

  His expression is flat, barely human. “You wanted to know, bella. You asked.”

  It takes me a moment to register the question. What happened to the boy I loved?

  He turns to face the door, and my breath sucks in. This is his answer. There are crisscrossed scars on his back, wounds shaped like talons, skin that healed in thick ropes piled over each other. He wasn’t just beaten. He was tortured.

  “Who did this to you?” I choke out.

  He turns enough that I can see his face. The complete lack of pain there is almost more disturbing than the scars on his back. Whatever they did to him changed him, turned something off inside him. And I understand why he’s showing me this.

  The boy I loved really did die years ago.

  He lifts one broad shoulder, a shrug casual enough to break my heart. “The place was swarming with security for the big party. They were prepared for an attack against the Russians, considering your sister’s engagement would have been bad for them. You wouldn’t have made it out undetected.”

  A knot has formed in my throat, so hard and so big I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to breathe normally again. I knew that he helped us escape. I suspected that he paid a price. Seeing the proof of that is almost too much to stand. “So you distracted them?”

  “They were looking for an attack. I gave them one.”

  “And they realized it was you?”

  “Not right away.” Something cold flickers over his expression. “When they connected me to the explosion, they figured out why I’d done it. Nunzio told them we had been meeting in secret.”

  I gasp because they were family. Cousins, technically, but like brothers. Giovanni had told Nunzio about meeting me in the pool house, had used his help to do it. “How could he do that to you?”

  “They probably threatened him. Threatened his parents.” A pause. “Or maybe he didn’t want to get strung up in the basement like I was.”

  Without meaning to, I take a step forward. A step toward him.

  He puts his hand up to stop me. “I don’t need your pity, bella. Don’t waste it on me. I show you this so you’ll understand. So you don’t look to me for mercy. I have none.”

  I swallow hard. He’s right. How can I beg him for freedom when he was tortured to try and save me? Those are not his scars. They’re mine. He took them for me. Grief shudders through me for the boy who died that night, in spirit if not in body. I may have believed him gone all this time, but now I know exactly how it happened. It broke something in him, and God, just the knowledge is breaking something inside me.

  “You want me to wear that dress tomorrow night? Fine. I owe you that.” I force myself to take a breath. “I owe you more than I can ever repay. You want me to stand up in front of a priest and say the words I do for whatever power it will bring you? Fine.”

  If I expected to see s
atisfaction, I would have been disappointed. I’m giving up everything I have to a statue made of stone. He doesn’t move, still naked from the waist up, still impenetrable.

  I do take a step closer then, because I’m not completely defenseless here. At least, I hope I’m not. “But you can’t force me to consummate this marriage. I’m asking—” I’m more than asking. I’m begging. “Please, Gio. I may not love the man you are now, but don’t make me hate you.”

  His head cocks to the side, his eyes incisive, like he’s trying to figure me out. “Do my scars disgust you that much?”

  The crack that formed inside me at the sight of them breaks into a thousand pieces. “No, Gio—how could you think that? Your body doesn’t disgust me.” His body is beautiful and strong, a temple of masculine power. The scars don’t detract from that. He’s been forged in fire.

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t want to be forced, Giovanni. Not about that.”

  He takes a step close, and his legs are long enough that we’re only inches apart. The air fills with the salt and spice of him. My heart races. His eyes are dark pools that I can sink into, quicksand, pulling me down faster the harder I struggle.

  “Then don’t make me force you, bella. Don’t fight.”

  My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I can’t agree to this. It would be the same, whether I lashed out at him with my fists or whether I lay still and accepted him. Either way, it would be force. Because I have no choice. I can have no real choice as long as he holds me here.

  “One more thing,” he murmurs. “Don’t ask Maria for help again. It won’t work.”

  My breath catches in my chest. I hadn’t been sure she would help me, but I’d hoped she wouldn’t tell on me. Apparently her loyalty to Giovanni runs deeper than I thought. Certainly deeper than any of the household help felt for my father.