“Ohhhhh, fuck.” Guido throws the towel on the couch and turns toward the dry bar.
My brother rarely drinks booze and only keeps a few alcoholic options for when Mitch comes over. The two of them go way back to our time in the US, with Mitch following us back to Sicily when we made the move. Guido is not one to share the details of his love life, so I only know the status of his on-again-off-again relationship with his boyfriend based on the presence of those bottles. Little bro hides the liquor when he and Mitch break up. I guess this means they’re back together now.
Guido drops on his recliner a minute later, with three fingers of whiskey in the tumbler in his hand. “What will happen when you let her go, and she tattles to her father?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” I tell him. “I need you to get me some house staff.”
“House staff?”
“Yes. As soon as tomorrow morning. Five additional maids. Two gardeners. Does Rigobaldo’s wife still cook at that restaurant in Messina?”
“I think so, yes. Why—”
“Make them fire her. I want her here. She’ll cook for us.”
Guido throws back his drink, getting into a coughing fit as soon as he swallows. “You hate having people in the house, Raff. I’ve been trying to convince you to hire a second maid forever. Now, all of a sudden, you want me to magically get you eight people to work here overnight?”
“Make it twelve, and make sure they can understand English. And I want them to make noise. Order them to argue.”
“What?”
“You heard me. At least four times a day, I want to hear them yelling. Or singing. Or grumbling about something. I don’t give a shit about what, but make sure they’re loud.”
“I swear, you’ve lost your fucking mind. Will you at least tell me why?”
“No. Just do as I said. If Vasilisa asks, they’ve all been working here for years.” I turn to leave but stop at the threshold and toss over my shoulder, “Make sure they slam the doors open and shut. Often.”
Chapter 8
Clang.
I squint my eyes open, then quickly shut them again. My head is killing me. It feels as if someone is drilling holes through my temples.
Clang. Clang.
“Sbrigati, idiota. Ho bisogno di quella vernice.”
More ruckus. People talking loudly in Italian.
What’s going on?
I drag myself out of bed and walk onto the balcony to look over the railing. Two men in white overalls are propping up a huge door against one of the massive stone pillars on the terrace below. The third one is approaching them with a bucket of paint in one hand and a small brush in another. Further to the left, amid the flower beds, another man is trimming the branches of a shrub and singing while he works.
Behind me, the sound of running feet echoes through the hallway outside my room, followed by female voices. Several of them. What the hell is happening? I scrunch my nose and walk to the door. Cracking it open, I peek outside. There’s a maid plugging a vacuum cleaner into an outlet on the landing, saying something I don’t understand to another girl with a stack of folded towels in her hands. I stare at them in amazement until the woman with the vacuum notices me.
“Hi there.” I wave at her.
For a split second, she simply gapes at me, then looks at the towel girl and barks a few quick Italian words. The other girl yells something back, throws the towels at the first one, and dashes down the stairs.
Ooookay.
I shrug and close the door. Turning around, I’m ready to hit the bathroom when my eyes fall on the red velvet box lying on the coffee table. The lid is open, revealing the beautiful necklace Rafael left as a gift for me. He must have brought it in here while I was sleeping. Next to the jewelry case is a tasty-looking fig. Is this one stolen, also?
I approach the coffee table and sit down on the sofa, right in front of the box. The sunlight streaming through the windows falls directly on the gray gems, making them sparkle like tiny brilliant flames. Accepting necessities like clothes and toiletries from Rafael is one thing. But this? Absolutely not.
How can I accept a gift from a man who keeps me prisoner? It would definitely send the wrong message.
Hesitantly, I reach out and stroke the string of diamonds with the tip of my finger, incapable of suppressing the small smile tugging at my lips. The color certainly does go well with his shirts. How would Rafael react if I actually wore the necklace? Its Y drop is rather long, so the prominent gemstone would probably reach the valley between my breasts. The mere notion of having Rafael’s eyes on my cleavage stirs up the butterflies in my stomach.
I bite my lower lip, then take the magnificent necklace and put it around my neck. Just as I thought, the diamonds at the bottom of the Y-shaped linear strand end up nestled between my girls. Closing my eyes, I slide my fingertips across the pretty stones, imagining it’s Rafael’s hand. His scent fills my senses, and I realize the faintest traces of it are in my hair, likely because he carried me last night. Or maybe it’s just his shampoo.
Whatever the reason, I like it.
Usually, I’m concerned with making sure men’s hands remain off me. It’s the other way around with Rafael. Every time he’s been close, my skin tingled with the need to feel his touch, but most of those times, he’s kept his distance. Because of his apparent indifference to me, I initially thought he wasn’t attracted to me in the least. Now, however, I’m pretty sure I was wrong about that. It’s not indifference, but rather caution. I bet he thinks I’d be scared of him.
I will never forget the expression in his eyes when he stepped under the light last night, allowing me to see him for the first time. So hard. Feral, even. I’m certain he expected me to scream in terror after viewing his face. But scars don’t scare me. Where I come from, most of the men carry some kind of battle wounds, both on the outside and where no one can see.
Mikhail—my father’s interrogator—doesn’t only have a heavily scarred face, but is also missing an eye, as far as I know. I still find him hot as hell. Even with an eye patch.
Then, there’s my uncle Sergei, who still has his psychotic episodes from time to time because of his PTSD. If his wife isn’t around when it happens, bystanders often end up hurt or worse.
Every single person who gets dragged into the criminal world must deal with the aftermath. It’s the reality, and we all live it. Still, I wonder . . . What happened to Rafael’s face?
It doesn’t make him any less attractive, though. If the circumstances were different, I wouldn’t mind going out with him. If I’m being honest with myself, I quite enjoy the time we spend together. Especially the bickering. I’m drawn to the aura of menace he seems to be wrapped in. Captivated by it like a moth beguiled by a flame. And now I crave his touch. The caress of a man who keeps me captive. Who holds the power of life and death in the palm of his hand, and won’t hesitate to use it against my family. Me wanting him is beyond twisted.
I quickly unclasp the necklace and put it back in its box. Then, picking up the fig from the table, I head into Rafael’s office to return the gift, all the while munching on the fruit with pleasure.
Thirty minutes later, I emerge from the bathroom, clad in a dove-gray dress shirt that reaches below my knees and a black necktie that serves as my belt. My freshly washed and brushed hair is braided down my back, and secured at the end with a length of dental floss. Faux-fur slippers are the finishing touch on my elegant attire. I’m ready for my shopping trip.
This day can go one of two ways. One, I get back to the mansion with some suitable clothes. Or two, I end up seated in a padded room across from a guy in a white coat, answering questions like: Do you hear voices?
Descending the wide stairway to the ground floor, I notice several more maids rushing around, cleaning the already rather clean surfaces. Two workers whom I saw on the terrace earlier are removing one of the windows to the left of the front door. Through the gap, I spot a gardener, not the same one as before, kneeling by the flowerbed next to the driveway, pulling out weeds.
The notes of an Italian song reach me as I approach the kitchen. I stop at the threshold and glance inside. A tall dark-haired woman in a simple black dress is working dough on the island, while music plays from the tiny old-school radio on the windowsill. The smell of freshly baked bread tingles my nostrils, making me salivate just from the scent.
“Um . . . Good morning,” I say.
The woman looks up from her work and scans me from the end of my braid, that I pulled over my shoulder, to the tips of my toes peeking out beneath the fluff of my slippers. The expression on her face runs the gamut from surprise to absolute confusion.
“Sei la ragazza di Raffaello?” she asks, her eyes wide.
“I’m not sure where Rafael is. Sorry.”
“Me, Irma.” She points one flour-covered finger at herself, then at me. “You. Rafael’s girl?”
“Um . . . definitely not. Rafael’s prisoner would be a better term.” I point at myself. “Vasilisa.”
