Chapter Three Lila #2
Mama had always been overprotective of me. Most of the time I was grateful, but this time…this time something dark and resentful unfurled behind my rib cage.
“Oh, I wouldn’t count on this, Lady Chiara,” Angelo’s mouth moved smoothly as he stepped back.
A sheet of brutality draped over his expression.
“I could count the things I wanted and never got on one hand and intend to keep it that way.” His gaze flitted to President Keaton across the room and the woman he held possessively in a waltz. His wife, Francesca.
“Forgive my wife.” Papa inclined his liver-spotted head. “The wedding preparations have left her exhausted and distraught. She means no disrespect, Bandini. My daughter…” Papa pinched my cheek, then kissed his fingers. “She’s simple, you see.”
What a prick. Mama told him to stop using this derogatory word, but he never listened.
“No hard feelings, Don Vello.” Angelo’s lips expanded into an insincere smile, which my father returned. He then yanked Mama by the elbow, dragging her reluctant figure to the dance floor to save face. Angelo strode away, but not before giving me one last derisive look.
I stood alone, surrounded by couples.
Jealousy clogged my throat. I normally didn’t mind being left alone—preferred it, actually—but right now, I hated it.
I turned around and stormed away, shouldering past catering staff and uniformed waiters. The main entrance was swarming with soldiers and security, so I slipped through the wine cellar’s door.
I was immediately clasped in a womb of darkness.
Crimson Key was an island tucked between Florida and the Bahamas. An independent jurisdiction that belonged to my family. The Devil’s Playground, as the rich called it.
It consisted of our mansion, a few hotels of award-winning grandeur, golf courses, and casinos. Trusted friends of the family had snowbird properties here, but it was Ferrante turf through and through.
Tropic humidity licked at my skin. I felt suffocated—by the heat, my dress, and most of all, my family.
I glared behind my shoulder at the arched windows of the ballroom.
Usually, when music started playing, I retired to an adjoining empty room, laid on the floor, and closed my eyes.
The bass reverberating against my spine mimicked the tempo of the music.
It was the closest I could get to listening to it.
Right now, though, I didn’t want to lie still.
Wrenching my heels off, I stomped barefoot past the Roman balustraded pool and the densely planted cypresses framing the estate, farther down, toward the thick woods enveloping the back of the property.
I kicked the dirt with a huff as I left the pickleball court and pool house behind me, putting more space between the wedding and me.
At the end of the vast expanse of tropical trees was a strip of pearly-white sand kissing the Atlantic Ocean.
It was my secret spot. A place I often visited on the island when no one was paying attention.
I didn’t care that I was soiling my dress with dirt and mud. Didn’t care that Papa was going to be furious. That Mama was going to be worried. I wanted to lick my wounds privately.
Ten minutes later, I reached the end of the woods. I fell down to my knees, the cold grains of sand digging into my fine bones, and stared at the blackened ocean, biting my lower lip. I grabbed a handful of smooth rocks, tossing them out to the ocean.
Never would I hear the sound of waves crashing on the shore.
Skip. Skip. Skip.
Never would I waltz to live band music.
Skip. Skip. Skip.
Never would I sing along to a familiar tune.
Skip. Skip. Skip.
Never would I kiss a stranger’s mouth, warm and soft and alive, feel their pulse beneath my palm, or whisper secrets into a lover’s ear.
The last rock sank into the water without skipping.
An angry roar ripped from my throat. Broken, desperate, yet I couldn’t even hear it.
Behind my back, there was a castle, and dancing, and lights, and life.
There were plans, hopes, and dreams.
There were people with agency over their own decisions.
Suddenly, a hand clasped my mouth from behind. I gasped, my eyes flaring in horror. An arm wrapped around my throat forcefully, dragging me backward. It was so unexpected, it took me a second before I dug my toes into the sand, bucking, fighting the intrusion.
Somebody followed me here.
And that person knew we were far enough not to be seen or heard.
Panic flooded my system and kicked my instincts into high gear. Whoever held me was male, strong and in a frenzy.
I bit the hand that clasped my mouth, sinking my teeth into his flesh until the metallic taste of blood detonated in my mouth.
My attacker jerked, tumbling down to the sand and taking me with him.
I fell against his torso, his forearm still pressing hard against my throat.
Pressure filled my ears. I fought and kicked and clawed, thrashing and roaring, a wild thing; his fists came down on my face, my neck, blow after blow, making my ears ring.
My fingernails punctured his skin, digging so deep they broke and splintered.
Something long and thick swelled against my butt.
It promised pain and punishment and made the blood freeze inside my veins.
No. No way. I won’t let it happen.
I writhed like a reptile, twisted sharply. I managed to bite his arm, sinking my teeth into his skin until it split, and managed to break free.
Air. I was finally able to welcome it into my searing lungs. I took a greedy gulp of it.
Looking back was a luxury my time constraint couldn’t afford.
Instead, I army crawled across the sand, desperately blinking away the stinging blood from my eyes.
My crown of roses fell to the sand. In the dark, I could see that the flowers weren’t white anymore.
They were dark red. Drenched in my own blood.
My breath rattled in my lungs like a coin in an empty tin.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Breathe.
He snatched my ankle, yanking me back with force.
Flipped me to my back roughly, then used a knife to slash the front of my dress, leaving a trail of hot, searing pain across my skin.
I arched, crying out in horror. I kicked and punched him, too panicked to take in his features in the dark.
It felt like trying to fight my way out of a fishing net.
He was everywhere, all at once, too heavy, too much.
Sharp, frenzy eyes flared in the dark, taking in my bare breasts, my nipples, my stomach.
I recognized those eyes. Had seen them before. Two barrels of a gun, staring back at me.
I cataloged him into memory. Filed every plane of his face, each individual hair in his eyebrows.
I’m going to draw you.
And then I’m going to find you.
And then I’m going to kill you.
If you are stupid enough to let me live after this.
As he pushed my panties down my thighs, a peculiar calm washed over me.
In order for him not to kill me, I had to pretend I didn’t know what was happening to me. If he thought he could get away with it, he’d spare me.
I stopped fighting, letting my muscles lax, forcing my mind to drift elsewhere.
Ischia sunsets. Boat trips. Busy markets. Books. Imma’s grilled prosciutto and mozzarella sandwich.
He pushed a chemical-soaked rag to my face, one hand pressing against my mouth. I held my breath while he slapped my right breast, laughing as his hand skated down to the space between my thighs.
Men are filthy. Mama’s words rang in my head. They make you suffer when they have their hands on you. Never let them.
A lifetime passed. And then another. I became dizzy with lack of oxygen. The rag pressed harder against my mouth and nose. Finally, my traitorous body took a sharp inhale of breath. The chemicals rushed into my system. My eyelids grew heavy, my body slacked. I became a rag doll.
Boneless. Weightless. Defenseless.
My body melted into the sand, my mind drifting to the clouds. I was far away now, somewhere he couldn’t hurt me, no matter how hard he tried.
The last thought to cross my mind was that this stronzo could still kill me.
My last hope was that he would.