by Lana Sky
What was his relationship with her like? Were they friends? Lovers? Who knew when it came to Pia…
There were so many things about her I’m still in the dark about. Her mystery was part of her charm. And her downfall.
“Mr. Domino requests you join him for lunch.”
The soft voice intrudes on the memory, and it scatters. I open my eyes to the quiet darkness found beneath the blankets. When I lift them aside, I find Ines standing at the foot of my bed, displaying a sleek black dress on its hanger.
“Ten minutes,” she warns, laying the dress over the foot of the bed. “I will assist—”
“I want to get dressed on my own,” I stammer. “Please,” I add, as Ines blinks, startled by the request.
She flits her gaze nervously toward the door. “I am not sure…”
“Ten minutes,” I say, lurching to my feet. “I’ll be there.”
Finally, she nods and retreats, more than likely to find Domino and alert him of my insolence.
Which means I need to make this stunt even better than the last. This plan feels like crawling ten steps forward, only to be shoved back past the starting line—but I did get something. Whether intentionally or not, he revealed that he knew Pia personally, enough for her to tell him something about me.
I need to know more. At least something worth bartering my life for. There has to be something from me he truly wants, something worth tolerating me. I doubt it’s sex. So what?
He thinks I know of an Inglecias file my father kept, but I suspect that’s only part of it.
Confronting him directly has been the only way I’ve made any headway with him. With one last look at the dress Ines selected for me, I inspect the closet, keeping that time frame at the back of my mind. Ten minutes. I can almost hear a clock ticking down, but when I reach for the nearest dress, I realize that the sound isn’t entirely in my imagination.
I’m still wearing his watch on my wrist.
With it as my guide, I try to decide which outfit would best impress someone like him. No. That’s the wrong way of looking at it. A better question is—what would best provoke him? Which of these would best rattle a man like Domino Valenciaga?
Someone who swears I disgust him, but has no problem utilizing my body to his own ends…
With time to spare, my gaze lands on the only dress to fit the bill. I snatch it and head for the bathroom. I dress as quickly as my aching limbs allow, and I barely manage to rinse out my mouth and run a damp rag over my skin before I head for the dining room.
It’s overcast, and the lack of sunlight robs the house of its warmth. It’s a cold, gray landscape now, with the wind lashing at the windows. Each one is closed today, and the doorway to the terrace is sealed by a set of white lattice doors.
Domino sits bathed in the near darkness of the dining room at the head chair. White curtains shroud the windows and the sight of the storm brewing beyond the trees.
“I see you’re well rested,” he says as I approach. “So am I—” He sits up straighter, taking in my appearance with a swiping glance. I can practically smell his annoyance, heightening the strange spicy nature of his scent.
He doesn’t call attention to my ensemble out loud, however.
“Sit,” he demands, palming the table.
I do, inching toward the chair nearest to him. As I lower myself onto it, I know full well he’s eyeing my clothing again, seething.
But it’s a fragile victory.
This dress is the definition of dichotomy. Revealing and conservative at the same time. With a high, collared neckline and long, loose sleeves, it’s damn near matronly compared to my usual outfits. Even Papa didn’t specify such modesty with the style of clothing he picked for me.
But despite its form, the material of this dress is reminiscent of tissue paper. Thin enough to see through, catching glimpses of everything from the curls between my legs, to the darker colored flesh around my nipples.
As well as the scabbed, bloodied patches of skin.
I know the sight of it all bothers him. I chose well.
Sighing, he claps, summoning a single server who sets a platter of food in the center of the table. Much like yesterday, it contains an array of fruit and bite-sized pieces of bread and cheese.
Which isn’t fair. I’m used to being plied with extravagant meals from my parents’ dining table on plates so large it’s child’s play to make it look like I’ve eaten while resisting a single bite.
He changes the battlefield, picking food items that put the control in his hands. I can’t fake my way out of it, and…
I’m so damn hungry it physically hurts. Gritting my teeth can’t distract from it, and I realize that it’s harder to resist him if the benefits aren’t the same. He won’t ignore my denial much longer, and for the first time I’m wary of just how long he’ll let me deny him.
Another server appears with a bottle of blood-colored wine and two glasses.
Once we’re alone, Domino gestures to the spread. “Eat. Though, since you’re dressed as a nun, perhaps you aim to lead us in a prayer first? By all means. I assume you’ve been praying for bravery, because you’ve certainly become so brazen overnight. Attacking me. Crawling into my bed. And now you shamelessly brandish that which you’ve stolen from me—” he nods to my wrist and the watch I’m still wearing.
I swallow hard, knowing that my next words alone will convey the most impact. I can’t threaten him, or ignore this slight, either. I have to provoke him.
“Since you plan on selling me, I didn’t want you to be tempted any further,” I say. Then I remember something I overheard. He’d been on the phone, I think?
I’ve let you keep your toy…
“I wouldn’t want to cause another delay,” I add, my throat so dry I swear I can feel it turn to dust and wither beneath the glare he shoots my way.
“Be careful before you get your wish,” he warns. “Do you really think you’re so sly that I don’t see right through you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want you to see me at all.”
It’s a lie, of course. After five years of invisibility, I finally have his attention—and it’s more addicting than I would have ever thought. The worst kind of drug, with a wider range of highs and lows than anything I’ve taken before.
To be fair, I’ve only experienced the lows—his anger, his rage, his loathing.
“You never told me what you wanted earlier,” he says, his tone suddenly passive. He sits back in his chair while grabbing the wine bottle and an empty glass. Slowly, he nearly fills the entire goblet. Then he takes a sip.
“What I wanted?” I croak. His grin warns that I’ve stepped right into his trap.
“For being such a good girl and taking my cock like that.”
I cringe, my face heating. With little effort, he’s reset our dynamic, reinforcing that he’s the only one with any real leverage to be had.
“They’re going to love that, where you’re going.”
“Where, exactly?” I risk asking. A name floats through my thoughts, too faint to grab. Something about a tiger…
“A place where girls like you enter and never come out again.”
It’s the first time he’s explicitly alluded to what being “sold” really means in the grand scheme, for me anyway—death. I should be terrified by the prospect. But I’m not. There are so many worse things than dying—all of which I might endure at this place, wherever it is. The unknown is more alarming than anything else. A pathetic thought gnaws away at my resolve. I want to go home.
“How far away is it?” I ask, resigned.
He takes another measured sip. “Far.”
“When am I leaving?”
“You should have some wine.” His deeper inflection warns that it wasn’t a friendly request. He snatches the empty glass and fills it himself, placing it before me. “I think you’ll find it’s your favorite vintage.”
I shiver at the bold claim, alarmed that he might be right. The bottle’s
label is deliberately turned, so I can’t see it. Warily, I grab the glass, inhaling the liquid within. It doesn’t smell poisoned. I take the smallest sip and wince.
He’s right.
“A damn fine year. You have your father’s taste to thank for that.”
“You know me so well?”
His brows knit together, conveying suspicion. “There is a difference in knowing someone, and that someone being simplistic enough to understand, Ada-Maria.”
The insult strikes true. He thinks I’m shallow enough to require the minimal effort to outsmart. Why not prove him right by responding with the most predictable answer.
“I know you,” I say.
He laughs. “I’m sure you think you do.” He takes another sip and washes it down with a grape fished from the platter. “Eat. Or not. I think I’ll enjoy shoving the feeding tube down your throat when you’re conscious.”
I smother a gasp at the admission. “You did it?”
“You sound so surprised.” He smirks, setting his wine aside. “And I thought you knew me so well.”
“Were you medically trained?” I ask, taking a stab in the dark. “Or was that one of the torture skills you learned while working for my father?”
“No.” His mouth falls into a rigid, hard line. “You could say I learned it indirectly as a result of the actions of Don Roy, though.”
“Why do you still call him that?”
“Don?” He chuckles softly to himself, shaking his head. “I didn’t realize you were never in on the joke.”
“Enlighten me then,” I dare him.
“It was a moniker his enemies cooked up to strengthen the rumors they spread about him working closely with the cartels. Mostly true rumors, mind you. Don is the title bestowed upon mob leaders, and your father proudly took up that name in a mocking salute to dispel the bad press and prove that he had nothing to hide. Perhaps I call him that out of respect.”
“Why work so long for someone you hated? You lived with us. Ate with us. My mother gave you cufflinks for Christmas and invited you to sit at our bench during mass. My father trusted you.”
“Trust means nothing to a man like Don Roy,” Domino counters. “It’s as fickle as currency. Mine was always too steep a price for a bastard like him to afford.”
“So from the start, you were working against him,” I deduce.
“And again, Ada-Maria, you prove that you are not as dumb as you look.”
“No,” I argue. “I’m far, far more stupid. I actually thought you were someone of integrity. The one man I could admire in a world of cutthroats and scoundrels. Thank you for proving to me that all men are the same—worthless bastards.”
He should smirk, but that frown doesn’t budge. “You didn’t admire your father? Say it isn’t so. You certainly had me fooled.”
I look away. The wine glass is in my hand again, and I slosh some onto my dress in my haste to take a sip. A pull. Greedily, I drain the glass in one go.
“Careful,” Domino spits. “You know that’s no Kool-Aid you’re drinking.”
He sounds damn near disapproving. Still, as I set my empty glass down, I’m hungrily eyeing the bottle, wondering if I have the gall to pour more myself.
Get a grip, Ada! I shake my head, inhaling deeply. What did he say? A quip about my father.
“Maybe you don’t know me so well after all,” I counter. Too late do I realize from his fearsome grin that I’ve given him exactly what he wants—an opening to attack.
“Maybe I don’t,” he admits, appraising me with another searching glance. He lingers over my throat. Glancing down, I spot the scarlet stain there, gluing the fabric to my skin. “Those marks on your back. Were those from your father?”
I flinch and look away, biting my lip. Shit! I can’t let him unnerve me like this. Belatedly, I get ahold of my senses enough to toss back, “I think they’re from you.”
“No. Before that. Don’t play coy. Do you need a reminder?” I hear the quiet commotion as he stands. His presence disrupts the entire atmosphere of the room. Freed from his weight, the chair squeals in relief. The shadows stretching across the floor grow longer, with his bulk choking out what little light remains. When he comes up behind me, my entire body tenses—a reaction he is well aware of as he slides his hands around my shoulders, finding the button at the top of my collar.
“Let’s refresh your memory, and mine. Get up.”
He doesn’t give me the chance to refuse or comply. He grips the dress’ thin material and tugs until I have no choice but to stagger to my feet. Slowly, he undoes the next button. The next. The next…
I eye the wall as he exposes my breasts to the empty room. If a thousand men were here watching, I doubt I’d feel any more demeaned. They would lust after my body, at least, and be disgusted by my wounds.
He craves both. His low hum of appreciation sets my skin on fire with a crippling mixture of shame and…excitement? It’s close to how he sounded on the verge of release, but this time he’s merely peeling my dress down my arms, exposing my raw, ripped back.
He leaves the fabric hanging loosely from my hips and grips my shoulders, urging me down until I’m bending at the waist with my front pressed against the table’s surface.
“I can tell the difference between old scars and new,” he breathes out, ghosting his hand down my sides, grazing the bones of my ribcage as he goes. “These are very old. A few years at least.”
Ten, to be exact. Newer ones were easier to have removed, but those were too deep. Too stubborn.
“These were made with more than just plain leather…” He runs the width of his thumb across my lower back as if reading the trauma simply by feel. “Metal tails. Or a spur.”
“You sound impressed,” I rasp, hating the quiver in my voice. I’m gazing up at the bottle of wine just beyond my reach, desperate for a sip.
“These weren’t done to punish you,” he continues as if I never spoke. “This was cruel. Harsh. If I were to whip you this way now, I could kill you.”
He doesn’t sound alarmed by that. My breathing feathers, and I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to ignore why my pulse quickens at that, my inner thighs shaking, my sore throat dampening…
“This hurt you,” Domino surmises, withdrawing his touch, leaving me shivering in the aftermath. “Though I think you enjoy pain.”
I bite my lip harder, remembering the way he whipped me. I didn’t enjoy that.
“The right kind of pain,” he corrects as if reading my mind. “Tell me who hurt you and why.”
We both know the answer to at least one of those questions. But I forget my plan for manipulation in favor of giving in to the angry impulse to deny him.
“I will never tell you. Ever.”
He growls. Or maybe that low series of notes was meant to resemble a laugh? His teeth are bared in a snarl fearsome enough to provide evidence for both theories.
Moving from my position, he grabs his half-empty wine glass and refills it. To my shock, he tops up mine as well.
“I’m sure we could come to an arrangement. I can think of several ways to coax an answer out of you.” The malice in his voice sends ripples of alarm down my spine. “Oh, but what was that I promised?—” He inclines his glass toward me and sips from the rim. “To treat you sweetly, like a goddamn princess.”
He slams his glass down, splashing liquid over his fingers and the table. The vivid splotches glimmer in the dim lighting, reminiscent of blood.
“I am to coddle you,” he adds as a slow smile plays on his mouth. “So, what will it be? A bath by candlelight? A massage? Having me hand-feed you grapes as you lounge in bed?”
His guttural tone takes each suggestion and twists it to imply something nefarious. He’ll hurt me, hurt me, or hurt me.
“I want you to give me answers,” I suggest. “Why take me? Why now? What do you want? What do you think my father did to Pia? How do you know her—”
“I have a better suggestion.”
He’s beh
ind me in a heartbeat, palming my lower back with both hands, grinding his touch into the marks beneath.
White-hot pain shoots through me. For a second, I see stars. Then blackness. It feels like ages before the world returns in full focus, though it must be mere seconds. He’s still speaking. “I could fuck you senseless right here and now. You seem to respond well to that.”
Panic grips me. I can’t lose what little leverage I already have. So, I blurt, “A b-bath.”
He stills, his breathing heavy. “Good choice. Ines,” he calls, raising his voice. “Ada-Maria would like a candlelit bath. Run one in the jacuzzi. Bring out the rose petals. We’ll make it fit for a queen.”
He’s mocking me again, and I suspect it’s more than my impertinent questions that has him aggravated so. Something that’s gnawing away at him, lurking behind those dark eyes. So he lashes out.
My only method to catch him off guard has been to play along. And make him break his own mold he’s put me in.
“I…I want music,” I say, a random request that gets his attention. He looks at me again, an eyebrow raised skeptically.
“Music it is,” he says to my shock. “What kind?”
“I…”
“My choice, then,” he declares, latching onto my hesitation. “Anything else?”
Yes, my instinct tells me. I need to keep him focused on me, anticipating my next action.
“Yes. I want wine. And…”
“And sweets, let’s not forget the refreshments,” he says, taking a step toward me to press his palm against my cheek. “I’ll need you well rested and well fed for what I have planned for you. Despite what you may believe, cum is not fitting sustenance in the long-term, Ada.”
Bastard. My cheeks flush with blood, but I hold his stare and nod.
“And… I w-want—”
“Such a greedy girl.” He coaxes my chin higher, exposing my sore throat. Flashing dangerously, his eyes rake over the swollen flesh, and I realize my mistake—I’ve provoked him too much. “You want a more suitable item of clothing to wear,” he adds softly. “Something more fitting than this matronly garb, si?”
I swallow hard and remain silent, having learned my lesson.
“Excellent,” he murmurs. “Then what are we waiting for?”