Mafia Romance
Page 69
I pull back and kiss her once more on the mouth. Our eyes are open. It’s not an erotic kiss. I don’t pry her lips open to slide my tongue inside. It’s just a kiss, and at the same it’s the most intimate kiss.
When I release her, she staggers to the stool a few feet away and sits on it like she can’t stand anymore. I wonder what she thinks when she looks at me. What she feels.
She must hate me. She must curse me.
I pick up my belt to weave it through the belt loops and open the door. Joseph is at his desk. He watches me buckle the belt.
He heard everything, I know, and he’s not my friend, I know that too. There are no friendships when this much money is in play.
He smiles and gets up from his desk to make his way into the room again. I know the camera in the ceiling recorded everything. I know he’ll watch right after we’re gone. I know he’ll get hard at Helena’s cries. Jerk off to her whipping. Our fucking.
The room smells of sex. Of us.
Joseph glances at Helena, and her cheeks burn. She, too, knows he heard every damn thing.
“Are we ready, then, Miss Willow?”
I put my hand around the back of her neck. “I think she’s ready now, aren’t you, Helena?”
She won’t look at us, but I can see from her profile that she’s biting her lip to stop from speaking or maybe crying.
“All right. If you’ll kneel on the stool, please,” Joseph says.
She turns to me. “Kneel?”
I hold out a hand to help her. “Kneel,” I say.
She swallows but rises and doesn’t take my hand as she kneels on the wooden stool and turns to the camera. Just as he snaps the photograph, she gives him the finger.
I can’t help the smile that creeps along my lips.
Joseph, however, is not amused. His ears go red, and it may be the first time I’ve seen him ruffled.
“We’ll need to take another.”
But it’s an old-fashioned camera. Not a digital one.
“No need, Joseph,” I say, looking at my pretty, defiant Willow Girl. “That’ll do just fine.”
Chapter Ten
Helena
We both signed the book in the space where my photo will be forever preserved as this generation’s Willow Girl. We’re now sitting at a table for two waiting for our lunch to arrive.
Our eyes are locked, but the difference in our expressions is night and day. I’m glaring, and he looks like he’s smiling, calm as can be, like this is normal.
“What’s your problem?” I ask finally, shifting in my seat, his cum sticky in my underwear.
“No problem. Just enjoying my day with my Willow Girl.”
“You know he heard everything.”
He nods. “He’s probably jerking off to the video as we speak.”
“Video?”
Sebastian shrugs a shoulder.
A waiter comes with a bottle of wine, pours for both of us, and sets the bottle in a bucket of ice before leaving.
“Don’t worry. You shouldn’t have to see him again for three more years.” He picks up his glass. “Cheers.”
I fold my arms across my chest. I don’t pick up my glass.
“How did it start? Taking a Willow Girl?”
“You don’t know your history?”
“No, I don’t. Why don’t you educate me, like you so graciously did on the meaning of inbred.” Prick, I add internally.
“Happy to oblige.” He takes another sip of his wine. “The Willows were a prominent family—at least in the Midwest—way back when. The Scafoni were immigrants to America, but wealthy ones. We needed status, and you needed money, and so a marriage was arranged.
“There was a difference then, and that was that the Willows only had sons and the Scafonis only daughters, and so a Willow boy, Marius Willow, married a Scafoni girl, Anabelle Scafoni, for her fortune. There was no love between them. It was a business transaction, one arranged by Anabelle’s father and Marius Willow. He was more than twice her age and a brute, according to history.”
“According to your history,” I interrupt.
He ignores me.
“She didn’t survive long in his hands. Not a full year, even. In fact, only a handful of Scafoni survived that marriage. Marius Willow made sure of that, having no pity, killing off as many as he could, starting with Anabelle’s father. Although I guess he did have some pity. He didn’t kill Anabelle or her mother but cast them out, left them for dead, after securing Anabelle’s fortune. If he’d killed her, none of this would be happening.”
“Why?” I’m engrossed.
“There was one thing he didn’t know when he sent her out of his house. Anabelle was pregnant.”
“Pregnant?”
He nods. “Anabelle’s mother, who was a midwife, cared for her, and delivered the baby in secret. This was a rare male birth for the Scafoni family. Just two months after the baby’s birth, Anabelle died. She was too broken by her grief. It’s a wonder the baby didn’t die with her.”
“What happened to the baby?”
“After burying her daughter, Anabelle’s mother, took the child and fled back to Italy, but not before laying a curse on the Willow family, one that would weaken their line. From that point, the Willow family only had girls and the Scafoni family only boys.”
“A curse? You can’t believe in that.”
His expression and his non-comment give me pause. I don’t expect Sebastian Scafoni of all people to be superstitious.
“Anabelle’s son, Giuseppe, was raised to hate the Willow family, and when he came of age, he vowed vengeance for his mother and set upon rebuilding our fortune, passing down his hate from generation to generation until we were ready to return to America. To avenge Anabelle.”
“But how? Even back then, what you’re doing couldn’t have been legal. I mean, it’s kidnapping.”
“You’re naive, Helena.”
“No, I’m—”
“If you have enough money, you can do anything you want. Have anything you want. Money is power. Money makes us kings. Gods even.”
I shake my head. “What do you hold over the Willows that they don’t put a stop to it?”
“I just told you.”
“You told me money makes you a god.”
“Money got me you.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s actually much simpler than you think. You sure you want to hear it?”
“Yes.”
“It may change your view of your family.”
“It won’t.”
“The Willow property, have you ever seen the deed?”
I shake my head.
“I’m not surprised. Our name is on it. The Scafoni family owns the estate.”
I snort at that. “You want me to believe you own our house?”
“And the land it’s built on.”
“I don’t believe you. The house has been in our family forever.”
“Not really. Not in almost two hundred years.”
“What are you saying? You…buy the Willow Girls?”
He shrugs a shoulder. “I think of it as more of a lease.”
“What are you talking about? My parents wouldn’t allow—”
He leans in close. “Your parents were eager, Helena.”
His words hit me like a punch to the gut. I don’t know if that’s what he intended, because he picks up his wine, gives a shake of his head, and swallows a large mouthful.
The waiter appears with our lunch, but I’ve lost the little appetite I had.
Without a word, Sebastian picks up his knife and fork and cleans his fish, then takes a bite. “It’s good. You should eat.”
He puts another forkful into his mouth. I don’t move, I don’t touch my utensils.
I look up from my plate of pasta with red sauce, notice the anchovies lying on top. Why do people think vegetarians eat fish?
“I don’t believe you,” I say.
“I made the first payment the day y
ou got to the island. It was on the statement you were holding when you were snooping in my room.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie? Why would I need to?”
“You want to turn me against my family.”
“What purpose would that serve?”
He’s right.
“I mean, think about it, a sacrifice of one for the survival of the family. It’s a deal I wouldn’t make, but the Willows never did have much integrity. Even family doesn’t mean anything to them. They sell off their daughters like they do a prize pig.”
I meet his eyes, and he’s dead serious. He’s not making fun of me or trying to injure me.
“I can prove it to you if you want. I’ll show you all the bank statements. All the payments made to the Willows for the sacrifice of one daughter with every generation.”
I pick up my glass then, take a long swallow. My hand is trembling when I set it down.
“And you’re okay with it? With taking me? Knowing I don’t want to be here. Will you be okay to hand me to your brothers?”
At that, he pauses, exhales, takes a moment to look across the room then back at me. “What I want and what I have to do are not always one and the same, Helena.”
“So you don’t want this?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Could you have said no?”
“What do you think would have happened if I did? Do you think Lucinda or Ethan or even Gregory would have let it go?”
“What do you mean?
His face darkens. He sets his utensils down and leans in.
“I mean if I chose not to participate, Ethan would have happily taken my place. But I guess that would have been good news for you. He’d have chosen one of your sisters.”
He sits back, picks up his fork and knife again.
“You talk about a way out, but there isn’t one, Helena.”
He reaches across the table and forks through my pasta, shakes his head. I just watch, slow to process his words, as he calls the waiter over. I know he’s sending my plate back, explaining about the fish.
The waiter apologizes, and I nod my head, but I’m not really listening. He’s back a few minutes later with a fresh plate minus the fish.
But it’s a waste of food.
I can’t eat a bite.
* * *
I’m on my fourth glass of vodka as I stare, bleary-eyed, at the papers before me. I guess I can’t understand why he told me. What’s the point? To hurt me? To make sure I know I am fully alone? Because I already knew that. I’ve known that for a long time.
As promised, Sebastian delivered the statement I’d found while snooping to my bedroom the next night along with records of past payments, almost two hundred years-worth of them. He also showed me a copy of the deed.
It’s true. We live on Scafoni land.
I wonder if my Aunt Helena knows. If my sisters know, now that I’m gone, and it’s settled, at least for the time being. Until they have their daughters, and the Scafoni have their sons.
There’s one discrepancy I don’t understand, though. The payments are made three times, once every year. I assume it’s done when the Willow Girl is passed from brother to brother.
There used to be four payments, but for the last several reapings, only three have been made and there are only the three brothers.
But that thought is pushed aside by the others. Mainly, my parents’ betrayal of me. But also the other thing. About having no choice.
I have a hard time believing Sebastian doesn’t want this, not now that he has it, even if he didn’t think he wanted it at first. And I can’t think about what will happen in a year’s time.
Sebastian is cruel, merciless when he punishes me, but there’s something else too. A protectiveness, a possessiveness almost. I’m his. And in a way, as long as I’m his, I’m safe.
No.
I shove the papers off me and get to my feet so quickly, that between the blood rushing and the vodka, I have to hold on to the wall so as not to fall over.
I’m not safe.
And I can’t be fool enough to let myself think I am, not for a second.
I stand taller. I steel my spine and say it out loud. “I am not safe. Not with him. Not with any of them.”
Does he think that by telling me, by isolating me mentally and emotionally as well as physically, that I’ll be a better Willow Girl. A more obedient one?
I go to the window, wrap my sweater around myself because tonight is cooler than it has been, and I think about them, about my family and how they betrayed me. How they’ve been betraying their daughters for generations. And for what? Money. For fucking money.
“Willows never did have much integrity. Even family doesn’t mean anything to them. They sell off their daughters like they do a prize pig.”
His words slam into me but before they can break me, I stalk to the nightstand and open the drawer and take out my pocketknife. I don’t know why he didn’t take it from me. It’s not an oversight. Sebastian doesn’t overlook anything.
Three million dollars. If I survive the three years. That’s the sum of it. Of my worth.
I know our house is important. I know the land is important. But isn’t a daughter more important?
I gather up the papers, not caring that I’m crushing them. I want to rip them to shreds, even if they are copies.
I walk out of my room. I don’t even close the door behind me.
He’s downstairs, in his study. I know because he told me he’d come up for me when he was finished with his work. Needs his nightly fuck, I guess.
Two Willow Girls have died while serving their time, and when my Aunt Helena was the Willow Girl, only two payments were made. Did she run away? Did she manage to stay away for a time? Because there was a clause that should the girl not be available to the Scafoni sons, the Willow family would be penalized, and that penalty would be paid in the form of a forfeiting of funds, or worse.
The words an eye for an eye stand out.
They make me shudder.
I look down at my ring.
Bone for bone?
My mother, when she told us what would happen to us, she didn’t quite tell it like this. Never mentioned money, just a debt, and warned us that whoever was chosen would have to serve the full three years. She told us we’d not be welcome home because the vengeance the Scafoni would take would be catastrophic to the rest of the family.
The house is dark but for the light under the study door. It’s past one in the morning, but Sebastian isn’t alone in there. I hear two male voices.
I don’t bother to knock but push the door open. I guess I push too hard because it slams against the doorstop and vibrates. Sebastian looks up from behind his desk, momentarily surprised. Only momentarily.
I turn from him to the chair across the desk to find Gregory there.
“Helena,” Sebastian says, pushing back from his desk and folding his arms across his chest. “How can I help you?”
Ignoring Gregory, I slam the papers down in front of him.
“Why did you tell me? What’s the point?”
He cocks his head to the side, studies me. “Are you drunk?”
My hands fist so hard that I feel my fingernails digging into my palms. “Why?”
I hear a chuckle.
I turn to Gregory, who stands and looks at me. He doesn’t bother to school his features into something more serious.
He shifts his gaze to Sebastian.
“I’ll say good night, brother. We’ll pick up tomorrow.”
“Good night,” Sebastian says. I don’t think his eyes ever leave mine.
Gregory closes the door behind him. Sebastian gets up and comes to me.
“It’s rude to barge into someone’s office like that, Helena.”
“I don’t much care about rude.”
“No, you don’t. How much did you drink?”
“Not enough. Why? Why did you tell me?”
“You asked
, remember? And I warned you that you may not like what you hear.”
“Is it to isolate me even more? Make sure I know I can’t go home?”
“Watch your tone, Helena.”
“Don’t you mean Willow Girl? Watch your tone, Willow Girl?”
He steps closer so the tips of his shoes are touching my bare toes. He tucks a finger beneath my chin, tilts it up and leans in close.
“If that’s how you want it, then watch your tone, Willow Girl.”
The low timbre of his voice is more warning than his words, and it takes all I have not to back off.
“Just tell me why. You owe me that much at least.”
He steps back, giving me space to breathe.
“I thought you should know the stock you come from. And just to clarify, I don’t owe you anything.”
I ignore that last part.
“Well, don’t you come from it too, considering you’re descended from Anabelle Scafoni’s son? Does that make us family? Cousins or something?” I don’t know why I say it, it’s so far in the past and so diluted, that it doesn’t matter.
He grins, touches his middle finger to my collarbone, traces it to the hollow at my throat, up over it to my lips, presses until I open. When I close my teeth around the digit, he uses his finger like a hook and drags my face to his so we’re nose to nose.
“You have got such a big mouth, you know that, Willow Girl?”
I reach into my pocket, feel the weight of the switchblade in it, pull it out.
He must hear it open. It’s the only way he can react so quickly. The only way he can catch my hand before I can sink the little dagger into his gut.
I pull back to look down. He does the same. We watch the little drop of red stain the white of his dress shirt. He doesn’t pull the blade back, though. He holds it there instead, even forces it a little, ripping his shirt, slicing his own flesh.
“Stop.” There’s a quiver in my voice. I try to pull my hand away, but he won’t let me.
“Is that my notch?” he asks when he looks back up at me, holding my gaze as he relieves me of my weapon. I hear the clank of it when it hits the far wall. Before I can step back, his hand closes around my throat and he leans me backward over his desk, the angle painful.
One of my hands wraps around his forearm while the other one grips the edge of the desk to keep him from breaking my back.