Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Jesus, help me. This man is sick.
He releases the paper and stands, helping me to my feet, then he drops to his haunches again and begins to drag the stupid panties up my legs. It’s not easy. Whoever shopped for me only bought white lace thongs that stick to my skin and twist around themselves. He works slowly, pushing under the fabric of my skirt but he struggles.
“Fuck this,” he mutters, yanking the skirt higher so he can see what he’s doing. I want to die as this stranger looks at my most private place, fumbling with my underwear.
I keep my gaze fixed to the corner of the room, where the marble tile meets the brilliant white of the ceiling, as Alexis Venturi, youngest of the ruthless mafia brothers, settles the edges of my panties over my hips and then reaches behind to position the string correctly between the cheeks of my ass. His fingers aren’t sensual or soft, but it doesn’t matter because I’m a woman with a very warped mind, it seems, and every touch sends heat pooling between my legs. He lingers a few seconds longer than is necessary, and when I look down, I catch him inhaling.
Motherfucker. Is he trying to smell me?
When he stands, he seems unsteady on his feet. And without any shame, he adjusts his pants, hefting a very thick, very erect cock to the side to ease his discomfort.
I gulp as the size of him makes my pussy clench inexplicably.
“You’re seriously turned on by watching me pee?”
He laughs and it’s a little manic sounding. “You say it like you’re surprised.” He heads to the vanity to wash his hands and when he returns, he pushes a lock of my hair behind my ear.
“You’re a very beautiful woman, my little cat. And beautiful women turn men on with just a flick of their head or the sound of their laugh.”
“And piss?”
He shrugs. “Some men like piss. Some men like worse. Me, I just like power.”
“Men are weak,” I say, and he grins.
“Yes, we are. For all the pleasures in life.”
“Can you take me back to the bedroom?”
His hand on my elbow is warm. “You’re not enjoying our conversation.”
“If you keep me tied up, I’ll enjoy nothing.”
“Oh, gattina. I beg to differ.”
But even with ominous words hanging between us, he waits while I settle onto my side on the bed, and leaves, locking the door behind him.
***
It’s Antonio who removes the zip tie from my wrists when it’s time to eat. I don't get to join them in the dining room. Instead, he brings me a bowl of pasta and some grapes and sits in a chair to watch me eat. The pasta is really good. Spaghetti coated in a delicious garlicky tangy tomato sauce infused with basil and a little lemon., topped with pungently strong parmesan, just the way I like it. I wolf it down with little finesse, even though my shoulders are screaming, and my hands barely work.
“Slowly,” Antionio says. “I know it’s good, but I don't want you to choke.”
“Who made it?” I lick my lips like a wolf. “Maybe I should ask for the recipe.”
“I did,” he says.
I stare at the brute of a man who makes the normal sized chair he’s sitting in look like something from a kid’s playhouse. His hands are scarred, his expression always dark like he’s loaded up with a weight of sin too heavy for any one man to carry. He’s the Venturi enforcer. The one who handles the problems with only one option left. My mother told me the stories of these brothers. How Mario was the lover, Luca the ruler, Alexis the joker and Antonio the assassin.
Except he doesn’t seem like an assassin. He’s too big to be stealthy, too stoic to be cunning. It’s stupid to believe that a man who can create such delicious food shouldn’t be able to destroy life like it's nothing, but I was never top of my class. Too distracted by my life to concentrate.
“Do you share your recipes?” I ask.
“No one has ever asked me to.”
“Well, maybe, when you let me go, you can write it down for me. Every time I make it, I’ll think of you.”
His face remains impassive but his cold steel eyes flicker, and I look away, my heart making a painful thud in my chest. Maybe they won’t ever let me go. If my father fails to respond to my begging plea, they won’t just release me. Everything is riding on my father, a man who didn’t have a reliable bone in his body and who hated a defenseless child. I lower my fork and drop it in the bowl, my appetite lost.
I push away the tray and curl on my side in the bed, burying my face in the pillow. Tears scorch a trail of fire in my throat, but I don’t let them win. I swallow them down and wait.