by Sunniva Dee
It’s the night that doesn’t end. I’m glad I’ve got something to keep me busy. The Harmony Femme alarm system is high-tech and so new it looks recently installed. I snap a picture, send it to Isaias, who gets me instructions back in minutes.
Inside, everything is silent. The low hum of the air conditioner is the only interruption in the reception area. Three small offices gape somberly at me with open doors. I find nothing out of the ordinary in either of them.
Keegan Cuevas’ office looks the same too, with its TV monitor mounted against the wall, a simple white desk, and a deep office chair behind it. I peer out on the balcony, which has the same setup as the last time I was here. Actually, nothing seems to have changed.
I twist my mouth in thought. If he’d sold the place, it must have occurred in a hurry. And wouldn’t he have cleaned out his personal items, like the picture of himself with a blonde next to some racehorse? It has a garland around its neck.
I walk down the backstairs to the ground floor. I enter the studio I filmed in, the changing rooms, the restroom. Returning to the hallway, I find two more doors, one going to what looks like a storage room, and another to a second film set. Like the first, it’s small and minimalistic, another audition room that’s nothing like the full sets my brother has at Lucid Entertainment in the Valley.
Last, I take the stairs to the top floor. It has a few more offices, and a trapdoor to the attic. I check the trapdoor, which doesn’t budge despite the lack of a lock. Clearly, it hasn’t been opened in ages.
Before I leave, I even try to get into a couple of computers. I’m no data nerd, though. I’d probably have more luck if one of Isaias’ guys long-distance-hacked me in.
On the way back to Vernal Heights, I drive by the Harmony Femme Studios. They look a lot more professional than their headquarters. It’s a veritable compound behind high fences, with a manned entry. At three in the morning, two uniformed dudes sit in the booths, like we’re talking top secrecy. The thought makes me roll my eyes. I even see a couple of Rottweilers running around behind the fence.
I’m not going to break in tonight. As much as I hate the thought, I’m going to admit defeat and have a few hours of sleep.
SILVINA
I try to open my eyes, but my eyelids are made of stone. Unyielding, they hold me down, keeping me in my dream world. Gioele’s smile is lit by the sun, clouds like gossamer sifting through it. I shake my head, laughing, until my laughter stops and his smile fades into a sky turned thunderous.
The thunder is inaudible, but in charcoal-colored belches, it swells and shrinks around me. The distance between us is short. They hobble toward me as if they’re on foot. Sure, they’re made of air, but deep down I know that lead weights hold them down. That’s how they can stagger toward me, feeble, with the lusty grins of small thirty-something mobsters homing in on my breasts.
I squirm. I can’t move with my arms on my back. Finally, I wake up to the moans of my own panic. My mouth feels like cotton, and the hunger from last night has tripled. The walls of my stomach must be grinding against each other, leaving them raw. It’s a visual that has me dry-heaving.
Thank goodness, no one’s in the room. I’d rather be on my own in the dark, gagging up small droplets of what’s left in my stomach, in lieu of having the attention of a beautiful psychopath.
The door opens, and the light is turned on. John’s hair is in immaculate order. He’s wearing expensive khakis and a light blue sweater that looks like cashmere.
“Aww, look at my pretty Silvina. Uncomfortable?” He lowers himself in front of my face, elbows on his knees while he studies me. “You look a bit green. Is it envy?” He winks, while I shut my mouth into a thin line.
“I’ve got something tasty for you today.”
“No,” I gasp out, my imagination taking me to the same place his does. The difference is he likes to make his fantasy reality.
“No?” He pouts playfully. “You’re my guest, though. I insist.”
Fear creeps up my scalp, and when he waves for his men to come in too, I let out a pitiful yelp. “Please, don’t. I’ll do anything for you. I— Anything. Just don’t let them touch me.”
I regret my outburst immediately. He loves my fear. I expect him to study me lovingly, like he did yesterday, only to make me suffer some more.
The thing about psychopaths is that it’s hard to know what they’ll do next. Now, he just sends me a half-interested side-glance before beckoning Mazzi closer.
In my panic-drenched state, the fumes of fresh coffee get me first. Next, it’s hot bread, scrambled eggs and lox. John takes over the tray and seats himself next to me on the bed like we’re a couple. My mouth waters, betraying my disgust.
“Hike her up against the headboard,” he tells his guys.
Mazzi’s fingers purposely run over my exposed breasts before he grabs me under my arms and tips me into a sitting position. My arms are still tied, and like this, I’m going to lose all feeling in my hands in minutes. I’m leaned hard against the wood, my chest arching with nothing to hide behind.
“You perverts,” John says. “You want her to enjoy her stay here, don’t you?” He bobs his head to them, looking sincere. My stomach does a flip. Even so, it can’t overpower the urge to survive, to devour everything on the tray he holds.
“How can she do that when you’re ogling her like that? Cut her free so she can eat. Then, give her the pink tee on the chair over there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Of course, sir.”
A small hope grows in my chest as they do what they’re asked. I wiggle my wrists discreetly, not wanting to reveal how good this tiny freedom feels.
I ignore the fingers that pull on my nipple to see its reaction before they let go and help me into the t-shirt. Next thing I know, I’m sitting in a position that’s actually good. John pulls the blanket up to my hip. He folds out the legs on the tray and places it over my lap.
“All right. No one’s going to say that John Ulrich Himmel isn’t a considerate host. This bread was baked by my mother. It’s still warm. See?” He takes my hand and makes me touch it. “The marmalade is a family recipe too. You should try it. You’re going to need a lot of energy today. Do you take your coffee with cream and sugar?”
I nod out that yes, both cream and sugar today, please.
He lifts a finger when I want to add my own sugar. Sternly, he studies me while he mixes in what he finds to be the appropriate amount of each. Then he lifts it for me to drink. I try to take the cup myself, but he stops me with an, “Eh-eh!”
My hands sink together with my hope.
John takes great pleasure in watching me inhale sips of coffee. His light eyes run over my face, then pay special attention to my throat while I swallow. “You’re so very pretty. I knew I’d made the right choice with you. Are you ready for some food?”
I nod. Somehow, saying a single word of agreement with this man feels wrong. I do need food, though.
John leans in, whispering quietly against my ear. “You can choose. Would you like to eat bread with marmalade first, or egg and lox?”
“Egg and lox.”
“O-oh, she’s a girl who knows what she wants,” he tells the entranced men at the foot of the bed. The one named Zetticci has hands that hang along his sides. I can’t help thinking they’re only there because he can’t do whatever he wants to me. Lord, may they stay that way. “Isn’t that nice, amici?”
“Yes, sir,” they reply, off sync by half a beat. It creates an eerie faux echo in the room.
Unsure, I lift a hand, wanting to get a hold of the Caesar roll filled to the brim with fluffy yellow goodness and pink fish. He waits until I’ve almost seized it before he says it again. “Eh-eh!”
A rigid finger in the air makes me drop my hand again. “You’re my esteemed guest today. Let’s see. Is this the right amount?” He cuts a l
ittle piece and holds it up for me. I nod again.
He kneads the bite into a small ball, first with one hand, then adding the fingertips of the second hand. “Okay. Open up, my dear.”
I’m so hungry, I’m salivating. I have to swallow before I can open my mouth for him. In front of me, Mazzi’s lips part too in unconscious empathy, waiting for the food the way I am.
“Mmm. Like that.” John deposits the bite in my mouth, and it’s an explosion of aroma and taste on my tongue. Two fingers glistening with juices, he waits while I chew. For these seconds, I’m in Heaven. Never has food tasted better than this.
“Good?” he whispers.
I bob my head.
“Say it.”
“It’s good.”
His fingers come to me again, empty this time. I look up, not understanding, until he arches his brows at me, jutting his chin toward his hand. “Suck them clean.”
I blink. Another game? Please, let’s not play games right now. There is so much delicious food left on that plate.
“There are no napkins, and my fingers are dirty. Clean them, and you’ll get more food.”
My exhale shivers. Of course, I suck his fingers clean. Even with the groan expelling from him. Even with the Italian curses mumbled from the end of the bed as his men watch me. I just want more food.
It’s taken us half an hour to get through his meticulous ritual, and I’ve finished every morsel of the egg-and-lox roll. He’s just started feeding me bread with homemade marmalade between sips of sugary coffee.
“In some cultures, it’s a sign of deep love to hand-feed someone. Isn’t that beautiful?” he asks.
“Yes, but it’s a lot faster to eat on your own.” I’m not prepared for the slap I get for that. It’s on the same cheek as last night.
“Are you an ungrateful bitch?”
“No.”
“Are you not content with the way I treat you? You don’t enjoy the meal I’ve had prepared for you? I can take it away again, just like that. Do you realize how lucky you are?”
“Ma’am, you’re lucky, for sure.” Zetticci stares at me with wide, sincere eyes. They almost look friendly in this instance.
“I’m content. Thank you so much. The food is delicious,” I rush out. “I just thought you must be busy, and you probably have other things to do. It’s very kind of you to feed me the way they do in those other cultures, as if you love me.”
The set of his jaw softens, but the darkness of his gaze takes longer to dissipate. “Don’t test my patience, pretty Silvina. You’re here because I do love you deeply.” His nostrils flare as he side-eyes me. “You don’t love me yet, but by the time we’re done, by the time you’re broken and broken in, you’ll love me as much as I love you.”
20. LIKE YOU
SILVINA
“There, my dear. I’ve got some clothes for you to wear. Oh!” John tilts his head, smiling. “Look at that. You made me rhyme.”
I try to smile. Misery is an efficient teacher, and John’s easier to deal with if he’s in a good mood. He hooks a finger in the air, urging me to stand from the bed. When I do, he scans the Levi’s I’m still wearing and the pink t-shirt he gave me an hour ago.
“Yes, you can take that off now.”
I open my mouth, trying to think of a way to express that I’d like privacy to remove my clothes. I don’t want to get hit again, though. He folds his arms, waiting. John has an expressive face, which is in my favor. Now, he narrows his eyes in suspicion, which means I better say something quickly.
“Okay. Can I change in the restroom, maybe?”
He bursts into laughter.
I wait. Try for a smile so as not to offend him. My cheek still stings from the last time he hit me, and I don’t want Gioele to see me hurt when he finds me.
God, the state Gabriela was in when they brought her to the bunker… I roll my shoulders back, tucking away the thought off her expression before it can break me.
“You. Are so cute.” He nods, underlining his own statement. “But honestly, Silvina. You and I, we’re one. You don’t want to hide from your soulmate. Now, get out of your clothes.”
When I don’t answer, he presses his teeth together, eyes flashing dangerously. Clearly, I’m pushing my luck, and John isn’t a patient man. “Okay. Pretty Silvina, I don’t want to rough you up first thing.”
Against my better judgment, I slink out, “Can it be just you and me, then?”
He frowns, not understanding until I send a look to his leeches. “Oh. You mean you don’t want Mazzi and Zetticci in here?”
I angle my head to the side. I disgust myself, but maybe it’s what he needs, for me to act coy. Subtly, I lower my lashes, testing his response. “Yeah. Would it be okay with just you and me?”
He stands straighter, tipping his head back a little until he looks down his nose at me. His lips are generous. How can they be generous when he’s cruel?
“Okay. Scram, guys.” He makes a swiping movement behind him, and in seconds the door is closed with only the two of us left in the room.
I’m alone in a bedroom with a man I detest. He’s cruel. Merciless. A psychopath. Any other time of my life, I would have been terrified, but the human psyche adapts to new situations quickly. The main sensation running through me right now is relief.
“Now, strip.”
Strip.
I pull in a shaky breath and try to remove my clothes as unceremoniously as possible. This isn’t a show. If he wants that, he’ll have to smack me into performing for him.
I start with my Levi’s, because the t-shirt is a large men’s size and reaches down my thighs. It’s wide and unshapely, exactly what I need, with the sleeves stretching down to my elbows. I try to turn my back to him as I remove the t-shirt.
“Front to me. Now.”
I do it with my arms crossed over my chest. His eyes flash with rejection at that, so I drop my arms to my sides before he hits me again. It takes him a few seconds to control his angry breathing. Wordlessly, he points at my panties.
“I could just keep them under the clothes you probably want me to wear?” I make it a meek suggestion. I’m so bare already. If I could keep my underwear on, I’d be thankful to the universe, whatever input it had for him to change his mind.
Two steps forward, and he’s in my face. Eerily, he bends his knees, keeping the rest of his body straight, while he runs his nose up the side of my neck. He traces my cheek up to my ear before he stops.
“For you to remain in one single piece, you’ll need to stop questioning my commands. When I say, ‘Strip!’ it’s all you need to do. You will strip and will not stop stripping until I say otherwise.”
I think of Gabriela’s fingers. Of her bloody ear. The terror in her gaze when she told me about her stay with him.
“Okay. I wasn’t sure,” I whisper.
He removes himself from me, giving me space. Only, he’s not giving anything; John only steps back enough to soak in all of me again.
I take hold of my panties at the sides, bend forward so he only sees my hair and my back while I lower the last thread of shield between us from my body. It takes more courage than I have to straighten again once that shield has disappeared.
“Stand up.”
I do. I have nothing to be ashamed of, I tell myself while his stare studies every inch of me. I don’t see lust. I don’t see admiration. I don’t see disdain either. John doesn’t reveal what he’s thinking at all.
“What should I wear instead?” I say in a voice so soft he can’t possibly take it for obstinacy.
“Turn around.”
I do as he asks and feel his eyes on my ass.
“Bend over.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Spread your legs and bend over. I want you to touch the floor with your hands.”
�
��I’m not that nimble.”
“Bull. Shit. Do it.”
So I do. Behind me, there’s not a sound.
I don’t hear him walk up to me, so I jolt forward several steps when he touches my most tender folds.
Ah. Will he punish me for that?
Quiet laughter falls from him. I don’t know what to expect next, for him to slam me into the wall? Take me? Whip me—maybe have his guys come in and touch me like he did? What I don’t expect is to see silk underwear held out in front of me. He holds it low enough for me to understand I’m supposed to accept it.
I do greedily. Start to put the panties on with no verbal command. Wiggle into the bra. The air rushing into my lungs at being dressed is insane. I lift my head, stare into the wall only feet away from me, and straighten like I’ve done something huge.
“Turn to me. Let me look at you.”
I don’t feel that bad turning around now. The underwear set is a matching, perfectly sized, faded yellow ensemble. Zia Paula would have called it “old gold.” The cups of the bra are of the balcony variety. They cover half of my boobs, including my nipples. I stare right at him, instinctively knowing he’ll like that.
John smiles. “Don’t you look beautiful. Good fit?”
I nod.
“Say it.”
“It’s a great fit. Whoever got it for me knew my size.”
He bobs his head thoughtfully. “He knew your size and your coloring to a ‘T.’ I selected it myself, and there’s more where that ensemble came from. In your closet.”
“I have a closet?” That’s not good. Though it’s better than not having any clothes.
“Yes.” He waves haphazardly toward a door by the exit. “Although, you won’t be in there playing dress-up yourself. I’ll be choosing your outfits, like I have today. Now, as you pointed out during breakfast, I’m a busy man. I won’t be dressing you myself, but I do like to watch.”
He walks to the closet, leans inside, and brings out a hanger with something thin and silky-looking. Silently asking for praise, he holds it up for me, swinging it a little.
“Wow,” I mumble. The dress is as insane as the man, but I’m still relieved; he could have chosen something extremely revealing for me. This piece reminds me of an old-fashioned flapper dress. Made of light blue silk, it makes me think of an early afternoon summer sky. There are peacock feathers sewed into each lining, the ruffle at the bottom matching the peacock coloring. The rest of the dress is simple, without any lace or embroidery.