by Vice, Demi
Copyright © 2019 by Demi Vice
All rights reserved.No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Ceifador X
Cover Designer: VM Design by Vivian Monir
Interior Designer: VM Design by Vivian Monir
Edited: My Brother's Editor by Ellie McLove
Proofreader: Micki Jones
Years of love have been forgot,
In the hatred of a minute.
- To —— (“I heed not”), Edgar Allan Poe
To my sister, M.C.
Table of Contents
Mixtape
Synopsis
Author’s Note
Ceifador Translation
I. Bianca
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
II. Antonio
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Coming 2020
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Mixtape
“Bleeding Love” by Leona Lewis
“Can't Help Falling in Love” by Elvis Presley
“SexyBack” by Justin Timberlake
“I Want It That Way” by Backstreet Boys
“Tearin' Up My Heart” by NSYNC
“Cry Me a River” by Justin Timberlake
Listen on Spotify
Feared like death, worshipped like light;
He was my breath, and I was poisoned at first sight.
Just as the earth was round, I, Bianca Di Vaio, have always been sick. I’d spent most of my life confined in my room, secluded in my mansion, and off-limits to all the men who worked for my father, the kingpin of Manhattan.
Then one night, I heard his voice.
Antonio Castillo talked like desire but looked like death; dressed in all black wearing a metal skull for a face. He was the deadliest man at my father’s disposal. The Knight who earned the name, Grim Reaper.
Have you ever heard the story about a caged young girl who met her knight in broken armor?
*CEIFADOR X is a PREQUEL to THE KNIGHT’S ROSE and must be read beforehand. Ceifador X ends with a cliff hanger and will continue in The Knight’s Rose. *
Author’s Note
Ceifador X contains steamy, graphic and taboo material between an older man and a younger girl that might be offensive for some.
Ceifador Translation
Grim Reap·er: [grim ˈrēpər]
noun
a personification of death in the form of a cloaked skeleton
I
Bianca
* * *
I was never really insane except upon occasions
when my heart was touched.
- Edgar Allan Poe
Chapter One
“Hello? Can anyone hear me?” I shouted at the top of my lungs. Pressing my ear to the door, I listened for a sound. Any sound.
Silence.
No one ever heard me. I was isolated from the rest of the mansion on the second floor in the west wing. It might as well been called the Bianca-is-doomed-to-die-in-this-wing wing.
I knocked my head back and let out a muffled scream. Rolling my oxygen tank behind me, I crossed my massive room to reach the window. Every time I saw the skyline of Manhattan, I died a little inside. Even at two in the morning, the city was alive while I barely was.
It’s been twelve years since I’d been in the city.
“Who are you kidding, Bianca?” I scolded myself.
I was allowed to go outside in my backyard a few times a year, and I was allowed to open my window a few times a week. However, I needed Papa’s permission to do both.
I do this because I love you, Bianca. I want you to be healthy and alive, I heard Papa’s parental voice.
I mustered all my strength and tried to open my window.
Locked.
Sometimes, I got lucky. Last winter, one of the nurses forgot to lock the window, and I spent the whole night until the sun rose… breathing. I became sick the next day, but when wasn’t I sick? Just as the earth was round, I, Bianca Alessandra-Maria Di Vaio was always sick.
I walked around my room again with my friend, Gen, my oxygen tank.
Was it weird and borderline insane to name an inanimate object? Probably. But I spend most of my hours alone, and I had to find ways to entertain myself. If that meant my best friend was a metal can full of cold air, then so be it.
Most of the time I talked to myself. A lot of the time, actually. Sometimes my nanny, Camila, would listen to me, but she learned to ignore me like it was her job.
I stopped in front of my easel and stared at the painting I drew an hour ago. Around midnight was when my body decided I wasn’t going to fall asleep. To be fair, sleep had been a foreign concept for years. Six years to be exact. I’d stay awake for maybe two or three days, then pass out. I’d tried countless drugs for my insomnia, and everything else I was diagnosed with, but they never worked. They all left me the same.
Restless and hollow.
On my easel, I drew the top half of a skeleton, giving me the finger. Sadly, the painting’s lifespan was short. Very short. Camila would throw it out the second she saw it in the morning, adding some, ‘Bianca, this isn’t ladylike,’ ‘Don’t draw such foul hand gestures,’ or my favorite, ‘Why?’
“Why not?” I scoffed, already prepping for Camila.
I moved toward the dollhouse in my corner, next to my bed.
There were a lot of things I hated in my room. The mural of heavenly pastel clouds on my dome ceiling, the pure white walls, the soft white carpet, the baby pink bedding and drapes that hung around my bed—basically my whole room. But, my God, did I hate that dollhouse.
At five-foot tall, the dollhouse stood taller than me by an inch. It was an exact replica of my mansion, costing thousands of dollars, and hundreds of hours of labor. The craftsmanship was exquisite with moving doors, windows, cabinets, and furniture.
Deadpanning my mini room, I opened my window.
A single, fake laugh escaped my lungs and filled my personal insane asylum.
Sadly, that was the closest I was going to get to an open window tonight without breaking some glass. However, since my last ‘outburst,’ Papa made sure my windows were bulletproof. Indestructible by the force of Bianca.
I couldn’t count how many times I’d broken my windows or how many times I’d wanted to smash the dollhouse with my bare hands or even toss Gen at it. But I couldn't bring myself to do it. I wanted to see the rest of my house, even if that meant I had to sit on the floor and open the dollhouse like a book.
I remember getting the dollhouse. Even moving into the mansion.
When I was three, I used to live at The NYC Bayne Hotel penthouse in Manhattan. I didn’t remember much about it, but I loved to pretend I was flying in the clouds when I pressed my face against the cold window. In fact, that’s where I was, flying in the clouds when Papa told me Mama and Grandpapa had died in a car crash.
After their deaths, Papa and I moved to Jersey City where my mansion became my palace, and my bedroom, well, my dungeon. At the time, I didn’t know that. To me, everything was perfect. I spent most of my time with Papa, and when he told me I’d be homeschooled, I didn’t make a fuss. I embraced it.
“Because why would you ever want to leave, Bianca?”
My ro
om was custom made just for me. Only me. I had everything I needed; classroom, art studio, living room, bedroom, and so on and on. I should’ve been happy for years to come, but I wasn’t. That’s why when I turned seven, I asked Papa if I could go to school. I went for a week until I got sick. Something went terribly wrong with my immune system, and the easiest tasks were now agonizing. I spent most of my time in bed, paralyzed, unable to move a limb, but the nurses took care of me.
My nurses were always women.
A year passed, and I got better. Not fully healthy, but better. I asked Papa if I could go back to school, make friends, and simply explore my world and live, but he firmly stated, “No.”
It was better if I stayed home with the nurses and remained safe and healthy like his little angel.
To make matters worse, I developed a gluten allergy, amongst already being allergic to milk, eggs, soy, seafood—the list went on and on. Without my choice, I became vegan, eating food meant for herbivores.
By the time I turned nine years old, I’d been confined to one room due to my health. And naturally, depression became my other illness. To make me feel better, Papa gave me the dollhouse. He told me whenever I felt down or needed to explore, I should take a walk with my eyes. Although I felt too old to play with a dollhouse, for my sanity, I walked. For hours on end, every single day, I memorized the layout of my mansion and the furniture I hadn’t seen in years. But again, boredom and depression crawled from the darkness.
When I turned ten, I asked Papa again if I could go back to school, make friends, and simply explore my world and live, but Papa, again, stated, “No.”
I dumbed down my favor, asking if I could visit another room in the mansion. Just one room. It took him days to give me an answer, but finally, he said, “Yes.”
Turned out he wasn’t thinking, but in fact, setting up my own personal library a few doors down. A few times a week—with permission, of course—I was surrounded by a room full of books. So many books, it’d take me years to read.
When I needed a break from reading, I played chess. Mostly by myself, but sometimes with strangers online. Unfortunately, I was heavily restricted with online use, since I had a horrible tendency to look up my diseases, overthink, and panic. I’d gotten better at the panicking part. I’d accepted that Death and I were acquaintances, ready to be soulmates when we finally met.
Sad, but true.
When I turned twelve, and I wasn’t in the library, I was death staring the dollhouse. Over the years, hatred and only hatred were the only emotions attached to the dollhouse. I wanted more from my life, but instead, I was forced to live between two rooms. Room A or Room B.
“Living on the edge with those options,” I spoke dryly.
I was thirteen when I gathered the courage to ask Papa, again, if I could go to school, make friends, and simply explore my world and live, but Papa, again, used his favorite soul-crushing two-letter word, “No.”
That time was different. He gave me a reason.
“You know what I do for a living? I run Manhattan behind closed doors, and I’m a powerful man. You know that, right?”
I confirmed with a nod.
Di Vaio Properties owned a few apartment buildings and office buildings in Manhattan, but that’s not where my family made most of our money. Oh, no, the Di Vaio family got our money the good ol’ fashioned mafia way.
Illegal gambling operations, blackmailing, and money laundering.
My grandpapa, Nicolo Di Vaio, was once the biggest mobster in Manhattan. I couldn’t say the same thing about Papa. He claimed he was bigger than my grandpapa, but I’ve heard the nurses talk. They called him a ‘fake imitation’ of Grandpapa, who took drastic measures when he felt like he was entitled.
Papa was not an original Di Vaio. He was an outsider who won the heart of Grandpapa which allowed my father to marry Mama. Grandpapa taught Papa his ways, and soon he became the heir to the Di Vaio name.
Aside from that knowledge, I was in the gray area.
“I’d never lie to you about our family, Bianca, but I’ll never get you involved either. You’re my angel, my life, and I want to protect you,” Papa said, caressing my face. “But it’s time you knew. I have men who work for me. Men who are called Knights.”
“Knights?” I tilted my head.
He nodded.
“Don’t be fooled, they aren’t the Knights you read about in your books. They’ll never save a princess. If given a chance, they’ll hurt you. You are weak and sick, and they will harm you. I know some days you feel better, but understand, you are very sick. That’s why I made the west wing off limits and only yours. For your safety and your life.”
Papa kissed my forehead, holding my cheeks.
“I’m here to help you get better and to save you from any harm outside your doors. Don’t you ever forget that.”
He kissed my forehead for longer.
“Don’t forget about the Knights. They thrive on the destruction of others, they’re powered by fear, and they’re loaded with danger. They’re monsters, demons, and everything unholy and wrong with the world, stuffed inside a man wearing a suit; his form of armor. I have a Knight so deadly he earned the name Grim Reaper.”
My father's eyes never looked so fearful as they did at that moment.
“You must know they have no mercy. They’re the best of the best for a reason, and they will hurt you. Do you want to get hurt, Bianca?”
Yes.
I hesitated, but I shook my head.
“I know you don’t.” Papa smoothed my hair. “I love you, Bianca, and I do what’s best for you. You know that, right?”
“I know. I love you, too, Papa.”
He wrapped his arms around me, but even with his words and touch I never felt the way a daughter should in her father's arms.
Safe.
In all fairness, a small part of me hated him for never letting me live. If I was going to die, why shouldn’t I live?
My life stayed consistent, but I became disobedient. More tantrums, more outbreaks, more anxiety attacks, more destruction, more of everything that made me—feel.
But then guess what found my way about a month ago?
Cancer. Leukemia.
Seems about right, was my first thought.
In a snap, I accepted my fate. Or maybe I gave up. I became highly aware that being locked in my bedroom was by far the best option for my health or what was left of it anyway.
I came to terms years ago that I would die in my teens. I came to terms that someone—let’s call her Mandy for fun—had a bowl of diseases and misery with my name on it. And each year that passed, Mandy would shove her thin, wrinkly fingers in that bowl, pick a small piece of paper, read it out loud, and voila. A new promise to a shorter life.
I dragged Gen behind me as I paced around my room. I turned around too sharply, accidentally hit my pinky toe on Gen’s wheel, and felt the true meaning of pain.
“Son of a fopdoodle!” I unleashed my wrath at the top of my lungs, the pain in my pinky toe almost unbearable as I collapsed on the carpet. “What the fustilarian!” I cried, holding my little toe as if it was going to fall off. “Ow. What the hell is wrong with you, Gen? You expensive pile of metal-air.” I ripped the tubes off my nose and threw it at Gen.
“Hello?”
I snapped my head to the locked door where I thought I heard a voice.
Oh. My. God… Mandy, you old harlot, you just picked up the schizophrenia piece of paper.
I held my breath as the seconds passed. My heart violated my body so hard I thought it would rip out of my chest and land on the flawless white carpet.
“Olá, is anyone in there?” a man said in a Hispanic accent as he knocked once on the door.
My jaw dropped to the floor. I wasn’t crazy, not fully. There was an actual person outside of my door. More specifically, a man. A monster? The merciless men my father warned me about? The ones that would hurt me if given the chance? Was that why he was here?
My fa
ther’s men knew better than to come on the second floor of the west wing. It was forbidden, untainted from men for years and years, aside from my father. I stood up to my feet, ignoring my throbbing pinky toe.
Knock… knock knock… knock.
The playful patterned echoed throughout my room. The man doesn’t seem like a monster. I took a step closer to the door. Or a demon. I took another step. Or anything unholy. The space between myself and the door no longer existed.
My eyes dropped to the wiggling door handle. The man said something in Spanish—I think—when the door wouldn’t open.
“It’s locked…” My voice was tiny.
“Hello?” The mystery man's voice was thick and full of another world outside of the mansion, New York, or America.
“Hi.”
Silence filled the void between us until he cleared his throat. “You can open the door. I don’t bite.” His voice was cunning as if he had a smile on his face. Or at least, I hoped.
I laughed nervously. “No, I can’t. But you can.”
“What?” He was confused until he noticed the three locks on his side of the door. Click. He unlocked the first. “Why… why are you locked inside?” he questioned, his words close to one another.
“Because unlike you, I bite,” I joked. Probably not the best time, but he laughed. A sound so rich and thrilling it made my head rush.