by LP Lovell
Adelina
The familiar scent of home is bittersweet. I both love and resent the sunshine that now bathes my face, seeping through my eyelids until I’m surrounded by a haze of red.
“Move.”
I’m roughly shoved from behind, and I stagger forward, trailing Enrique up to the front of the villa. Though truthfully, villa isn’t really the word. I expected a house similar to my father’s with terracotta tiles and ivy climbing up the sides of tall windows. Instead, I find a tasteless, modern mansion, consisting of strange angles and glass walls. It reminds me of Nero’s apartment, but this isn’t New York; this is Sicily. The building is an ugly stain on the unchanging hills of my homeland. The entire thing reminds me of a fish tank. Like the one I used to have in my bedroom when I was a little girl. Daddy got it for me because I was scared of the dark, but I didn’t want a nightlight like a baby. My heart squeezes, and I force the memory away.
An enormous pane of glass swings on a central hinge like a revolving door, welcoming us inside. The second I cross the threshold, I can feel it; the invisible manacles clamp tight around my wrists, chaining me, binding me to this place, to that man.
Another shove from his brutish bodyguard has me walking down a long hallway. Enrique never turns around or acknowledges me. Everything about him screams arrogance from his gait to his blatant dismissal of me as though I’m barely worthy of his gaze. Those shiny shoes click over the white marble floor, mocking me with each step. He finally ducks through a doorway, and I hesitate on the threshold. Inside is a living room, and Enrique cuts across it, again, ignoring me. Still. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that his bodyguard has disappeared. Instinct tells me to run, but instead, I tentatively step inside. An unsettling sensation creeps over my skin the moment I’m alone in a room with Enrique. I can count each hammering beat of my heart as it thrums against my ribs.
Enrique casually slides his suit jacket over his shoulders, and he steps down into a sunken area that houses an enormous leather corner sofa. A huge pillar sits in the center of the room, containing a glass section with flames flickering behind it. Enrique carefully places his jacket over the arm of a sofa, smoothing the material as though he’s scared it may pick up a single crease. With each action, I become more anxious. He turns, eyes meeting mine for the first time since I approached him outside Nero’s house. His gaze slides over me like the serpent he is, probing, assessing his new acquisition to see if it pleases him. That’s where we stay—him staring at me while I stand uncomfortably, wishing more than anything that I could run. Far, far away. But I can’t. I chose this, and now, it’s too late to turn back.
He’s won, and he knows it. I fully expect him to bask in his glory and gloat about his victory; but he doesn’t. Instead, he moves over to the corner of the room and plucks a crystal decanter from a recess in the wall. The amber liquid swills around the bottom before he pours two glasses, the liquid tickling over the crystal. The tension is oppressive, squeezing my lungs and suffocating me. It’s made worse by the words he doesn’t speak. A clock on the far wall ticks incessantly, and with each passing second, my nerves ratchet tighter and tighter. I wonder if he deliberately brought me to this room with that clock. God knows, it feels like a twisted form of torture.
Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, I slide my gaze from his and focus on the rest of the room. The entire back wall is made of glass doors. Beyond them is a patio that gives way to lawns far too green for this time of year. Sprinklers arc high into the air, casting rainbows through the sunlight. It’s beautiful; or at least, it would be in any other situation.
“Drink.”
In an instant, I’m snapped from the fantasy escape beyond these walls.
Enrique holds a glass of liquor out toward me while sipping from his own, and I eye the liquid suspiciously. His lips twitch. “If I wanted you dead, a bullet would have saved me an awful lot of time and money, Miss Ricci.” Miss Ricci. The way he says it, placing implication on my surname, sends chills up my spine. After all, that’s all he wants from me. My name. My family. My bloodline.
My fingers wrap around the glass, but I’m careful not to touch him as I take the drink. My eyes remain fixed on him, like prey keeping a predator in my sights. Everything about him turns my blood cold—his perfectly combed black hair, the expensive suit, that cocky, too-white smile that makes me want to smack it right off his mouth. As I stare into eyes as black as coal, I picture my father’s face, a bullet hole marring his waxy skin. I imagine Enrique smiling that sick, satisfied grin as he pulled the trigger. Bile rises in my throat, and my fingers tighten on the glass in my hand until I’m sure the crystal will shatter in the wake of my anger. I hate him with a venom that threatens to eat me alive. I can feel it, gnawing away at the pit of my gut like a parasite.
He watches me silently, eyes raking my frame, absorbing each tiny movement. “You seem agitated, Adelina.” He purrs my actual name this time.
“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth.
That smile deepens, and he takes a step forward. The closer he gets, the more uncomfortable I become. Reaching out, he trails a lone finger over my cheek. A full-body shudder threatens, and I bite the inside of my cheek so hard that the iron-like tang of blood trickles over my tongue. To be touched by the hands of my father’s killer, it’s a truly horrifying sensation. And then the stark realization hits me: if I’m to do what I came here for, I will have to endure a lot more than his touch. The gravity of that monumental task settles over me like a lead weight. I’ve been so consumed with revenge, that while I’ve acknowledged the method, I hadn’t really thought about the finer details.
He grips my chin firmly, bringing his face so close that I can smell the whiskey on his mouth, and my head is roughly jerked to the side, and my breath hitches in surprise. “I’m almost disappointed,” he whispers against my ear. “That in the end, you came to me so easily. You made for such a thrilling chase.” His fingers dig into my cheeks so hard that my bleeding inner lip grates over my teeth. He twists my head, forcing me to face him once more.
I try to remain calm; I do, but my rage and pride get the better of me. I inch even closer, until my lips almost brush his.
I force a small smile. “Nero Verdi is going to destroy you,” I say, my tone sweet.
I can only imagine how angry Nero is right now. Enrique brought the fight to his gates, and that will not go unpunished. But the question is, when. This doesn’t need to be an endless war. I’m here. I’m close. I just need to get closer. I can end all of this if Nero just gives me a little time.
That arrogance that Enrique wears like a second skin wavers. It’s just a fraction of a second, but it’s enough for me to see that he fears Nero, or at the very least, he has a healthy respect for him. As he should. Nero Verdi didn’t earn the nickname of The Mad Italian by showing mercy to his enemies. Enrique’s hand slips from my jaw to my throat, and then he squeezes.
“Nero is too occupied with the Bratva to trouble himself over one girl.” He squeezes harder, and I choke as my windpipe closes. “No one is coming, principessa.” He touches his forehead to mine and inhales deeply, as though he could steal even more air from me and take it for his own. His free hand trails over the curve of my waist. The strangled gasps of my last precious breaths slip from my throat, and he pulls back enough to look for me. “I’m all you have now.”
My vision dots, and my head swims. Just as I’m about to lose consciousness, he releases me. My legs buckle beneath me, and I crumple to the floor like a ragdoll. Huge gulps of air are sucked into my lungs, but it’s not enough. My heart races, adrenaline making me tremble with the awareness that Enrique could kill me if he wanted to. He drops to a crouch in front of me, and I flinch when he reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear.
“Say it, Adelina.”
Say what? I frown and try to move away from him. He fists my hair and yanks my head back so hard my scalp burns with the sting. Tears prickle my eyes as his other hand grips my jaw, his fingers
digging in so hard that I can practically feel my skin bruising.
“Say it!” he shouts, spittle flying in my face.
“Say what?” I cry, the tears breaking free and trickling traitorously down my cheeks.
“I’m all you have now.” His voice is suddenly calm.
I won’t. I think my neck might snap as his fist tightens farther, and he wrenches my head back. “No.”
Enrique shoves me to the floor violently, and his weight lands on my chest, straddling me and trapping my arms against my sides. I thrash and fight, panicking at the sudden restraint.
The cruel smile that pulls at his lips has a shiver tearing down my spine. “Your defiance will only make it more beautiful when I break you, Adelina.”
A chilling sense of unease sits in the pit of my stomach, and I fight even harder to get out from underneath him, but it’s pointless.
He suddenly produces a knife, and I freeze as he brings it to my cheek, trailing it over the skin. “The question is: do you want the outside to match the inside?”
I feel the prick of the knife against my cheek, just in front of my ear. He trails it down my face, my jaw, my neck, scratching over my skin, threatening. He slices the strap of my tank top away, and then the distinct press of the tip of the blade at my collar bone pinches my skin. It pauses there, and I can hardly breathe for fear of him pressing it through.
“Say. It,” he growls, a certain madness creeping into his eyes.
My resolve wavers; the words are on the tip of my tongue, but I clamp my jaw shut. With a shrug of one shoulder, he pushes the blade into my skin, dragging it in a line. My teeth grind together so hard they ache, but I refuse to scream. I stare at the ceiling, but I can feel his eyes on my face, watching for weakness. He continues to cut me for what feels like an eternity, and then he stops. I release the breath I had been holding. Enrique stares down at his handiwork, and the warm trickle of blood slides over my shoulder and to the floor. He pushes off me and rises to his feet. I sit up, clutching the tattered remains of my shirt to my bloody chest. I don’t look at the wound. I need to pull myself together, and the sight of it may just send me over the edge.
How foolish I was to think I could simply walk in here and buy this man’s trust.
For long moments, I’m left staring at his shiny shoes, my heart thrumming in my chest. Then a hand appears in my line of vision. Looking up, I see him holding it out to me. I’m on my knees in front of Enrique, and he seems all too pleased with that fact. Time seems to slow for a moment as I stare at his outstretched hand. I could take it, let him think he broke me that quickly. It would be so easy. Or, I can keep my pride, get up, and hold my head high.
I picture myself lying next to him, opening his throat with a knife and watching him flounder around like a fish out of water as his blood drenches the sheets beneath him. I want that reality. I can do this—sacrifice my pride.
I stare at his hand, willing myself to just take it, but I can’t. Instead, I push to my feet on my own and stand before him. He’s so close that with each inhale, my chest brushes his.
“Look at it,” he instructs.
I hold his gaze a beat longer, and then curiosity has me pulling the wet material away from my chest to stare at his handiwork. The blood makes it difficult to see clearly, but I can make out the clean lines of letters. Enough to know it’s his initials.
“I own you,” he says, a smug smile pulling at his lips. “And soon, you’ll feel it mind, body, and soul.” Never. “Oh, how I’ll enjoy destroying every inch of you. By the time I finish, you won’t remember who you were before you were mine.”
“I thought you wanted a wife, not a slave,” I grate.
He takes a step back, putting space between us. “That opportunity passed the second you ran from me.”
“I came to you willingly,” I say defensively.
“You came here because I threatened Nero Verdi. And I threatened that filthy fucking Russian.” He spits the words with disgust, examining me in the cold way a hawk might an injured mouse. “You think I don’t know that you were with him, alone. For weeks,” he spits through gritted teeth. “Your Russian killed my brother. I’m going to end him. Maybe I’ll make you watch as I kill him.” The thought of Enrique managing to kill Sasha is almost laughable, but then I wonder if I shouldn’t underestimate him.
“He thought he was protecting me. It wasn’t my choice.” A note of panic creeps into my voice as I try to make Sasha’s actions justifiable in Enrique’s eyes, but it’s pointless. His expression morphs from rage to amusement in a split second. My head spins, trying to keep up with him.
“Ah yes, Sasha Ivanov, ever the white knight.” A laugh slips from his mouth, and I feel like I’m missing some kind of private joke. He lifts his hand and drags a thumb over my lip, making me uncomfortable. “If there’s one thing I know of you, Adelina Ricci, it’s that you are not a woman to be cowed or easily tamed.” He leans in, bringing his lips to my ear. “It’s what makes you so exciting. A challenge,” he whispers. “You expect me to believe that you were with him against your will, just waiting to come to me.” He smiles, mockingly.
“My father made an agreement; did he not?” The thought of my father has a lump lodged in my throat, but it also gives me strength.
His head snaps up. “Your father broke his agreement.” Enrique’s face turns an unhealthy shade of red as his entire frame is suddenly pulled tight like the string of a bow, and his mood swings violently again.
I both fear his rage and revel in it. Anger is a lack of control, and that shows a weakness. My father reneged on an agreement because he knew I would never willingly marry this creature. And Enrique killed him for it. His pride took a hit, and he started a war. He’s nothing more than a spoiled child throwing a tantrum. A child that Father should never have made a deal with.
Another reminder of exactly why I’m here. My father’s betrayal is only salt in the gaping wound left in the wake of his murder. I know he loved me though, or he wouldn’t have died trying to remedy all this.
Inhaling a deep breath, I force calm onto my face. All my emotions drain away until I mute them beneath a layer of ironclad determination. “I am not my father. Mafia’s are made with alliances.” The words are like acid on my tongue.
Enrique is so close I can taste the whiskey on his breath, feel the heat of his body. “I know you’re lying.” His eyes dip, a smirk pulling at his lips as his eyes sweep over my body like a predator. “But it doesn’t matter. I have you now.”
He does, and I’m exactly where I need to be.
He’s trying to work me out, dig beneath my lies. I vow to myself, right here and now, that he won’t see a thing. I will appear as the willing bride to be. An act, Daddy used to say.
Only when he truly believes me willing, will I pounce. I’m prepared to sacrifice everything for this one goal. It could take weeks or months, but as I once again conjure the image of Enrique with his throat opened and bleeding out, I know it will be worth it. He’ll never see me coming. A shadow in the night armed with a blade that I will embed in his cold, black heart.
Nothing else matters. Only this.
For you, Daddy. I will do this for you.
This room has been my constant for the last three days. I didn’t really know what to expect when I handed myself over to Enrique. The man was and still is a complete stranger. I told myself that I was braced for anything: his violence, his unwanted attention. Of course, violence is exactly what I got, and yet, I haven’t seen Enrique since. This…lingering, is both unsettling and relieving.
I’m fractious, though, imagining all the possibilities. I hate not knowing what’s coming next, and I despise feeling useless. At this very moment, all my plans lay barren, wasted, and pointless. Frustration is my ever-present companion.
The room Enrique keeps me in opens onto a balcony that overlooks the gardens. It’s the only reprieve I get from the four walls. Pushing off the bed, I step through the open doors, trailing my fingers o
ver the curtains that catch on the soft breeze. Below the balcony is the swimming pool that runs almost the entire length of the house in a narrow strip. Sunshine plays through the liquid, painting pretty patterns on the blue mosaic tiles at the bottom. But what grabs my attention is the woman leisurely swimming lengths. Her white bikini contrasts against golden skin, and she’ so graceful. So free. Unlike me. She seems unaware of my presence, but I have to wonder who she is. Enrique doesn’t have a sister, and I’m sure he doesn’t let his staff use the pool. His girlfriend perhaps. I wouldn’t put it past him to marry one woman and keep another to fuck.
I stay there, watching her with envy, inhaling the scent of wildflowers and the ocean that trickles on distant winds. Gardeners mow and trim, making everything look shiny and perfect. The sprinklers arc through the air, creating a rhythmic hiss that’s an ever-present backdrop to my existence.
I swipe a hand over my brow, feeling the collected sweat. That pool looks very appealing right now. Though the sun heats my skin, but it only lingers on the surface. Inside, I’m always cold.
Being out here makes me feel a little more sane, less caged. Though, really that’s all this place is, a beautiful cage. From the roses blooming in the flower beds to the bright, emerald-green lawns that look more like carpet than grass, it’s all just…glitter. The lawns give way to a wooden fence, the top covered in thick spikes that are a potent reminder of exactly what this place really is—a prison.
I’ve debated trying to escape, just to rid myself of the boredom, but there would be no point. I came here for a reason. It just requires biding my time. He wants to marry me, which means he’s going to have to let me out of this room at some point…. I think. Honestly, I imagine Enrique would have no problem imprisoning his wife.
The sun eventually dips below the horizon, painting the sky in amber and crimson tones. With the darkness comes a chill that has the hairs rising on my arms. Stepping back inside, I turn on the bedside lamp before I get into the shower. I allow the scalding hot water to wash over my tense muscles, though it does nothing to ease them. There was once a time when my biggest concern was my next deadline for a dissertation or texting back whatever boy I was seeing at the time. How I wish I could go back and become that girl again. I never truly appreciated the lengths Daddy went to in order to grant me that normal life, away from all this. I see all too clearly now, but the innocence and naivety of youth can never be regained once tainted.