by Lana Sky
“Yes, sir.”
Footsteps echo off the polished flooring—marble as I suspected, a tan color with white swirls interspersed within the mass—and the screaming grows distant, eventually silenced altogether.
My fear builds unchecked, and I turn my focus inward, fixating on every hair out of place and every throbbing inch of skin.
I think they hit me, whoever they were…
The same men who shot Tristan through the head. A whimpering cry escapes my throat, and I’m startled by the genuine pain in it.
Tristan…
He was a dick, but I’ve never seen someone shot before.
I’ve never smelled so much fresh blood.
I guess this means we won’t be named the city’s “Hottest New Young Couple” in the society pages…
“You’re awake.” That voice.
I didn’t imagine it—or any of this for that matter. It’s real. Even in my imagination, I couldn’t fake the unique way that baritone deepens when it comes to me.
I focus on my breathing as more control of my limbs returns. I have enough strength to lift my head, viewing the strange room from a different angle.
It resembles a foyer of some sort. Large and circular with a high ceiling and a rounded archway leading off to a shadowed hall up ahead.
It’s not the foyer of Casa De Mio, my father’s estate. Neither do I recognize the space as belonging to one of his offices or associates. It doesn’t even match the background of the restaurant.
Could this property belong to Domino?
“Look at me, Ada-Maria.”
I shiver, feeling his voice vibrate through my bones. Somehow, I muster up the energy to crane my neck enough to see him standing over me. He retrieved a cloth from somewhere, using it to leisurely clean off his blade. This time it is streaked with red. Blood.
The color plays off the gold in his skin, enhancing the darkness of those piercing eyes that I’ve seen reduce men to quivering puddles in an instant.
Something’s wrong. That inner voice tickles the back of my skull, growing louder as more realizations register on my tired brain. For one, I don’t see my father. I don’t hear his loud, booming voice, tinged with the playful accent that added to his charm.
Attempting to speak is a grueling exercise that seems to take hours to put into fruition. In reality, it must only be seconds. “W-Where…is Papa?”
His eyes cut to mine with a ruthless intensity, so sharp that it’s like another dose of a far different drug. Fear? It seeps through my veins, ten times stronger than the previous times I shared a room with him.
He takes his time cleaning off his blade before re-sheathing it. “We weren’t meant to speak like this,” he says, gesturing with his free hand to the room around us. Then he snaps his fingers.
“Yes, sir?” a new voice calls out. A woman’s, as foreign to me as the two men were.
“Help Ms. Pavalos get ready for dinner, Ines. The dining room, please. Ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
Soft footsteps pad in my direction, and I turn toward the archway to find a woman entering through it. She’s petite, wearing a gray dress, her hair slicked back. Barring the color of her attire, she could be one of the maids from my father’s complex.
She approaches me, stooping to brace her hand against my shoulder. With a surprising amount of strength, she guides me to stand on legs that quiver like jelly.
It hurts to move, even enough to look over my shoulder, but I do, seeking out the figure with his back to me.
I try to speak. “Domino… Domino!”
He retreats through another doorway without a word.
“This way, Miss,” Ines says, urging me forward.
Pain shoots up my spine with every step. My hip feels sore and bruised. Only God knows what happened after the restaurant.
Or how long I was unconscious. Between my legs feels damp, and an acrid stench reaches my nose with horrifying implications. Urine?
“This way.” The woman guides me through a doorway, and I’m brought face to face with a woman so far from the image she spent thousands presenting to the world that I don’t recognize her at first.
It’s me.
It’s funny that despite everything I’ve been through, nothing startles me more than seeing myself look like this. My hair is a rat’s nest. My dress is torn, and blood streaks my thigh, visible through the slit. More dried blood is encrusted over my right temple, and my mascara is running.
My first impulse is to reach for my purse for my makeup pouch. Papa always prided appearance over all else. No matter what hell I’d been through, my foremost duty is to always look like I deserved to uphold the name Pavalos.
“We have ten minutes,” Ines says, tugging at the sleeve of my dress. She has it undone, peeled down to my waist before I remember how to move.
The smell of urine grows stronger, definitely coming from me.
“S-Stop!” I bat her hand away and stagger to the counter, bracing my hands flat against the sturdy surface. “Tristan. I…we need to call the police. Call my father. We need to—”
“We have ten minutes,” the woman insists, but there’s an urgent edge to her voice that wasn’t there before.
Her eyes meet mine over the mirror’s surface, an intense shade of brown that gleams like gold.
When she tugs at my dress again, I just let her, sinking into the fog dulling my thoughts. It’s been days since I’ve been on a high like this. The mind-numbing daze where you can just sit back and lose hours at a time. I used to compare the feeling to that of taking a warm bath as a child, with a caring mother to bathe your limbs and wrap you nice and warm in a towel.
But this high is harsher. A literal experience of being stripped naked and bathed by a stranger, doused in sickly sweet perfume, and dressed in an outfit I don’t recognize.
Domino. I cling to his name like a raft in a flash flood, fighting to stay above the rushing waves. He’s here… For a reason. He brought me here for a reason. But where is my father? And Tristan…
“We return to Mr. Domino now,” Ines says.
I blink, faced with another stranger, the polar opposite to the creature I found in the mirror. It’s a second before I even realize that this woman is also me. I’m as unrecognizable as before but in a very different way.
I don’t dress like this—Papa would never allow it. The dress is too thin, a gauzy white material through which the dark flesh around my nipples is visible. The fabric sparkles, beaming in the harsh lighting until it hurts to stare at myself head-on.
I look away, feeling my stomach lurch as the room starts to sway beneath my feet. My eyes latch onto a nearby object that glows like a beacon, and I lurch for it. “I’m gonna be sick—”
This time I let the vomit flow freely. Before I know it, I have two of my own fingers jabbing down my tender throat to bring up more. Everything I have so that I can reset my body. Start over fresh.
Then purge again once it all feels too much.
No amount of vomit could ease the worries bearing down on me, one after the other, however. I know that. I’d have to claw out my insides to feel lighter. Rip them right out…
“Miss?” A warm hand taps my shoulder. “We return to Mr. Domino now—”
“Leave me alone!” I cling to the basin of the toilet, watching multi-colored liquid swirl in the bowl. Tan. Brown. Yellow.
I don’t even know what the liquid is a remnant of. I haven’t eaten. Maybe it’s my soul coming up in vile-colored pieces, the last thing of value my body has left to expel.
My therapist tells me that I’ve been lying to myself when I claim that purging makes me feel better. Lighter, more grounded.
You’re deluding yourself, Ada, she would quip. You tell yourself that to justify the self-harm. You know what would make you feel better? Honesty. Trusting the process of therapy. Getting to the root of the issues between you and your parents. We can start with your father…
One good thing to come out of t
his nightmare is that I finally have proof that all those expensive sessions were bullshit. I had the right idea all along. With emptiness comes clarity.
Finally, I can think, despite my pounding head and the fear waiting to descend the second the drug fully wears off.
Tristan is dead. My father isn’t here.
I’m alone in a strange place with Domino Valenciaga.
He’s protecting me, of course. From something. Those men? He hurt one of them for touching me. I remember that much, at least. But the harder I try to think, the less logical thoughts I can grasp. It’s like my mind is a sieve, filtering out everything but panic and paranoia.
Something is wrong.
And my first impulse has been the one ingrained into me since childhood. Wait for orders. Papa will handle it.
He always has.
I don’t know how much time passes before I finally manage to stand, leaning against the toilet for stability. For the first time, I take in my surroundings fully.
Wherever we are, it’s beautiful. This bathroom is the peak of luxury with golden fixtures and the same tanned marble from the circular foyer. A long counter lines one wall, with a full-length mirror behind it, displaying my body in stark relief.
God, I look so…sickly. So weak. A shivering waif barely able to stand on her own. As I turn to inspect the rest of the room, I realize that Ines is gone. Her insistence on a particular timeline rings in my ears like an ominous warning.
Mr. Domino said ten minutes.
Mr. Domino… I never knew he had his own house, let alone his own staff. I don’t even know how much he made working for my family. Could he afford a place like this on his salary? My father paid well, I’m sure. But I don’t think he would pay this well, not even to a man whose job was to guard his secrets with his life.
More panic starts to creep in as my memories return in full. Those men brought me here for a reason. Take his share, Domino told one of them. His share of what?
I push those thoughts out of my head and focus on returning to the sink. I wet my fingers and work them through my hair, trying to scrub away the dry blood there. I discover a scratch, but nothing deep enough to scar—one small consolation.
I’m shallow enough to sigh in relief. For now, I’m still Ada Pavalos, blessed with the face my father staked his entire reputation on. How could a man with such a beautiful, loving family be capable of any of the atrocities the rumors circling around the city claimed?
He’s an intelligent man, but his greatest asset was always his ability to subvert expectations. No one would ever expect that Roy Pavalos, with his genuine, charming grin, would ever be capable of any of the things he stood accused of.
An impending indictment would have robbed him of that trick for good. The world would have seen firsthand the evil a man like him could sow, murder being the least of his crimes. But does that make me any better?
Willing or not, I was still always an accomplice.
Chapter Three
My hands are shaking when I finally finish smoothing my hair and step back from the counter. A sudden rational thought takes hold, but I gladly let it spur me into the hall, scanning wildly for Domino.
He’s here to take me home, of course. Enemies of my father attacked the restaurant and killed Tristan, but Papa handled it. Domino rescued me—just as he has before. All is well.
“This way.”
The voice comes from behind me, at the end of a darkened hallway. The light from the next room fills a round archway where Ines stands, her hands obediently clasped before her. She beckons me with a wave of her hand, and I find myself reentering that spacious foyer. At least four archways are leading off of it, though I can’t even begin to guess to where.
It’s cold in here, the kind of chill that seeps into your bones, turning every sensation into painful stimuli. The thin dress feels like weighted steel, with sharpened edges that bite at my thighs with every step I take. The neckline is far lower than I’m used to, displaying my body for whoever is near.
In this case, a pair of hungry dark eyes that take me in from across the room Ines leads me into next. It’s a dining room, I think. One far larger than the one at my father’s home, adorned with a rectangular glass table so long it nearly severs the room in two. The room itself is square in shape, with more round archways opening onto what looks like an open-air terrace enclosed by a wrought-iron balcony. The sky beyond it is dark, viewed from behind a row of potted palm trees that sway in a gentle breeze. Warm air blows in from outside, displacing some of that unsettling chill. I sniff, noting it’s tinged with the hint of smoke. Barbecue?
I can’t see any flames or a grill from here, at least.
Domino sits at the head of the table, his hands folded neatly over the glass surface. Or at least, this man sounds like my father’s trusted bodyguard.
It could be my altered mental state, but he looks different. His hair is glossier than I remember, hanging loose around his shoulders, but slicked back. His skin gleams, and as I take in his outfit, I realize that it alone might be the cause for why he seems so strange.
The black silk button-up hugs the contours of his chest—and the fact that the first two are undone exposes more of him than I’ve ever been privy to. He doesn’t ascribe to the same grueling waxing schedule as Tristan. Dark hair grows unbidden across his pecs, adding definition to the hard, rigid mounds of muscle that compose it.
For the past five years, I’ve only ever seen him in the same denim shirt with a collar that stretched to his neck, a straw cowboy hat, faded jeans, and the scarred leather sheath that housed his blade.
It was a memorable costume, so striking in contrast to my father’s expensive tailored suits and coifed hairstyles. Roy Pavalos would never be caught dead in anything more casual than slacks. The clothing, in addition to the perfect family, only added to his persona as a seemingly honorable politician. Even his eccentric bodyguard didn’t quite fit the narrative of the ruthless killers other men of power were known to keep on a leash.
I always wondered if my father was the one who insisted on the attire in the first place. It would have reinforced the illusion that this gruff, somewhat rugged foreigner must have been some cherished family friend or acquaintance that Roy Pavalos kept employed out of the goodness of his heart.
I don’t get that image now. A simple change of clothing strips Domino Valenciaga of what little disarming charm he had. In its absence, the man is all darkness. Rippling muscle and terrifying strength.
My vision blurs, and I have to blink rapidly just to keep his face in focus. I don’t know if I imagine the coldness in the way he looks at me, or if it’s merely what his careful mask has obscured all along. Blatant, disinterest.
“Thank you, Ines,” he says, waving one of his hands. “Please have Cook prepare to serve the meal we discussed. Then you can retire without any concern. Gracias.”
“Yes, sir.” The woman nods and scurries off. My last glimpse of her expression unsettles me for reasons I can’t name. She looks so…relieved.
“Where is Papa?” The question rips from me before I even fully turn back to him.
He gestures toward a chair on his left. “Have a seat, Ada.”
I bristle at the authority lacing his tone. “I asked you a question—”
“You’ve already strained my goodwill once,” he says over me. His smile is so disarming that it’s nearly a full second before the ominous nature of his tone sinks in.
Strained my goodwill…
“Have a seat.”
I’m too tired to argue. It’s an embarrassing dance of wooden limbs and wavering balance as I stagger to the nearest chair, at least four down from the one he specified.
“Where is Papa? What… What is going on, Domino—”
“No longer will you have the right to use that name so flippantly.”
My ears ring. I shake my head and blink to make sure I didn’t imagine the startlingly deep baritone.
“What—”
“Your father is dead,” he says. “As is your mother, though that was not my choice. Your boyfriend Tristan, as well. Your life was not spared by accident. Do you want to know my plans for you now, or after our meal?”
I rub my temples. My head is throbbing more than ever. This is all some strange hallucination. In reality, I hit my head back at the restaurant, and I’m still unconscious. A better explanation is that I never left the house. I’m in my bathroom, crouched in the corner by the sink with powder on my nose, partaking in the one act everyone always assumed was beneath me now. A year of therapy should have been the magic cure for any of my naughty habits.
But even the finest grade of coke couldn’t produce a high this vivid. Gone is the manic euphoria I usually feel. Fear is a constant undercurrent, building and building at the back of my mind as if waiting for some grand moment to finally break loose.
Dead, he said. My parents. I try to process that in a dozen different ways, but none of them have the impact they should. I should be crying, I think. Gutted. Or horrified. Terrified.
It’s like my body is too exhausted to go through the motions. The only coherent thought I have is that if they’re truly gone…
Then no longer do I have to watch my mother waste away in silence. No longer do I have to submit myself to the will and tyranny of Roy Pavalos.
Not that the man currently in control of my life is any better.
Domino must say something else because he tilts his head expectantly. “Perhaps they gave you too strong a dose,” he murmurs, and I shiver at the way his tone barely shifts. “I had them calculate the measurements with your drug history in mind.”
Drug history. The way he says those two words sends my heart racing. My thoughts clear a little more as the fear grows into outright terror.
“Where am I? Where is Papa?”
“We can answer those questions all in good time,” Domino says. “I will admit that I wanted to draw out this moment. Extend it for as long as possible before I told you everything. For my own selfish amusement, I wanted that. Alas, you saw more than I intended, so part of the mystery has been spoiled.”