Chapter Seventeen
Vida
D eciding to sleep the entire drive here was the best decision I could’ve made. I didn’t want to talk to Ciro after everything this morning, and the guilt and anger just wasn’t sitting right in me. Sleeping was my ticket out of overthinking and having to sit awkwardly next to him, and it worked perfectly. But now, here I am, standing in this room that looks like no one has used it for ages. Something about it feels odd. It is too clean, so meticulously arranged, and very much odd looking. It is smaller than my room back at the Ballera house, but that isn’t the problem and for some reason, I can’t quite place what the problem is.
“This is our room,” he says from behind me and I turn to look at him, confused.
“Our?” I cock my brow. Is he telling jokes now?
“I really do hate repeating myself,” he says in frustration, dropping his bags by the door.
“What do you mean by ours? Where will you sleep? We can’t sleep in the same room?” I say, hoping this is just some sick joke. I know it is our honeymoon and all, but there’s no way I’m sleeping on the same bed with this man.
“The other room is a mess and there was no time to get it cleaned. So it’s either you sleep here or in the car, your fucking choice,” he says, unbothered.
I turn to look around for a couch, but the only thing close to one is a chair in the corner that looks like it would barely fit my butt. There’s no way it will fit my whole body. Why is this happening to me?
“I’ll sleep in the living room,” I say, turning back to face him.
“I don’t care, suit yourself,” he says, raking his hair with his fingers.
Is he tired? He looks exhausted and I wonder how I didn’t notice that when we spoke in his room earlier. Maybe it’s because he was being a total jerk and was yelling at me that I didn’t have time to notice he almost had bags under his eyes.
“Are you . . .” I pause, wondering why I care if he is alright.
“I have a meeting, I’ll be back later,” he says, turning towards the door.
“Wait, what? You’re leaving me in this house?” I say, stopping him.
“Isn’t that what you’d prefer,” he frowns. It’s the same look I mentally give when he’s acting bipolar.
“Yes, but we just got here and what am I supposed to do? Sit still all day and wait for you?”
“The fuck is wrong with you? Don’t you read or something? You have a phone, the TV works. The fuck will I know what you’ll do?” he asks, making me realize how stupid I sound.
“Where is your meeting?” I ask, changing the topic to try not to look sillier.
“The tall building we passed on our way here,” he replies.
How am I supposed to know what building that is? I was freaking sleeping.
“Oh!” I say like I know what he’s talking about.
“The building with the fountain in front?” he says slowly, his brow arched like that piece of information will make sense to me.
“Okay,” I reply, again not having a clue of what building it is.
“I’ll be back later,” he says, turning and opening the door.
“Little chaos,” he calls, that damn name hitting the nerve it always does.
“I’m doing this for your own good,” he says, his voice more gentle now.
“What?” I ask, wondering what he’s talking about.
“You won’t be causing any more trouble,” he says and then leaves, closing the door behind him.
I stand here staring at the door, wondering if I should follow him and ask him what he’s talking about. I don’t have the strength to go back and forth with him some more, so I decide against it. As I walk towards where he’d dropped our bags, I hear a click sound at the door. I walk to the door and try to open it, but it won’t budge.
“Hello?” I call, trying again to open the door, but it still won’t open.
“Open the door!” I yell, realizing the bastard has locked me in here.
“Ciro!” I scream, pulling the handle over and over.
“Stop this and open the door!” I yell, now hitting the door.
After a few bangs, I hear the front door open and close, telling me one thing; Ciro is gone and he left me here, locked up in this room.
I don’t know what takes over me as I watch him drive off through the window, but all I see is red. I can’t remember being this angry since Mom wouldn’t let me marry Adam in high school. I hated her so much that I thought about killing her if that would allow me to marry him then. Now, I want to kill Ciro. I want his life to end at my hands and that is what I’ll do.
I pace back and forth across the room, thinking of what to do, but I can’t figure out a single thing. I try picking the lock on the door, but the bastard left the key stuck in the keyhole. Fuck, he’s smart and that only makes me angrier.
“Fuck!” I curse, realizing just how bad I have to pee.
I storm into the bathroom to relieve myself, and the answer to my problem smacks me right in the face. I’m going to show Ciro that I’m not someone he can toy with.
After a long time on the toilet seat, I decide to see if I can use the bathroom window to escape.
“Fuck!” I yell, slamming my palm against the window. Of course it is stuck, just like everything else in this godforsaken place.
Is this some twisted punishment? God’s way of prolonging my suffering by trapping me here? By making me marry a man like Ciro? No! God would never stoop so low. He would never hand his child to the devil, no matter how much I had sinned.
I walk back to the room and head to the bed, doing my best not to cry. As I think of a plan, my eyes land on a metallic vase sitting on the dresser. It is heavy, cold to the touch, and perfect for smashing my way out.
Wrapping a cloth around it to cushion my grip, I march back to the bathroom and climb into the tub, ready to smash the window.
First, hit nothing.
Second hit, still nothing.
Third hit, not a single crack.
I’m now seething, imagining it’s Ciro’s head I’m smashing. I hate the life in him, the fact we were breathing the same air, and that he’d dare lock me in here, like an animal that needed to be tamed.
With all of the anger surging inside me, I use it to hit the window as hard as I can, and finally, on my sixth hit, the glass cracks.
Yes!” I growl, swinging one more time and watching as the window shatters completely.
I scramble to hoist myself up, gripping the edges of the broken frame. The walls are too slick, making it impossible for me to hoist myself up high enough. I climb back down, grab a stool from the corner of the room, and set it on the tub’s edge, boosting myself higher. A little more pull and I’ll be out, just a little more . . .
“Ouch!” I wince as the stool tips, sending me into the tub with a loud thud.
I can’t hold it in anymore. I sit here in pain, crying for my failed attempt, crying because I’m too angry not to cry, and crying because I know I’m going to try again and I’m afraid I might fall. But I don’t care, I will leave and I will head to Ciro, no matter how long it takes.
I get back up and put the stool in a better position. This time I have confidence in my plan. Taking a deep breath, I try again, using the window to pull myself up, and finally I make it halfway out.
A scream rips out of me as a sharp pain slices through my thigh. Something has scratched me. Glancing down, I catch sight of a jagged piece of glass lodged deep in my leg. A wave of nausea hits me as blood flows freely from the wound. Breaking my finger when I was twelve was the most serious injury I’d ever gotten until now. Seeing blood has never been a big deal to me, but I have never seen this much blood come out of me when it isn’t my period, and my stomach isn’t liking it one bit.
Tears burn my eyes as I stay frozen, staring at the glass, the blood, and the mess I’ve made. My body begins to shake from the pain, but more than that, from the rage flowing through me. I was so close, and now this.
“Fuck,” I curse, my voice hoarse as I grit my teeth together hard. Anger bubbles up inside of me because the reason this is even happening to me is because of him! He’s the reason all these things are happening, and the reason I have broken glass stuck in my leg.
I pry my skin away from the glass and manage to pull myself free, biting my lip the whole time to keep from screaming. I’m out, I made it, but now my leg throbs. Needing to try to stop the blood, I tear my dress and use the fabric to tie around my leg like a makeshift bandage. I have no time to cry over it now. I am leaving no matter how many obstacles I have to face.
With no clear plan in mind, there is only one place I am heading; to that tall building with a fountain out front. Wherever that is.
“Are you okay?” the taxi driver asks, his eyes on me through the rearview mirror.
After walking for what felt like forever, getting a cab should’ve been a relief. Ideally, I should’ve turned back, washed the blood off me, and read a book to calm down, but I couldn’t do that. I was so very mad, that even the temporal comfort of the cab doesn’t change that.
“I’m fine. Please just drive,” I order, looking him straight in the eyes.
“Okay ma’am, where to?”
“The tall building with the fountain in front,” I say, glancing at him through the rearview mirror, hoping that I don’t sound insane.
“Sorry?” He turns to look at me, confused.
“How many tall buildings are there around here?” I ask.
“About four ma’am and two have fountains,” he replies. Poor man is stuck with a raging crazy lady.
I sigh, getting more frustrated. “Which is the closest? Take me there.”
“Okay.” And with that, we’re off.
The drive doesn’t last long, but with every passing second, I feel my heart race as I get closer to Ciro. I want to scream at him and show him that I’m not some toy he can treat however he pleases, but then again, how am I supposed to do that?
“I’ll be right back, I need to ask them something,” I say to the man, before opening the door to step out.
“Wait!” he calls. “Are you . . .”
“What?” I ask when he doesn’t continue right away.
“I apologize, ma’am, it’s none of my business,” he says, almost acting afraid to even speak.
“Ask me the question, please,” I insist, my curiosity taking over.
“My brother works in the Ballera household. Your tattoo . . .” he pauses, motioning towards the back of his neck.
“He said the new wife had the same tattoo given to her. So I was wondering . . .” he trails off, his smile nervous.
“Yes, I am her,” I reply, sparing him the struggle.
“Then you’re at the right place, ma’am,” he smiles warmly.
“Thank you, I’ll be back soon,” I say before getting out.
The stares I get should be enough to kill me from embarrassment, but the plan isn’t to die here in front of a bunch of strangers. So, I focus on the door ahead of me and march right to it.
“Excuse me? Can we help you?” a man in his twenties, definitely security, says as he steps into my path.
“I need to see him,” I say, not even giving him a second glance.
“Who? Please can you stop?” he asks, more like an order than a question. That just pisses me off more. Dude picked the wrong lady to mess with.
“No! I need to see Ciro right now!” I snap.
“Mr. Ballera?” he almost laughs.
“Yes, him.”
“No one sees him, especially not . . .” he trails off, eyeing me with a look of disgust in his eyes.
“Not what?” I ask, my hands on my hips as I try to ignore the pain in my leg.
“You need medical attention. You should see a doctor first,” he says, staring at the makeshift bandage on my thigh.
This idiot is wasting my time and this is Ciro’s fault! I am here, in public, looking like I’ve escaped an asylum, and this . . . boy has the nerve to mock me? I hate the idea that pops into my head the second it does. I didn’t think I’d ever use this card, but even though it makes my skin crawl just thinking about doing it, I can’t let this bullshit drag on any longer.
I walk towards him slowly, a smirk tugging at my lips, making sure his eyes are locked on mine. “I will have your job gone in an instant if you do not let me see my husband.”
“Wh . . . what?” he stammers, his eyes widening as my words sink in.
“I wonder which part of your body my husband will gift me for my birthday. Your hand maybe? He really hates it when people touch me,” I add, watching the color drain from his face.
“You’re not . . . you can’t be,” he murmurs, trying to still be in control. Men.
“I will show you my mark and after that, make sure Ciro has your eyes, deal?” I take another step closer, watching him tremble.
“He’s on the 12th floor, in the conference room,” he says quickly, taking a step away from me.
“Good,” I reply, turning and walking towards the elevator, moving my hair to the side because I know he’ll still be watching me.
This is not the way I envisioned flaunting my new tattoo, but it’ll work.
“Excuse me?” the receptionist calls out, standing up immediately when she spots me making my way towards her after exiting the elevator.
I don’t have time for more back and forth with anyone who isn’t Ciro, so I don’t stop.
“I need to see my husband,” I say, cutting her off with a raised hand.
“Conference room?” I ask, watching her point to the glass door just down the hall.
As they come into view, I realize it’s a full-blown meeting. The men seated around the table are all older, probably Ciro’s father’s age. He is definitely the youngest in the room, but I bet none of the others lock up their wives like animals like he does.
“Ma’am please, the meeting will be over soon,” the receptionist pleads, likely sensing that I’m seconds away from exploding.
“Too late,” I reply, opening the door and stepping into the room, watching only him, even though his back is to me.
“I will get back to you with my final answer, so . . .” Ciro starts, his voice trailing off when he notices all the eyes in the room aren’t on him anymore. They’re on me.
He turns slowly, confusion and surprise settling on his face as his eyes scan me, his gaze stopping on my thigh where my makeshift bandage clings loosely to my skin, soaked in my blood.
In an instant, he is on his feet, rushing towards me and grabbing my hands.
“Who did this to you?” he asks, his voice sharp and commanding.
Who did this to me? The audacity! This man is the fucking reason I am in this mess in the first place, and now he has the nerve to ask who did this to me?
I take a step back, yanking my hands out of his. His eyes stay fixed on mine, clearly waiting for an answer, and without thinking it through, my palm connects with his face, the sharp sting resonating in my hand as the sound echoes through the room. I watch as he holds his cheek, his face turned from the impact, and fuck does my heart feel like it will explode.
“I hate you,” I mutter, my chest rising and falling rapidly. I didn’t know it was humanly possible to feel this much rage.
I watch as he slowly turns his head, his hand still on his cheek, brown eyes meeting mine . . . and . . . a smile? There’s a fucking smile on his lips! FUCK NO! No. Absolutely not.
I’ve always hated boxing, but God does it feel right as my fist collides with his bottom lip. I hope it splits open, wiping that smug look right off his face. My knuckles hurt, but I don’t care. I also don’t care that there are a bunch of strange men staring at me. Nor do I care about the poor receptionist that is standing just outside the room watching this, or the camera I saw when I’d walked in. All I know is that the punch I just delivered feels like a drug, one I can picture myself getting addicted to quite easily.
“You, little chaos,” he growls, his eyes darkening.
“Don’t you dare . . .” I try to say, but before any other words come out, Ciro is lifting me, throwing me over his shoulder, and striding toward the door.
“Put me down! Let me go right now!” I protest, hitting his back to try to break free.
He says nothing. He doesn’t fight back or tell me to shut up, he just keeps quiet until we’re in front of his car.
“Put me down!” I yell, sinking my nails into his neck with all the strength I have left.
“Fuck!” he curses, tossing me into the back seat.
“Shit,” he says, touching his neck and finding blood trickling from the wound I left behind.
“Blood for blood, Ciro,” I snap, watching him stare at the blood on his fingers.
“Little chaos, I’ll be having more than your blood tonight,” he threatens, slamming the door before heading around to the driver’s seat.