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)
In the auction, the lights shining on me blinded me to the faces of the audience. Panic was a serpent winding around my windpipe, stealing my breath and hope. It’s like I’m trapped inside the kind of dream you wake from in a sweat, only half convinced it’s not real.
We arrive at a towering glass building, the type that houses men in suits with bloodstained hands. The Venturi name glows in sleek silver letters above the entrance. My stomach knots. The Venturis. If they paid my price, does that mean they saved me?
Last night, they questioned me like a spy, but I thought they believed me when they let me go. I know nothing about my father and his business. I might carry his name but do it with bitterness and resentment. If he’s even still alive, Carlo Lambretti is my father by blood only. I will never forget the violence he rained down on my family or the hateful words he spoke to us. My mother still carries the scars of his jealousy and fury. She was too beautiful for him, and he never trusted her motivation to marry him. I’ll never know if the rumors that followed her were true or just driven by envy. All I know is that my father should stay away because I’m not the terrified little kid I once was, and if he comes for us again, if he lays his brutal hands on me like he used to or tries to lacerate me with his insults, I’ll kill him myself.
The Venturis have a legitimate grudge against him. I was young, but I had ears. I know why we fled to Maryland and hid with distant family. It makes me question: Am I free or just a different kind of prisoner now?
The night is cold, and it cuts through my skin even though I’m wearing Andre’s jacket over my slut dress. As I climb from the car, I catch him looking at the place the lace dips above my thighs, revealing the shadow of my pussy, and I turn away in disgust.
Men are animals if they can think about sex with a woman who’s vulnerable and captive.
Their base desires repulse me.
I pull the jacket closer around me, revolted by the cloying scent of his cheap cologne, catching sight of a white van slowing down across the street and the shadow of a man staring through the window in my direction.
Vito grabs my arm, and they escort me through to a private elevator, up, up, up until the doors slide open. The penthouse seems empty. It’s pitch black, and our footsteps echo like we’re walking through a deserted showroom. By the light of the moon, the space is sleek and modern, with marble floors and floor-to-ceiling windows that look out over the glittering city. The furniture is low and Italian-designer chic. Precisely the kind of thing I imagine the Venturi’s choosing. Masculine and expensive but soulless like them. It’s eerily quiet, as if the walls are joining me in holding their breath.
“This is where you’ll be staying,” Andre says, his voice a low rasp. He nods toward a door down the hall.
I don’t move. “What do you mean? What is this place?”
Vito sighs, his patience thinning. “You belong to the Venturis now. That means you do as you’re told. Now, go.”
I want to argue, to demand answers, but these men are just paid goons. They probably know less than me. My legs feel weak as I hand the jacket back to Andre and walk the plank toward the distant doorway he indicated. When I open the door, I’m greeted by more of the same decor: a huge low bed in the center dressed in crisp white linens, mirrored nightstands topped with tall lamps, and a substantial white vanity with a mirror above it that touches the vast ceiling. I enter the room, noticing a door to an equally stark marble-filled bathroom. The door clicks shut behind me, and then, the sound of a lock sliding into place. Panic surges through me.
I spin, instinct pressing to pound on the door. “Wait! You can’t just lock me in here! Let me out!”
Silence.
My breath comes in ragged gasps as I whirl around, scanning the room. It’s more luxurious than I’ve seen since I was a young girl, but cold and impersonal—a gilded cage.
I pace, fists clenched at my sides, but exhaustion creeps in fast, and defeat forces me into a curled heap on the bed. My body betrays me, dragging me down into restless, uneasy sleep.
***
When I wake, my eyes fly open, half believing I’m in the small, cramped room at my aunt’s house that smells of mothballs, cigarettes, and stale marinara sauce. In front of me, a tall white lamp stands on a nightstand that almost disappears beneath the weight of the room’s dark reflections. The sight of it brings me to full consciousness of my situation. The air in the room feels different. Charged.