With This Ring

by Natasha Knight

  Or relieved. He won’t touch me again. It’s what I wanted, isn’t it? We’re enemies now, truly. It’s what I told him I wanted.

  I shiver with cold as the rain outside beats down on the house. I pull the blanket up around my shoulders and the wedding band drops to the tiled floor. It bounces once before coming to rest.

  I feel sad. So fucking sad. I feel like I did at the house after he told me about his enemies and asked me to be his friend.

  Maybe he’s right. Maybe I am just like my brothers. I should have told him when he assumed I was a virgin. I should have said something. But what? I couldn’t. I still wouldn’t.

  I hear a car engine outside and go to the window. Two SUVs are driving too fast in this rain. He’s leaving? Just driving away?

  I rub my face, shudder again, the cold settling deeper inside me.

  He asked me to be his friend. His one friend. What about his brother or his uncle? Aren’t they at least his allies? Or are they enemies too?

  I’m not paying attention as I walk back to the bed and wince when I step on a shard of glass from the whiskey bottle. It cuts into my foot, leaving a trace of red on the tile.

  I balance on one leg to pull the glass out and drop it to the floor.

  Gingerly, I walk into the bathroom and close the door. Sitting on the edge of the tub, I check to make sure I haven’t missed any more glass. When I sit, still feeling him inside me. Sticky between my legs from when he made me come.

  I turn on the water, test the temperature, then plug the drain. I wish he hadn’t broken that bottle of whiskey. I’d have happily downed it now. Instead, I slip into the tub and listen to the sound of the water eat up the silence. And as the weight of what just happened settles alongside the cold in my belly, I shudder, adjusting the water temperature so on any other day, it would be too hot to stand.

  It takes a long time to fill the tub. Not that it matters. It’s not like I have plans. Cristiano is gone. I’m sure he’s left a slew of soldiers to make sure I stay put. Not that it would take a slew.

  He just needs to calm down and when he comes back, I’ll explain. I’ll make something up. A biking accident when I was little. Don’t girls lose their virginity that way? Or is that just an old wives’ tale? I can’t tell him the truth. I won’t. I will never tell him that truth.

  I shake my head, reach to switch off the water. I lay my head back and let myself cry. I’m not even sure why I care. Why it bothers me even a little what he thinks of me. Because isn’t he my enemy? Isn’t that what I swore to him and to myself?

  33

  Cristiano

  The stripper dancing on stage is a blur of movement because all I see is red.

  Scarlett isn’t a virgin.

  She’s supposed to be a virgin. And why the fuck this bothers me, I have no clue.

  Tilting the bottle back I drink a swig of whiskey. It’s almost empty. I get up from my seat, but the moment I do, I feel hands on me.

  I grip the back of the chair. Close my eyes in the hopes it’ll make the room stop spinning.

  Someone’s talking and fuck, I’m drunk. I am so drunk.

  “Jesus Christ,” a man says. I open my eyes only to find my uncle shoving his way toward me. “What the hell, Cristiano?” He gestures to two of my men following him.

  “I told you to wait outside,” I tell them.

  The soldiers stop. Look from me to my uncle.

  I turn to my uncle. “Why are you here?”

  “Get him in the car. This is embarrassing,” he instructs the two men as he attempts to take my whiskey away.

  “That’s mine.”

  “Fine. Drink yourself to death. What do I care.”

  We’re outside a moment later. Rain is coming down in sheets and I’m soaked by the time I’m in the SUV. My uncle climbs in beside me.

  I blink, then widen my eyes. “I wasn’t done in there.”

  “If you want a prostitute I’ll get you one. A clean one.” He shakes his head, shifts his gaze to his suit jacket, the disgust unmistakable. “I’m going to have to burn this suit.”

  “You need to lighten up, Uncle.” I swig more of my whiskey.

  “Is that from tonight?” He gestures to the bottle.

  I look at it. Note how little liquid is left inside it. I nod.

  “Christ.” He shakes his head, glances at my ring finger. “What’s the matter, Cristiano? Trouble in paradise? And on your wedding night?”

  “None of your business,” I say, suddenly remembering I’d put my mom’s ring in my pocket. I feel for it and I’m relieved to find it’s still there.

  “It becomes my business when I get a call at two in the morning telling me you’re wasted in just about the seediest strip club in town.”

  I lay my head back against the seat. “I’m tired.”

  He sighs. “She’s not worth getting upset over. Certainly not this upset.”

  “I said I’m tired.”

  “Fine. We’ll talk in the morning when you’re sober. I just hope this night straightens you out. You let that whore turn your head—”

  My hand is around his throat in an instant. I’m not even sure how I move that fast, considering, but I’m squeezing, fuming.

  “You do not call her that.”

  He sputters, one hand around my forearm, face reddening. The car comes to a screeching stop.

  “You. Do. Not. Fucking. Call. Her. That.”

  I’m not sure which comes first then. The cocking of a pistol or the cold steel against my throat.

  34

  Scarlett

  It’s so quiet, it’s almost eerie. I look up at the ceiling, watching steam rise from my bath. I hear a drop of water fall into the tub. That’s it. That’s the only sound. And it feels somehow wrong.

  The bedroom door opens. I turn my head, but from this angle I can’t see who it is. It’s quiet again. Like whoever opened the door just walked away.

  “Cristiano?” I ask quietly, sitting up, drawing my knees toward my chest.

  He doesn’t answer. No one does, but if I listen closely, I hear footsteps in the living room, then whispers. Men’s whispers. Soldiers?

  No.

  Not soldiers.

  Ice coats my spine when I hear his voice. He shouldn’t be here. Cristiano wouldn’t allow him to be here.

  Would he? He wouldn’t do that to me, would he?

  I look around for a robe, a towel. Something to cover myself, but his footsteps become more pronounced. He’s not trying to be quiet. The opposite.

  He’s in the bedroom so I remain in the tub, my arms hugging my knees to my chest.

  And then he’s leaning against the doorway. He cocks his head to the side. When I try to swallow, my throat closes up.

  I don’t want to show fear. But I am afraid.

  If I’m honest, I’ve always been afraid of him. I just lied to myself when I said I wasn’t, because sometimes you need to lie to yourself to survive.

  “Scarlett,” he says, walking into the bathroom, eyes roaming my body. He sits on the edge of the tub and extends the arm that’s not in the sling into the water, fingers skimming it, not touching me but creating a ripple. “Where’s your groom?”

  Relief. Cristiano didn’t send him. But that relief is short-lived.

  “He’ll be right back,” I say.

  “Hm. I don’t think he will.” His gaze moves to my breasts, which are fairly well hidden by my legs. He tilts his head, touching my knee. I resist, water splashing as he pries a knee open to have a good look.

  “I thought you only liked little girls, Uncle.”

  He drags his gaze over my body and up to meet mine. “Oh, I’m not looking for myself.”

  It takes all I have not to physically shake at his words. I hold his gaze, even though all I can see is him over me, on top of me. All I feel is sweat dripping on me as he grunts. All I feel is him inside me. Hurting me.

  God. I’m going to be sick.

  “But you’ll still bring in some money. Cartel P
rincess on the auction block. Do you know how many enemies your brothers made? Just imagine the ways they can punish you for their wrongs.”

  “Where’s Cristiano? What did you do to him?”

  He stands up, shakes off his hand and gestures to the two soldiers who come into view. I don’t recognize them.

  “Get up.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Lift her out.”

  They’re on either side of me before I can make a move. Two sets of hands hauling me to my feet, water dripping off me, splashing onto the bathroom floor as I fight. It’s no use, I know.

  “Where’s Cristiano?” I yell to my uncle as he stands perusing me.

  “Take her.”

  One of the soldiers reaches for a towel.

  “Like she is,” my uncle instructs, and the soldier only hesitates momentarily before he drops the towel.

  I fight as they lift me off my feet, kicking when they throw me face down onto the bed and drag my arms behind my back. Binding my wrists first, then my ankles. I manage to kick one in the nose before they can secure my legs.

  Once I’m bound, they stand me up. The one I kicked wasn’t the one who had reached for the towel. He raises an arm to slap me, but my uncle grabs it.

  “Not her face,” he says. “Don’t mess up her face.”

  But when the soldier makes a fist to punch me in my belly, he doesn’t interfere. He just looks on as I double over, the wind knocked out of me so I can’t even scream.

  Once is enough, but he does it a second time, before I’m lifted, doubled over, and carried out through the house. I see Alec on the floor at the opposite end of the room. He’s cradling his arm but he’s alive. The rest of Cristiano’s soldiers are lying on the ground dead or dying. I wonder how I didn’t hear the bullets, but I know a moment later when we get outside. Another soldier is dragged to his knees and executed with a bullet to the back of the head. The gun is fitted with a silencer.

  I’d scream but this isn’t the first time I’ve seen this. Not even the second or third. And it all happens so fast. The icy rain on my naked skin, my feet scraping against stone, shin slammed into the back of the car as I kick my legs, bound to make a mermaid’s tail. I’m lifted and dumped into the trunk of a waiting car.

  35

  Cristiano

  It’s a dream. I know it. There’s a texture to it. An echo in the sound. I know it and it still doesn’t make a difference. This fucking nightmare, this chapter of my life, will always own me.

  Except that this time, something’s different. But I can’t figure out what it is.

  The marble is cold beneath me as I watch the blood circle widen. Deep red on pristine white.

  They’re already here. My brothers. My father. I can hear them, but I can’t open my eyes to see.

  I hear her too. My mother.

  I drag my eyelids open. The first thing I see is my own reflection in the mirror of blood. My face white as the marble should be.

  I should have died. Why didn’t I die?

  They’re on their knees. Michael’s already dead. His eyes are open but he’s already dead.

  That echo comes again and then I hear it. I hear him tear her dress. See her pushed to her knees in my periphery. See her hands slip in Michael’s blood.

  She’s wearing a red dress tonight. She wasn’t wearing red that night. But maybe that’s blood on the dress and I can’t see straight.

  I want to wake up. I want to wake the fuck up. Too much whiskey. My uncle was right.

  “I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”

  No. That’s wrong. That’s Scarlett’s voice. She doesn’t belong here. Not in this dream.

  But she’s here and she’s crying. Sobbing. Calling for me. Asking for help. Pleading for it.

  And I can’t move. But when I open my eyes again, I see him. I see Marcus on her and all I can do is lie there in my own blood. All I can do is watch him do it just like the last time.

  “…won’t hurt as much.”

  But it’s not my mother on her knees before him. It’s not her in the red dress.

  I claw at the floor, hands slipping in my own blood. And she’s calling for me. She’s begging me to help her. To make him stop. And I can’t fucking get to her.

  “…won’t hurt as much.”

  He hurt her. That’s why she’d drank so much the first night because she expected pain. I remember it now.

  I wouldn’t have hurt her.

  “Scarlett.” Does she hear me? “I’m coming.”

  But I’m not. I can’t. All I can do is watch her face lying in Michael’s blood. Tears streaming from her eyes as Marcus moves behind her. Until the end. Until the very end when he brings the knife to her throat and whispers something I can’t hear. Something that makes her mouth fall open as he grins like Satan himself and slides the knife across her throat. And I swear I hear it. I hear the ripping of skin. Hear the pouring of blood.

  “No!”

  I jolt upright and the moment I do, it’s like I rammed my head into a fucking brick wall.

  “Fuck.”

  I look around. Remember.

  After I left the house, I went to a strip club. I don’t even know why. I’m not even a little interested in those women. And then there was whiskey. A lot of whiskey before someone called my uncle and he came. I tried to strangle him when he called Scarlett a whore. He pulled a gun on me.

  Which explains why I’m in my room at the Naples house with a fucking pounding headache. I’m actually not sure if I’m hungover or still drunk.

  I get up and have to hold on while the world rights itself.

  “I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”

  I get to the bathroom, take a piss then wash my hands and my face. I look like hell. Like death barely warmed over. I’m surprised the mirror doesn’t crack.

  “I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”

  Scarlett’s voice repeats that sentence for the tenth fucking time. I remember when she said it. How I thought it sounded odd. And I think about last night. About how I felt when I was inside her. When I realized the truth.

  Betrayed. That’s the feeling. It hardens you.

  “I figure if I’m drunk enough, it won’t hurt as much.”

  I open the medicine cabinet and swallow four aspirin. It won’t help, I already know.

  I’m just walking out of the bathroom when the bedroom door opens. My uncle is standing there with a strange look on his face. He’s not dressed in his usual suit but in his pajamas. I’m not sure I’ve seen him in anything but a suit since I was a kid.

  “What time is it?”

  “Early. Seven.”

  I glance to the window. The sun is a line of deep orange in the break of dark clouds that still dirty the sky. I turn back to my uncle, sobering up as I take in the pajamas, the expression on his face.

  Warning bells ring in my ears. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” I hear myself ask.

  “There was a problem.”

  My heart races as my brain processes. “What problem?”

  “You should have told me where you were going.”

  “What. Problem.”

  “Sit down.”

  “Fucking tell me.”

  “There was an ambush.”

  “What?” My stomach bottoms out.

  “All the soldiers are dead.”

  Dead. “Scarlett?”

  “They were probably looking for you.”

  “Scarlett?” I ask again through gritted teeth.

  “It’s a good thing you weren’t there.”

  “Scarlett!” I demand.

  “Gone.”

  36

  Scarlett

  We drive for hours. Or at least it feels like hours. All I hear in the trunk of this old, beat up sedan is rain. All I feel is every bump, every tiny stone, every pothole on the road.

  My wrists are bound behind m
y back. My shoulders and arms ache and the zip ties they bound me with cut into the skin of my wrists. I’ve managed to turn myself, so my feet touch one of the rear lights. I’m not sure what I hope to accomplish though. Kicking out the light? And then what?

  After a sharp, bumpy turn and a long road of what must be gravel, the car slows to a stop. My heartbeat picks up. I hadn’t realized it had calmed at all during the drive. I hear men outside, smell cigarette smoke. They’re speaking Spanish. That’s the one thing of importance to note. Cartel soldiers? Makes sense. Most important question is what am I to them? Their enemy’s wife or the cartel’s princess?

  I’m going to guess the former since I’m riding naked in the trunk.

  Someone pops the trunk and although dawn has hardly broken, I have to squint after the complete darkness of the trunk. I hear seagulls overhead and smell fish. As I start to move, the man who punched me, reaches in to lift me out.

  We’ve arrived at a harbor. A crappy, run-down little harbor nothing like the ones tourists go to. The boats at the docks look like they had their best days a century ago.

  I smell dead fish and cigarette smoke as I stand shivering in the cold morning air, my feet bare on the gravel, my body naked.

  Someone lights a match, and my attention is drawn to the sound. It’s my uncle.

  Without a glance, he walks past me toward another man I don’t know. That man gestures with a nod and my uncle walks to a sedan with tinted windows. It’s parked just beyond a busted streetlamp in the shadow of a building. I can just make out the shape of two heads in the backseat.

  The door opens and I see a pair of khaki slacks. I squint my eyes to see who it is and my heart pounds, the alarm in my head sounding the warning to run. The man inside places a hand on the car door to help himself out. The watch. I know it. And I feel the blood drain from my face as Marcus Rinaldi steps out of the vehicle. Both he and my uncle turn to me.

  I make a sound and I realize when my body tries to move, to run, that I’m still bound at ankles and wrists while two soldiers hold me still.