by Logan Chance
“No.” He pulls me to standing. “Haven't you learned yet I mean what I say?”
“Like leaving me?” I taunt. A muscle ticks in his jaw.
He releases my hair and turns away. “Put her in the car,” he orders.
His henchmen get no resistance from me as they lead me to the black sedan.
I'll figure a way out of this. Just like when we were kids and played rescue the princess. Except, this time, Xavier isn’t smiling and laughing. And this time I'm not the princess of some imaginary land. I'm a different kind of a princess. Something I want no part of. A Mafia princess. And Xavier isn't my white knight coming to rescue me. He's willing to kill me to get what he wants.
“What are you doing in my room?” I wrap the plush, white towel tighter around me, trying to shield myself from the insanity of this situation.
“This house belongs to me. Why wouldn't I be here?” Xavier’s eyes flit over me.
“What's the matter, Rhiannon?” He crosses the distance between us. “Still shy around boys?”
“You’re so mean now.” I whisper, looking up at him. And I still can't believe I'm actually looking at him after all this time. When the car cut me off on the outskirts of the city, I figured it was one of my father’s men. That maybe Delilah had sold me out. Never did I expect to see Xavier step from the car. I've had zero time to process what's happening. Zero time to come to grips with the fact the boy who left is standing in this room a man with obvious wealth and a vendetta the size of Texas. Or hatred the size of Wyoming. Or both.
“You've changed since I saw you last,” he says, ignoring my question.
So, has he—the model perfect chiseled angles and masculine planes of his face are still beautiful, but it's his eyes. The warmth is gone. He’s colder now.
“Well, ten years makes a lot of difference,” I tell him. “I'm not a naive seventeen-year-old anymore.”
“I'll say,” he murmurs, his gaze lingering on my breasts. He crosses his suited arms. “I brought you more clothes.” He nods to the platform bed now filled with designer shopping bags alongside my suitcase.
“You can't keep me here in this cell.”
“Sure, I can,” he says. “It’s a nicer cell than your father keeps you in.”
I rummage through my suitcase, looking around for my phone and wallet. Oh God, all the cash I’d saved to start over with—gone.
“You won’t find it,” he says, knowing full well what I’m after.
“What do you want with me?” I ask.
“Everything you’ll need is in the bathroom drawers.”
“You know, no one ever seems to answer me. It's as if I never asked the question. Is this a mob thing?”
“Mob? Is that what you think I am?”
I can't look at him anymore; it makes my chest ache to see what he's become. I turn from his piercing blue gaze and continue rifling through the shopping bags filled with jeans, t-shirts, panties, bras. He’s right—everything I could possibly need, except my phone.
“Well, I don’t know,” I start. “You kidnap me, threaten me, and steal my things. Sounds very Mafia to me.”
“You have no idea who, or what I am.”
As if that answers anything.
“And,” he continues, “as soon as your father gives me what I need, you can go back to your life and marry your pretty little politician wannabe.”
Never. It took months and months of planning to get everything in place to escape a wedding to that asshole. “My father will never give you what you need. Looks like you did all this for nothing.”
The heat from his body sears my back, and the towel is yanked from around me. I spin to face him as he dangles it from his fingers.
“Xavier,” I yell, grabbing a handful of clothes to cover myself, “why did you do that?”
“Don't patronize me, Rhiannon,” he warns. “One way or another,” his heated gaze sets fire to my skin, “I'll get what I want.”
He drops the towel and slams the door on his way out.
11
Xavier
Mafia.
What exactly is Mafia these days? It’s a loose term. I’m a different kind of mafia, the CEO of my very own new world order. Security systems. I’ve designed the best in the world. My businesses are owned by my shell corporations, hiding my wealth, to make Mossack Fonseca look like a newspaper route company next to mine. I don’t have soldiers shaking down people in back alleys; my dealings are in boardrooms. And my army is the trained computer hackers who graduated top of their classes from MIT.
My hands are definitely not clean.
I didn’t get the nickname Dark Don of the business world for nothing. I’m a ruthless motherfucker, and I’m not afraid to play dirty.
“Mr. Stone,” Justin, a member of my security detail, calls out, semi jogging up beside me. “Got five minutes?”
“It’s late.” I continue to my office and sit behind my desk to finish work I dropped the instant the call came in she was making her move.
“I need to talk to you.”
My eyes lift from the documents, neatly stacked, waiting for my signature. “Make it quick.”
He takes a seat and bobs his legs with nervous energy. “Seems they already know Rhiannon is missing. Mr. DeLaurio says he’s offering a lot of money for her safe return.”
“Safe return? Ah, ok.” I let this information roll off my shoulders. He knows his daughter is missing. Good. Cause I’ve got her, and I’m not letting her go that easily.
Let him offer all the money in the world. I have just as much. If not more.
After a few more details, I dismiss Justin, finish up, and go to check on my little prisoner. Seeing Rhiannon again was not how I imagined. Agreeable, sweet, submitting to my every command is what I pictured. Because, although she's always been in this life, she somehow remained untouched by it all. But, she had some fight in her; I saw the scorn in her eyes when she looked at me as if I were shit on her shoe.
It’s quiet, too quiet, as I roam the halls of this massive house like a ghost. My proverbial sheet is a suit and tie as I stride down the endless hallway which leads to her room. Her ‘cell’—which is pretty fucking far away, I could probably drive there quicker—sits on the opposite side of the estate. Obviously, I didn't need a house this large—no one does—but it’s a statement. A statement written in bold across the front of the sprawling structure: don't fuck with me, or I’ll fuck you harder.
I grew up with nothing, and now I have everything I could ever want. Except, what's behind the locked door in front of me.
The lights are dim when I step inside and move to the bed where she sleeps bundled under the navy comforter. One small foot, with pink toenails, peeks from beneath the blanket.
Her chest rises and falls as she breathes through her tepid dreams.
As I study her, I take in the perfect lines and curves of her tight little figure. Pictures and small video clips showed how beautiful she'd become. But, seeing her now, in the flesh, big fucking difference. Ten years. Ten fucking years of watching her life play out from a distance. Ten years of planning and accumulating wealth to finally set my plan into action.
I have her, now I just need to let him know it.
The next morning, my first stop is the security office. Having Rhiannon in this house is stifling. Like a goddamn elephant sitting on me. I feel her presence bearing down on what’s left of my conscience everywhere.
It gives me a headache—she gives me a headache.
I jam my thumbs into my temples, trying to drive her condemning brown eyes out of my head. Fuck. She's still there.
“Mr. Stone,” Zeke, sitting behind a panel of flat screen monitors, calls out as I enter the room converted into a mini-surveillance center.
“How’s our little prisoner?”
“Trying to escape.” He chuckles as I glance at the screen where Rhiannon works her fingers around the window in her room. “She’s pretty,” he says. But, corrects his word choice when he se
es me lift a brow. “Pretty determined,” he says with a cough.
“Yeah, a lot of good it’ll do her.” This house was designed by the top security expert in the world—me. Metallic glass windows. State of the art security system. She's not getting out.
When I reach Rhiannon’s room and step inside, she’s given up her attempt at escaping to sit in the fawn-colored armchair, staring out the window at the wild bramble thicket with its dark blackberries and prickly thorns.
“There’s no way out.”
“There’s always a way,” she says, not breaking her gaze from the view outside.
“Ah, hopeful Rhiannon. Trust me, there's no way.”
She moves to the bed, crossing her arms, finally meeting my gaze. Her brown eyes shoot daggers at me. “Trust you?”
She makes a sarcastic sound which I choose to ignore. What I can't ignore are the way the baby blue sleep shorts and tank I purchased for her hug all the right places.
“Get dressed. You’ll be having breakfast with me every morning.”
She stands. “And then what?”
On autopilot, I move closer. Her body is still as inviting as ever. The curves have matured more, and she’s grown into her plump breasts. I rake my teeth along my lower lip. “Whatever I decide.”
“And if I say no?” she huffs.
Getting extremely too close, so close I can smell the mint on her breath, I zero in on her. “You don't want to find out.”
12
Rhiannon
When I woke this morning, in a strange bed, in a strange house—in Xavier’s house—I tried to pretend I was in a bad dream. You know, one of those dreams that seem real but isn't. A nightmare that would end as soon as I stretched the sleep from my limbs. Didn't happen. What did happen was a serious pity party as I laid in bed staring at the wall. Is this really my life? One man after another, bossing me around, parading me around like brainless arm candy, kidnapping me. Seriously, when I get away from here, I don't even want to look at another man. Especially Xavier.
I realize now, a little too late, I had romanticized him over the years. Made him into this untouchable hero who could never do anything bad.
Today, after I dined with him for breakfast, where he refused to answer any of my questions, he returned me to this room and locked the door. I don't know how I'm going to get out of here, an escape will be next to impossible, but I won't give up.
Not like I did with my father. Living the life of a zombie, fulfilling every wish my father had with little resistance. When Ian told a reporter, we would be starting a family soon after the marriage, it was at that moment my eyes opened. Wide open. Like a dam lifting, and all my stupidity came pouring out.
I never questioned anything before, when I should have been questioning everything. Obviously, as I reached my twenties, my father couldn't keep me under lock and key anymore, that would look too weird. A man trying to fly under the radar—trying to look legitimate—doesn’t want that kind of spotlight. So, with the help of Delilah, who has some very shady connections of her own, I devised the plan to get as far away from my father as I could.
I never expected to land in the arms of Xavier.
A knock sounds on the door and the knob turns ever so slowly. A smiling sandy-haired woman, wearing a black skirt and white dress shirt, enters with a small bag in her hands.
“I’m Krista,” she announces as if it's perfectly normal I'm locked in a room.
Briefly, I contemplate racing past her, but she quickly closes the door, and it locks from the outside as soon as it shuts.
“I guess we’re both prisoners now,” I tell her.
Undeterred by my gloomy attitude, she continues toward me like a beam of sunshine. “I’ve got all kinds of things for you.”
“Do you have the key to that door?”
She doesn't falter from whatever her mission is. “Xavier instructed me to give you these.”
“Why?”
She shrugs. “Being stuck in a room can get lonely. You'll need something to keep you occupied.”
Hm. I don't want to take the bag extended out, but she did answer my question which no one else seems to do. Maybe this could work to my advantage.
Smiling, I take the crisp brown bag from her hands. “Thanks.”
After informing me she’ll be checking in on me every day, she leaves.
I study the bag in my hands, equal parts repulsed and curious. This all feels very surreal. With nothing else to do, I sit cross legged on the bed and pull out what I least expect… a notebook, sheets of self-folding heavy card stock and drawing pens. The good ones. It's a lot messed up that I feel any sense of gratitude over his gift. He remembers. My mind can't rationalize the juxtaposition of sentiment with the fact it was given to me because I'm his prisoner. No, I shouldn't feel grateful at all. Fear is the emotion I should feel.
Before I completely melt down, I move to the desk in the corner and draw.
Once I start, I can’t stop.
When the sun fades in the sky, and no longer pours through the curtains, my stomach grumbles just as the door opens. He’s here, looking like he stepped out of a hottest executive’s ad, dressed in tailored navy slacks and a white dress shirt that clings to the muscles hidden underneath.
“What do you want?” I ask, irritated that I'm noticing things about his appearance.
He doesn’t say anything for a while, just lets his large presence fill the room until it’s impossible to breathe anything except his scent. He smells like a lifetime of regret waiting to happen.
“It would be easier if you didn’t resist me,” he finally says in a low voice.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He moves closer and sits on the bed. “I just mean things would be smoother if you didn’t try to fight me at every turn.”
Frustrated he's acting as if we didn't spend a good chunk of our lives as friends, I continue trying to break through his armor. “What happened to you?” I have so many questions. “Why did you leave?”
He breathes in deep and lets out a smooth, controlled breath, running a hand through his dark hair.
He’s not going to answer me, and my heart deflates a bit.
“Well, since there wasn't a lot else to do,” I pick up the card I’ve been working on and hold it out, “I made this for you.”
His fingers brush mine when he takes it from me. I watch as he studies the smiling princess on the front, wondering if he remembers our childhood game.
“Thanks for not killing me today,” he reads on the inside. He looks back at me. “You forgot yet.”
He looks very serious about that, but I’d like to believe he hasn't completely crossed to the dark side.
He pockets the card. “You hungry?”
“Yes,” I answer at the same time my stomach growls.
“Come with me.” He holds his hand out and I take it.
His hand is different, strong and harsh, not like when we were kids. It’s possessive now, like he owns my tiny hand in his.
On the walk through his spacious home, my eyes memorize everything, and I hurry my steps to keep up. We pass through immaculate, sophisticated rooms with vaulted ceilings and shiny hardwood floors. Black leather couches with deep red pillows and not a lot of anything else is the theme. It isn’t warm and friendly, instead, it’s polished and unlived in. He turns a sharp corner and leads me down a long corridor filled with Art Deco paintings that brighten the white walls. And so many doors.
Of course, there are guards at every entrance, and I’m sure, cameras everywhere.
We enter a formal dining room with a long mahogany table surrounded by seating for ten. The smell of something delicious makes my stomach growl again.
“Sit,” he directs, leading me to a chair at the end of the table.
He takes the seat right next to me. And when I say right next to me, I mean right next to me. His thigh brushes mine. “I hope you still like Beef Wellington,” he drawls out.
My mouth wat
ers. I'm a little ashamed that my body is so concerned about food under the circumstances.
Krista sets two white plates in front of us, overloaded with Beef Wellington and a white mountain of creamy mashed potatoes. But... there is only one set of cutlery.
His hand reaches it before mine, and he gives a short laugh. “You don’t think I’d give you silverware you could use as a weapon against me, do you?”
Damn it. What a brilliant idea. I suck at escaping, because that thought never crossed my mind; I just wanted to dig in. “Well how am I supposed to eat this?”
“I’ll feed you,” he answers, cutting into the food on my plate.
When he brings the fork to my lips, I almost don’t want to open for him out of pure defiance. But, whore for Beef Wellington that I am, I open wide.
My moan is audible when the tender filet hits my tongue. Briefly, his eyes fall to my mouth before he looks away and takes his turn.
“You don't think it's a little gross we’re eating from the same fork?” Now that I know I could possibly use the utensils as a weapon, I decide to pull from my vault of memories and remind Xavier of his aversion to eat or drink after anyone when we were younger.
The fork tines, supporting a hefty dollop of mashed potatoes, stop at his full lips and then he slides it in. “Nope.”
I nod. “Ok, well I just remember you saying stuff about germs.” I smooth the napkin in my lap. “I just recently got over a really nasty cold.”
He loads up the fork and moves it back to me. “I’ll take my chances.”
“This is crazy,” I tell him, before accepting the offered bite. “I'm not going to fork you to death.”
“Just eat.”
The rest of the meal is finished in silence, and for the next few days, the routine remains the same: breakfast together, lunch in my room alone, and then dinner, where he feeds me like the child he’s always seen me as.
My disdain for the new Xavier grows as the words between us lessen. He barely even looks at me.