Even though she’s a girl? I want to scream at him.
“She’s lovely.” I pause. “Her daughter won’t be a Peredyshka, will she?”
“You can’t ask questions like that.” His voice goes crisp and tight, and my stomach clenches in fear at the look on his face. “And why would that be a bad thing? Being selected to help the families live together in peace is a great honor, which I’m sure you understand.”
“Of course.” I summon up every bit of practice I’ve had from campaigning, in order to answer quickly and sound convincing. It helps to raise my voice a little, to make it light and breezy and without substance.
He sighs and places his hand on the small of my back. “Come. I want to show you something.”
He guides me out of the room and down the hall to his office. It’s all dark wood and leather, with bookshelves of leather-bound books. No personal touches at all, and when I think about it, that’s the same for the whole house. There are no family paintings or portraits, no knick-knacks…it feels like a giant, fancy show home.
He clicks a few buttons on his laptop and directs me to look. My heart leaps into my throat when I see a video of a hospital room – and my family. I want to scream so loudly that they can hear me through the screen. I want to leap through the screen into their room, to safety, to home – until I see what they’re doing.
Everyone looks way too calm and happy. Lauren is wearing a plaster cast from the waist down. Reg and Samantha are there, and Samantha is cheerfully drawing on Lauren’s cast. My mother’s reading a magazine, my father’s on his computer, Lauren is on her cell phone taking a picture of Samantha as she scribbles.
“They’re fine without you,” he says calmly. “I know you were worried about them being upset, but they’re fine.”
“That’s not possible!” I blurt out.
He swivels his head to look at me, and the look on his face sends a bolt of terror through my body.
“I’m so sorry,” I say quickly. “I didn’t mean to sound disrespectful. I’m just saying that they raised me, believing I was their daughter, for nineteen years. How could they possibly not be worried about me disappearing?”
“You saw what I just showed you.”
“Yes.” And I know it was faked. It’s an excellent fake, whoever did that should win an Oscar for special effects, but how can he expect me to believe that my parents would be fine with one of their daughters disappearing?
“We used your phone to send messages to the Millhouses telling them that you were sick of living by their rules. You told them that you weren’t going back to business school, that you were going to accept the film school scholarship and there was nothing they could do to stop you.”
That’s absolute bull-crap. My parents would come looking for me if that were the case, they’d drag me back home, they’d never accept that.
Then realization hits me like a building falling on my head. “You were the one who sent me that film school letter.” I stare at him in shock as he nods.
“How long have you known who I was?”
“That is frankly none of your business. But now that you know the Millhouses are all right, it will be much easier for you to settle in here.”
It isn’t my business how long he’s been spying on me?
“Of course,” I murmur again.
He’s watching me sharply. I can’t help the tears that burn my eyes. I know that the video he’s showing me is an amazingly good fake. He doesn’t know my parents like I do. They’ve always been very protective of our family and our image. They wouldn’t let me just run off like that, both because they love me and because it would be terrible for them politically. I’m featured in all the family photos that are relentlessly plastered all over every bus stop, every TV station, every newspaper and local magazine. If I suddenly disappeared from the photos, people would ask questions.
I feel a flash of resentment as I’m forced to acknowledge that, but it’s true. The important thing is that the video isn’t real, and my parents are out there desperately searching for me.
Aren’t they?
They are. He’s just trying to weaken my resolve, make me think I have nowhere to run. Well, I’m not falling for it.
He turns the computer off. “You can get back to your cleaning now.”
I spend the rest of the day and into the evening cleaning, and finally go up to my room and collapse from exhaustion, aching all over. I’m too tired even to shower. When Matteo comes into the room, I glance at the wall-clock. Eleven p.m. And I did a pretty rushed job on the house-cleaning.
My heart sinks at the knowledge that as soon as I wake up, I’ll have to start the whole miserable routine all over again. And on top of that I have to learn how to cook Matteo’s favorite dishes and become fluent in Italian – in the next month.
He sits down on the bed next to me. “Do you have some energy left for your fiancé?”
“I am very sorry, Matteo. Without food, and cleaning all day…I feel ill, to be honest with you.” I can barely keep my eyes open.
He nods understandingly. “I understand, poor girl. You’ve had a very long day.”
I feel a tiny bit of relief until he says, “I will just go visit Concetta, then.”
The rage that boils through my blood makes no sense. Why do I care that he’s going off to visit that bitch? I don’t even want to be here. I’m not really his fiancée.
I take a deep breath and dredge up my years of etiquette lessons to keep my voice polite even though there’s a volcano of rage threatening to erupt inside me. “I understand, of course, that you have needs that must be satisfied. I am curious, since this life is new to me. Is it customary for men to have their mistress live in the same house as their wife, and to alternate visits with them?”
His brow creases slightly, with a faint hint of annoyance that I even dared to ask. “No. After we are married, Concetta will not be staying with us. It is, however, customary for a wife to be eager to please her husband. It’s the kind of thing that keeps a man from straying quite so often.”
“Of course,” I murmur. That’s really all I need to say from now on, isn’t it? I just need to nod and agree, like a dutiful wifebot.
I wait until he leaves to start crying again. I’m so tired that I fall asleep while I’m crying. All night long, I’m tormented by nightmares of Matteo running his fingers over a dusty windowsill and then looking at me with terrible disappointment in his eyes.
Chapter 11
Natasha
I am absolutely ravenous the next morning – but before breakfast, I am expected to give my future husband a blow job.
He comes to my room freshly showered, wearing linen pants and a gray silk button-down shirt and smelling like heaven, and gestures at me to get down on my knees again. I obey him instantly.
It’s a shameful thing to admit, but as I run my tongue over the purplish head of his erect penis, I don’t hate doing it. Okay, I really like doing it. When I’m drawing groans of pleasure from him, I feel as if I’ve seized back a tiny measure of control. And making him feel good…I just like it. It feels right, all the way to my core.
He seems to be disappointed in just about everything I do – but apparently at least I do this well. It’s kind of pathetic that I’m so eager for any scrap of approval from him, but I’ve always craved approval; it’s a weakness of mine, and it’s exhausting feeling the weight of intense dislike from everyone in this house except Valentina.
But no, it’s more than that. On some level, no matter how much he hurts me, I still crave Matteo’s approval.
The only thing that makes me hesitate just a fraction of a second is the anger that I feel at him for being with Concetta the night before, but I have no choice; I have to do what Matteo tells me if I don’t want to suffer enormous pain. So I am forced to compartmentalize – to shove those feelings of resentment and irrational jealousy into a separate box, for now at least.
Instead I focus on caressing his – okay, I’m n
ot used to saying or even thinking dirty words, but I can’t deny that I’m caressing his cock – with my mouth, and he croons sweet words to me and I feel warm with his praise. I breathe through my nose so I can take him as deep down my throat as he wants, and finally, I swallow every last drop of his come, and he’s smiling as he zips up his pants.
He selects a dress for me, a Prada frock with red silk cherries on it, and waits outside for me in the hallway, leaving me to change.
Of course I wear the dress he picked for me. I’m not a fool. I will choose my battles.
When we go downstairs for breakfast, I see that Concetta looks sullen and unsettled. I wonder why. She certainly doesn’t look like a woman who spent last night making passionate love. My spirits lift, but I force myself not to smile or show any outward signs of triumph. God knows I don’t want to make her hate me any more than she already does.
Valentina is cheerful and chatty, and as we eat, she helps me practice the alphabet in Italian, which makes Matteo smile.
I devour my breakfast, and by the time I’m done I feel worlds better. My butt is still so sore it’s painful for me to sit, but just being able to eat feels like an enormous privilege. I know that is exactly what Matteo wants – he’s conditioning me, training me like a circus dog. But I push that thought aside. My stomach is full, and if I can think straight, I can formulate plans. Today I’ll pay more attention as I’m cleaning – I’ll keep an eye out for possible escape routes and weapons and cell phones.
Matteo leaves, I head off to my Italian lesson, and this morning I’m able to concentrate.
Afterward, I am sent to the kitchen to take a cooking lesson from Alonza. She teaches me how to make lasagna. She’s not quite as annoyed as she was yesterday. I do think she looks a little pale.
“Are you all right?” I ask her in English. She shakes her head at me. “Noi parliamo italiano.”
I decide that I will learn how to ask the question in Italian.
After I finish with the lasagna, I’m sent out to start cleaning the house again. Oddly, I see smudged fingerprints on windows all over the place. Pillows scattered on the floor, rugs wrinkled and shoved out of place. I suspect Concetta, and my stomach clenches in frustration.
We are in a ridiculously huge house, which is mostly empty, and I am cleaning the entire house alone. I don’t understand why someone as wealthy as Matteo wouldn’t at least have some maids to help me, but it’s been made quite clear to me that this job is entirely mine. And it’s hard enough for me to do a decent job of it in one day without Concetta sabotaging me – if it’s her.
But I don’t think it would be smart for me to complain to Matteo about it. I can’t prove it’s her anyway. Instead I just move as fast as I can from one room to the next. I polish the windows until they shine, I dust, I mop, I wipe off shelves and dressers and bathroom mirrors, I scrub out toilets.
I eat lunch as I’m cleaning. Today, with food in my stomach, I move much faster, but it’s still a long, back-breaking day. And as I clean the house, I don’t see any way for me to escape – through every window, I can see men patrolling outside. If I could even get a window open, I wouldn’t make it five feet – and my muscles seize up at the thought of what Matteo would do to me. My optimism is withering.
Matteo comes to see me in the hallway around dinner time. “Not done yet?” he asks.
It takes every ounce of willpower to keep from screaming, “Are you kidding me? Why don’t you try it?”
“No. I’m very sorry.” My contrition is so fake, my father would be proud.
“Well, I imagine you’ll improve with practice. Apparently you were more attentive in your lessons today. Let me hear what you’ve learned.”
My voice trembles a little as I recite my phrases, and he frowns. “Not much better.” My heart drops. I can’t clean fast enough, and my accent is terrible. I can’t do anything right – well, outside of giving him blow jobs.
Why the hell should I care anyway? The only thing that matters is avoiding punishment. What difference does it make if he’s disappointed in me? And yet it does. His disapproval wraps around me like a cloak of black stinging nettles.
Automatically, my mind goes into problem-solving mode. I was raised to be a people-pleaser – and with my family constantly withholding approval and affection and going into icy-withdrawal mode at the slightest hint of failure, I got very good at being and doing what people want me to be.
“Could I possibly get a tape recorder with someone speaking in Italian, so I could practice while I’m cleaning?”
He looks delighted at that. “That’s a wonderful idea. Such a smart girl! I’ll have something for you by tomorrow afternoon.” He bends down and kisses my lips softly, lingering, then ends the kiss all too soon.
“Go change for dinner; your dress is on the bed. You can finish cleaning afterward, then come to my bedroom when you’re done with that.”
Then he looks at me with a frown creasing his brow. “You cried last night. That is not uncommon for a Peredyshka, to be homesick at first. But I am sure that soon you will understand that this is your new home, and that it would be an insult for you to reject it.”
I am not surprised that he was watching me as I slept. But I am very, very angry. There is nowhere for me to hide from him. I’ve been kidnapped, threatened with rape, witnessed a man being shot to death, tortured, and told I’ll never again see the people who raised me– but I’m not allowed to cry.
All I can do is nod submissively, stuffing my rage deep down inside. “Of course,” I murmur, and I hurry off to change.
* * *
Matteo
As I head to my office, I am very pleased that she came up with the idea to practice her Italian while she cleans.
I know she hasn’t really accepted her new life. I don’t expect that a person raised outside the family will suddenly adapt in a few days, or even in the twenty-eight days we have remaining.
What I do know is that once I have truly convinced her that her family isn’t looking for her, she will become more compliant, because she will understand that she has nowhere to run to. She will act out again a few more times, I’m sure, but with the appropriate application of rewards and punishments, she’ll eventually be persuaded that being my bride is her only option.
And there are many rewards to being the bride of a Rossi. It is my duty to please my wife sexually, and I will do that. She will wear the finest clothes and the most beautiful jewelry. She will be allowed to read, to study, to paint or garden or take music lessons or photography class or any hobby she wants – as soon as she has earned that privilege. We will have enjoyable conversations and spend time together, and I will treat her like a goddess.
Once she has given birth to our first child, she will even be allowed to leave the house to go shopping, to go to movies and plays with me – as long as she has been behaving herself. I am not going to tell her that now, of course. For now she needs to be kept off balance, frightened, expecting punishment at every turn. She must learn that she needs to work hard to earn the smallest of privileges. The right to eat. The right to breathe. I must break her down before I build her back up again.
After we marry, when she leaves the house, it will be with me or with a trusted female chaperone and several bodyguards, and she will leave the baby at home.
Because I’m not a fool.
I know that she will never be completely tamed. But she will come to accept this lifestyle.
Nico greets me with a scowl when I enter my office. “About an hour ago, the feds raided another of the Dubrova warehouses and arrested four of their men,” he says. “They’re out about a half a million dollars of product. And nobody has raided any of our decoy shipments. They’ve all arrived safely. My cousin was one of the drivers – I confided our plans to him, and he deliberately tried to attract attention. He acted rude, aggressive and nervous, tried to hurry his way through the checkpoint, tried to discourage the border agents from checking the shipment by saying he
was running late. They didn’t take the bait; they did the usual cursory checks and let him through.”
Clammy fingers of dismay squeeze my guts as I sink into my chair. “That really makes it sound as if someone knew we’d be sending decoy trucks through.”
“Only you and I knew that they were decoy trucks. I only told my cousin that it was a decoy when he was close to the checkpoint. Two other decoy trucks had successfully completed their deliveries by then. And truly, Matteo, I’d trust Rigoberto with my life.”
I nod. “I agree.”
“Do you want to ask?” Nico says, his voice steady and his gaze fearless. I shake my head in denial. “No, Nico, I know that it’s not you. The reason I’ve risen this high in the organization is that I trust my gut. I know when a man is lying to me. Nobody’s ever successfully pulled that off. And damn it, I don’t have a single clue who could be doing this to us.”
It galls me that I’ve personally tortured to death two of our men so far, just because they were the only ones who had the knowledge of where the shipments would be at a particular time when they were raided. And even at the time, my gut told me they weren’t responsible, but they were the only possibilities. And the fact that they died sobbing and offering me anything to stop hurting them, but without giving me any information – it pretty much confirms that they were innocent of the ultimate sin of betrayal. I’ll be paying large chunks of cash to their families, and their unnecessary suffering does actually chew at what little conscience I have.
When I find out who is behind it, I’ll set aside an entire day just for repaying them for that.
He mouths “Russians?” at me.
I shrug to indicate “possibly” but make a finger gesture that says “I don’t think so”. The Russians could be sacrificing some of their own goods and their own people to hide their involvement, but my spies in their organization don’t seem to believe that’s the case. They are as furious and baffled as we are.
I also have law enforcement on my payroll. Some of them have even heard the phone calls that tipped off the ATF. The person spoke flawless English and used a voice disguiser. That doesn’t narrow it down much; almost everyone in our organizations, Russian or Italian, has lived here for many generations and speaks perfect English.
Matteo: A Dark Mafia Hate Story Page 9