Chapter 6
Cecilia
“Are you in love?” Ms. Donatello, my piano teacher, asks. Every word drips with a particular tartness she uses when she feels her time is being wasted. “No? Then what? Are you bored, Cecilia? Or do you have something better to do today?”
Her brows rise beneath her thick bangs, expecting some sort of explanation for my lack of focus. After years of studying under her tutelage, I’m still terrified of displeasing her. When she gets mad, she gets furious, making sure you remember not to make the same mistake again.
But what am I supposed to tell her?
Not only did I recently confirm I have a stalker, he also broke into my home and now expects me to visit him regularly like it’s some sick joke.
“I’m sorry,” I say, smoothing the front of my skirt with my hands. “It won’t happen again.”
I’m sitting at the piano in her living room in San Maleno’s historic downtown, just like I do every week, going over my recent performance. We’re supposed to be identifying what I did well, what mistakes I made, and how to get better for the next one. If there’s a next one.
“I don’t need you to be sorry,” Ms. Donatello says. “I need you to be present. You did well at the recital, and I’m getting calls from people asking for you to perform at their events.”
That gets me to look up.
“No, they’re not.” I beam, twisting toward her in my chair. A flicker of a smile blooms on her face at my reaction—a rare sight that seems to be erasing her earlier displeasure. “Who? Who called you?”
“The Lombardis. Their eldest son is getting married in New York this winter, and they need a pianist for the wedding. The Morettis too. Oh, and Giada Vitale.” All prestigious families on the West Coast who know my father.
My chest grows with hope, and just as quickly, it plummets, the word wedding reminding me I might not even be here by next month, let alone this winter. My father has managed to take the only good thing in my life—my music—and turn it into something that brings me pain.
“Now, now, don’t get too excited. I told them you still need more practice. But the fact that they called is already a great sign, don’t you think?”
I nod, my smile slowly fading. I’ve been practicing forever, and yet, I know she’s right.
The mistakes I still make when playing, the ones I made on stage that night…
no one noticed them, of course, but I caught my fingers slipping in a few places.
I blamed it on the stalker being there—on Mikhail.
In the end, though, it was probably just another excuse.
“Not the reaction I was expecting,” my mentor says.
“There’s been a lot going on lately.” I look down and then back up at her. “I found out Father wants me to marry…”
“What?”
I run a hand through my hair. “He’s made up his mind, and I don’t understand why. Why let me go to that recital if he had no intention of letting me continue? I can’t be a bride. Not now, and not to someone who will lock me in their house, disregarding everything I’ve worked for my entire life.”
Perhaps my father wanted me to taste a little freedom before snatching it away—a twisted way to feel better about my upbringing, to tell himself he isn’t all bad. It’s the only thing that makes sense in my head.
“Tell me exactly what he said.”
“Nothing,” I say. “Cesare found a list of bachelors in his office. That’s all we know. And he asked me not to tell anyone, so—”
Already standing, she turns to look out the balcony of her apartment, shaking her head. I get up from the piano bench, following her.
“He won’t do it,” she says, her hands wrapped tight around the railing to support her bad leg.
“He can’t. I made a deal with him when he asked me to take care of you after your mother—” She sighs.
My mother’s death has rattled her almost as much as it has me.
They were best friends, knew each other since high school.
“Listen. I want you to take this off your mind completely and focus on your craft. When your father gets back, I’ll talk to him. I will not let him ruin things for you,” she adds.
Her determination doesn’t surprise me. It’s not just my dream to perform all over the country—it’s hers too.
Ms. Donatello used to work for The Hive—a prestigious gentlemen’s club in New York City that isn’t really a gentlemen’s club, but more of a place where you can hire honeypots to seduce and ruin powerful people.
Everyone in the mafia uses their services for all sorts of reasons.
Before the car accident that ripped her job away and crushed her leg, even my father used to employ her regularly.
After that, she had no choice but to begin teaching piano.
I know she loved her job, though, as insane as it was. It meant power, and money, and timeless elegance, which, granted, she hasn’t let go of. She was damn good at bringing men to their knees, she always tells me. Now, the piano lessons are all she has.
Sucking in a breath, I nod, albeit hesitantly. If there’s anyone who can persuade my father about anything, it’s definitely her.
“So what else?” she asks, turning to face me with her arms crossed.
“What do you mean?”
“You said there’s been a lot going on lately. Other than your father’s bullshit, what else?”
I freeze.
“What is it, girl? What aren’t you telling me?”
Maybe it would be good to confide in her about everything else. After all, there’s no one in this world I trust more than her. She’d know what to do. But something squeezes my chest, making the truth impossible to let out. Why can’t I tell her about Mikhail?
“Is it the nightmares? Are they still troubling you?”
“Yes. And I’m jumpy. On edge. I can’t rest…” I yammer.
She studies my face briefly. “Same dream?”
“Same dream…” I sigh.
When she saunters over to where her purse sits on the table across the room, a wave of smoky fragrance reaches my nostrils. She returns with a vial, which she presses into my palm. It’s got a pale white liquid inside it, contrasting her red manicure.
“Use it for a few nights,” she says. “Not more than two drops.”
I peer down at the small object, wrapping my fingers around it.
Hive women are famous for these types of tinctures—they can put down men twice their size, temporarily or for good.
Although this is a mild version, my father would chastise me if he knew I was taking it.
I’m not allowed alcohol or drugs or anything that clouds the mind—ever.
But I’m too sleep deprived to care at this point.
“Thank you,” I say, relief coursing through me. I take the vial and find my own purse, hiding it well.
Ms. Donatello nods. “Now sit back down and let’s go through your recital again.”
An hour later, when the sun is setting, a guard who isn’t Enzo drives me back home. I managed to get him off work today by complaining about his cologne—that it made me nauseous.
We ride in silence as my mind races through the latest events. At the very least, I’m no longer jumpy, knowing where Mikhail will be from now on.
Exhaustion weighs heavier on me this evening, shifting my thoughts to my comfortable four-poster bed. With Ms. Donatello’s tincture, I should be able to fall asleep with no problem now.
And I do.
Once I’m home and my head hits the pillow, it’s like my body finally remembers how to rest. My eyes flutter slowly, the spell of night enveloping me in drowsiness.
The weight of my sheets feels just right.
My skin feels soft and warm after I’ve showered, and I lose more and more of my consciousness with every breath.
And then—
The mattress dips to my right under new weight that isn’t mine.
A low hum spears the silence, the warm breath that comes with it running down the back of my neck. Goosebumps erupt in its wake, making my eyes flutter open.
The first thing I see is the clock on my nightstand, which is now showing four AM.
Am I awake? Or am I dreaming?
“Easy to find…easy to get to,” a voice says, making my heartbeat stop.
There’s someone here. There’s someone in my room.
I must be dreaming, because not a single inch of my body can move.
I focus on my limbs, on pushing into the mattress, but everything feels too heavy. I’m paralyzed, drowsy in a way only Ms. Donatello’s tincture—or a sleep paralysis episode—can make me.
There’s a hand—a knuckle, warm and weightless, that skitters down my back. It’s curious, endearing almost. Eerily present and responsive to the goosebumps erupting there too.
A whimper leaves my throat, muffled and scratchy.
“Am I in your dreams, pretty girl?” the voice asks, and I realize who it belongs to.
Mikhail.
Of course it’s him.
Which means I really must be dreaming, because the real Mikhail is locked up downstairs.
“Yeah, I am,” he chuckles, his hand brushing my silk nightgown until it reaches my thighs. “Keep dreaming, then. Tell me where you need to be touched.”
“N-Nowhere,” I manage, squeezing my eyes shut.
Wake up. Wake up, and he’ll be gone.
“Lie. We both know you’ve done it before.”
His hands wrap around the backs of my thighs, close to the apex. He pries them apart inch by inch, and my pussy opens to the cool ocean breeze coming in through the open window. It sizzles against my heated flesh, even through my panties, which tells me things about myself I’m not ready to accept.
I’m wet. Slick, like I’ve been whenever I dream of my stalker.
Move. Please move.
He’s not a faceless shadow anymore. I don’t get to think about him like this anymore. Down in that basement cell, my monster is real, and giving in to that fantasy will only prolong his presence in my head when I should be trying to get rid of it.
But the throbbing between my legs… God, why is it so hard to ignore?
“Unless, perhaps, you want me to see it first. Tell you how pretty it looks through my eyes,” he says, his warm fingers digging into my thighs as if he’ll die if he lets go.
He wants me to show him my…m-my…
I swallow back my shame, a muffled moan resounding from my throat. It’s a dream, yet it feels lucid, and my thoughts take a horrific turn.
Would it be so bad if I did it? It’s my dream, after all. My rules.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” I confess to myself out loud.
Another chuckle—low, and cruel, and carnal—rumbles above me. I wish I could turn onto my back, wish I could see him, but I still can’t move. All I can do is lie here and wait for whatever my mind decides he will do to me.
First, he peels his hand off one of my thighs. Then, he hooks a finger around my panties, pulling them to the side slowly, as if he’s savoring the sight.
I tremble, feeling everything—his warmth, my dripping arousal, his gaze stationed there, on that vulnerable spot.
“My fucking God, sweetheart,” Mikhail mutters, as if he’s mesmerized. That tone—that sheer obsession in it—makes me melt further into the mattress. I mewl with pleasure, and he hasn’t even touched me.
If I wanted to, I could take him inside. Just this once…
But that’s a line I’m not ready to cross, even in the privacy of my mind.
“I want you to see me in that crowd again, at your recital. What did I ask of you, Cecilia?”
I whisper, “T-to not make a sound.”
He hums in agreement, his voice smooth but hard, like molten thunder. His grip tightens, and as he pulls the back of my panties up, they scrunch into a hard string of material. And that string…he brings it between my pussy lips, where it can rub against my throbbing clit.
“Ah, ahh,” I moan softly, writhing as more heat ignites in my core, the ocean breeze coiling around me, trying to smother it to no avail.
I’m too hot, my body too demanding, too wanton. My nipples graze the sheets underneath me, hardening, wanting to be touched. Why isn’t he touching me?
He bends down, his face now mere inches from my ear. “Not a single fucking sound, Cecilia.”
We’re so close, and this is too dangerous, and he smells like…like orange blossoms.
Like my shampoo and shower gel.
It’s the thing that pulls me out of that drowsiness, but I still can’t get up. The way he rubs the string of my panties against my pussy has me a different kind of paralyzed.
“Show me what you do when you think no one’s watching. Let me see your pretty cunt pulsing when you come,” he whispers as I shatter through an orgasm so powerful, it knocks the breath out of my lungs.
Everything in me groans and rattles, like an earthquake hitting a field that’s never been ploughed.
I muffle my voice with the pillow, regaining control over my body. I grip its edges with both hands while my lower body—that soft, aching spot between my legs—rubs itself against the bed and the string of panties he created, riding the high.
It goes on forever, my breathing erratic by the time I come down. When I do, I don’t have the courage to turn onto my back. Because I know, even if he has disappeared in the meantime, that maybe I wasn’t dreaming.
That Mikhail might have been here somehow.