7. Gianna
CHAPTER 7
I went back to bed without checking the room after Niko fucked me in the shower, and somehow I fell asleep. My dreams were fitful, torn between the horrors I witnessed and the best sex I’ve ever had. What a fucked-up situation I’m in.
I get out of bed and grope along the wall until I find a light switch. It flicks on, illuminating the room, and my jaw drops. Of course Niko has to surprise me once again. I was prepared for small, sedate, boring, something hateable, but I should have known. Maybe he’s trying to make me fall in love with him as a final insult to my father.
The tremendous space is beautifully decorated in my preferred warm colors. The bursting pattern of the wallpaper reminds me of the dawn, feeling rich and beautiful rather than tacky. Three full bookcases, a TV, and armoires, with who knows what inside.
Pretty pieces of comfortable furniture and two more doors surround the room. One leads to a closet I have no energy to explore. It’s larger than the one in my apartment, and that wasn’t small. Even if I normally go for this type of materialism, I’m too tired. It’s been so long since anyone cared what I was wearing, since I cared. I’m more overwhelmed than anything else.
Instead of getting dressed, I sit on the floor of the closet butt naked and wrapped in my towel. That seems like a safe option to someone who wants nothing more than to disappear. While on the floor, I find that even the carpet is soft, the kind you’d want to lay on and get cozy. I shouldn’t feel so comfortable here, and I worry that’s another layer to this trap. It’s hard not to loosen up when that’s the entire point—false security.
The room is designed with my preferences in mind, similar to the apartment I loved that my father forced me to leave. A thousand times better than the sparse, if not giant, one he moved me to. I remind myself that time to sit and wallow naked is a luxury I can’t afford when the door could open at any moment. That thought gives me a tiny spark of arousal.
I hate myself for enjoying what Niko did to me last night, for hoping he might come back and fuck me again today. I may hate Niko for everything he’s done, but I loved and wanted him for years before he made me despise him for good. Loneliness and desperation have been my companions for months before he came in like a wrecking ball and destroyed everything. But I don’t know who else has a key to my prison, so he might not be the only one to enter.
The thought of someone else touching me spurs me into motion, and I’m on my feet, clinging tightly to the towel in a single burst. Are there cameras? Are perverted goons watching me from the security room—is Niko? I search carefully but don’t see anything suspicious, not even a cheesy teddy bear with a lens for an eyeball.
Temporarily comforted, I search for clothes. Three dressers and a chest of drawers sit in a row in the closet. I pick the least ornate of the four and open the top compartment that hinges like a trunk. I assume that will hold the utilitarian clothes I’m looking for, but it’s nothing but super lacy thongs.
I check the other three, and the underwear only gets more scandalous. I think I used to be the type of girl who liked this sort of thing, but it’s been a long time since I really felt like that old Gianna. I want to cover my ass, not stage it for him with lace.
I'm not sure if I hate him or the clench of my own traitorous pussy more as I dig through all the sexual suggestions until I find something made of cotton. I’m sensitive as hell down there, and I’ll have a yeast infection in no time if he doesn’t also provide sensible underwear options for a breather.
Has he even thought about things like my period? I haven’t checked the bathroom to be sure, but the underwear selection says no. The bras are just as bad, beautiful of course, but a far cry from comfortable and coverage like I need right now.
As I flip through the options, I realize we’ve ventured more into his preferences than my own. Cool colors, silver, I briefly wonder who Niko’s been fucking in these intervening years and if they wore these colors for him. I’m hit with an intense pang of jealousy.
I hate him. I don’t care who he fucks.
In a drawer full of pajamas, I find a bra intended for sleeping that will do for now. I dress in a pair of jeans and a soft shirt I find toward the bottom of the largest dresser. Everything fits me just a little too well, and I’m disconcerted by the level of care that’s gone into finding a single pair of well-fitting jeans, let alone ten. I don’t even look at the hanging clothes because I suspect I’ll find gowns that fit as well.
Rushing to the bathroom and pulling open the drawers, I find a full complement of not only period products but my preferred brand. I slam the drawer shut. I’m not supposed to be touched that he seems to care so much about giving me a soft place to land. He killed my parents. I’m so overwhelmed by the kindness, I don’t consider how very specific it is.
My own father didn’t care that much when he bought me that cage of an apartment under a shell corporation. He didn’t even get me a bed. That was Carlo. Why does Niko who I haven’t seen in fifteen years know me better than my father or body guard?
I don’t have an answer for that, but Niko’s words sit heavy on my chest, especially because they were truer than he realized. I still don’t want to look in the mirror. Not only do I not care about my appearance anymore, but facing myself after everything is impossible. I was already having a tough time with the mirror in my own apartment, and since then, my feelings have only grown more tangled. I’m too conflicted without that added complication.
I take a deep breath and check the last door, fully expecting it to be locked. My father had Carlo under strict instructions to keep me locked into my apartment unless he said otherwise, so it wouldn’t be much of a change, at least in square footage. The knob turns easily beneath my hand, and the small bit of freedom fills me with as much adrenaline as the drop on a big roller coaster. I’m not trapped in my room.
Did Niko give me more freedom than my father? That certainly sobers me up quickly.
I assumed up until yesterday that Niko lived with his father or very near him. I never considered he moved on in any way. I didn’t, and our lives always seemed so similarly stunted by our duties.
As I walk down the hall, it quickly becomes obvious to me that this is Niko’s home as opposed to the place where he lives. It has personal touches that my own apartment lacked, such as big open windows and exposed wood. I’m so charmed by it that I forget how much I’m supposed to hate him and this entire situation. This place is my prison, but it’s so lovely I’m sidelong to happy as I explore.
Since he left, I’ve worried about someone entering my room, the staff bustling around, waiting to intrude upon me. That was reality at my father’s house, but my fears prove foolish. There’s no one around.
I inspect the house quickly. My stomach growls so hard it hurts as I step into the kitchen. I guess there’s some mercy to be found among the Bouchards after all because I open the fridge to a gorgeous assortment of prepared foods I like.
A fresh ball of burrata, stuffed grape leaves, and hard cheeses. Crusty French bread sits on the counter next to a room-temperature bottle of my favorite red wine “Pigs Fly Bordeaux,” which is strange, given I developed the preference for the cute winged pig on the bottle and the amazing flavor long after we knew one another.
How can he be so cruel and so sweet?
I marvel at the multitude of ingredients and fresh herbs too. It’s been so long since I cooked, and I would love to have someone there to eat it. A little flicker of my old self sparks to life, but immediately sputters out when I realize I have no one to cook for but my parents' killer. I certainly can’t make him my nona’s braciole.
When I’m finished eating, I’m sick to my stomach, because I didn’t deserve to enjoy a meal when my family never can. I don’t deserve to enjoy any of this, but I just did. I pray to God they can’t see me disrespecting them.
I don’t clean up because fuck Niko. I hope the mess upsets him. Though if he peeled me out of my vomit-soaked clothes, I sincerely doubt my mess will have the intended effect.
I dig through the house, opening every door and finding none locked except the exits. I note that men are in the yard, and a lot of them, but none particularly watch the house. I duck back behind the curtain before one of them sees me.
Eventually, I find a window on an upper floor and gather the courage to pull back the curtains fully. As I hoped, no one on the ground can see me from this angle, and I relax ever so slightly.
The view takes my breath away, and if it weren’t for the fact that this place is my literal nightmare, a slice of a horror story, I just might call it perfection. Bright blue sky in every direction, rolling hills full of grapes. This is a vineyard. I gasp for a horrified moment and wonder if he didn’t know it was my favorite wine, but rather he made it. Have I been crying into glasses of his wine?
I stare at the people moving within the giant wall surrounding the house. Calling it a gate isn’t quite fair to the structure. It prevents the happy people beyond from noticing the firepower waiting on the other side. There’s an event being set up for the weekend, maybe a wedding judging by the arches. I pray once more it’s not my own.
I wouldn’t know. No one in my life sees fit to give me a choice in anything. But who's actually left in my life now?
I could start screaming at any time, and it would be meaningless. None of Niko’s men would do anything, and those people beyond would never hear me. The men aren’t aimed at the house necessarily, they’re just milling in the yard. I could get past them if I was determined enough, but am I determined? Is there anything in the world left to run to?
Is Niko counting on the fact that I have nothing, no one, and nowhere to go to hold me here? Does he think I’m unwilling to even try? Because I am absolutely stubborn enough to have nothing. But even as I say it, I’m shaking that someone may see me, and I want to go back to the room that was planned specifically for me.
I can’t take watching people in the sunshine when it’s so profoundly quiet in here. Everything is dark wood and muted colors. It screams hunting club and while it’s beautiful it’s desperate for a pop of color. I find the TV in the living room and turn it on. I flip through the news channels, looking for anything related to my parents.
My heart stops on channel four. Aerial images of our vacation home burned to a shell cover the screen. If I thought my childhood memories felt too close, Niko has permanently solved that problem for me.
But what’s more concerning is the news anchor saying that no one was hurt in the fire except for a housekeeper who was there preparing the vacation home for guests. I cry for Violetta as he goes on to say the home is owned by a shell corporation, and as of now, no charges will be filed.
“Who will bury Violetta?” She didn’t have family here. “Where the fuck are my parents?” I ask the TV, and to no one’s surprise, the anchor doesn’t answer.
Niko immediately comes to mind, as he’s the originator of all of my problems, but something tells me Niko isn’t responsible for this. He was with me the whole time. I sit down and watch for a while longer, thinking about how fucked up everything is and how little I can really do about it.
Where the fuck are my parents?
Images of their murders fill my mind. The house disappears until I’m surrounded by death and the smell of gunpowder. I wonder if Dante died as fast as they did or if he was made to suffer.
I pray they’re all together now and have found some peace far from me. If they can see me, they’re turning in their graves. I choke back tears when I realize what I thought. None of my family made it to their burial. The coffin we buried for my brother was empty. There’s a knock on the front door, and I almost forget to say amen.
I don’t consider answering it because Niko would never allow me that much freedom, and frankly, I don’t want it. If the place burns down like our vacation home did just last night, I’ll actually burn here, unlike my parents. It seems comforting in a morbid way to know what’s coming. That no one can fuck with your body after death if you’re ash.
The door jiggles, like someone is jimmying it. My heart leaps into my throat, but I don’t wait to die like I did last night. I slip into the kitchen to grab a knife, just before the lock gives and the door swings open.
Relief sweeps through my system that Niko didn't remove or lock up the knives. There’s no good reason to pick the lock on someone's front door unless you’re trying to help their kidnap victim, but something tells me that’s not it. I choose a small blade, slipping it out of the block. It’s narrow enough to hide behind my back but wickedly sharp with a Damascus pattern.
I listen intently, waiting for a sign that the intruder is getting close. I'm still in panic mode from last night, and while my instincts failed me then, they won't now.
“Nikolai, are you home, boy?” An older man, if his voice is any indication.
Nikolai is most certainly not home, but that told me about where he is in the house. I keep myself tightly pressed to the wall, waiting. The kitchen is the next logical place to check. I try not to hyperventilate as a sharp men's shoe cuts through the doorway. A tall, graying man stands in front of me a moment later.
“You’re not Nikolai.” Pockmarks divot his face, and a salt-and-pepper beard covers his chin.
Dark eyes survey me. I try to smile, being pretty often disarms men.
“No, I’m not, but he did tell me he wasn’t expecting any visitors before he left. He’ll be back any moment if you’d like to wait outside.” I gesture weakly with my empty hand, letting it shake. I’d rather keep him off his guard.
He smiles back amicably.
"Did Niko tell you much else about where he was going? Maybe I can meet him."
He’s trying to determine how much I know and whether he can get something out of me by playing on my naivety. It’s a common game with mob wives. Some are strategic assets with their secrets locked up tighter than Fort Knox, and others are clueless as to whom they married. My father hoped I’d sit in the latter category.
“You wouldn’t offer me some refreshments while we wait? You look like such a lovely hostess.”
"It really wouldn't be okay with Niko. He doesn't like me to be alone with other men." If my mother taught me one thing, it's how to play the part of the dutiful wife.
"Niko left something for me in his office. I can grab it now.” He goes to walk past me, and for some reason, I step in front of him, like him going through Niko's belongings would somehow affect me. I shouldn't care about anything that might lead to his swift downfall, but I’m not letting this guy into the house.
“Oh, he can be so particular about his things. I think it’s best if you wait for him. Outside.”
He takes a step toward me, and the smile slips clean off his face as he says, “No, Gianna, I think I’ll wait right here.”
He knows who I am. Oh fuck. His fingers dig into my arm, squeezing hard as he yanks me to his chest. While still meeting his eyes, I pull the knife from behind my back and stab directly into his forearm. The incredibly sharp blade cuts through his flesh like nothing, and I very nearly injure myself with the lack of resistance.
I jump back as he tries to land a punch with his good arm. My movement rips the knife out with a thick wet glug, and I avoid the strike.
I’ve never actually stabbed anyone, but the blood pouring from his arm makes me look like a seasoned pro. A flap of flesh hangs loose, and I nearly puke. What kind of knives does Niko keep on himself if that's what he has in the kitchen? He's certainly not worried about me killing myself, and I wonder grumpily why I don’t have a tub if he got me everything else.
“Fuck, fuck, you little bitch.” He swings his good arm again, but he's too far back. The sight of his exposed flesh turns him green. Blood pours out of his arm, thickly splashing against the floor. He glances between the wound and me, trying to decide which is more important to deal with. I’ve proven to him I’m willing to use the knife I’m still holding, so he wisely chooses me.
He stumbles forward, but where he was green a moment ago, he's sickly white, his olive skin nearly translucent. I have every plan to stab him again if I need to, but it proves unnecessary. Two quick steps back and I avoid him as he slumps to the ground.
With his last bit of strength, he struggles to remove his gun from the holster, but he never gets it free. He slumps over, clinging to his weapon rather than his life. After another minute of struggling, he’s dead. I sit down on the floor beside him, my exhaustion overwhelming me, but I keep the knife pointed at his throat.
A while later, I’m sure he’s dead, dead. I lean down to inspect the wreckage of his arm. Nikolai called Domalachego a butcher, but it seems I’ve earned a title of my own. Maybe this would be considered a flaying? He might have been able to survive the wound if he put pressure on it and got quick medical attention, but maybe not.
I drop the knife and reach into the man’s pockets. I'm numb, but it's not shock anymore, just this coldness becoming part of who I am.
Pulling out his wallet, I rifle through his cards and a few IDs. Antonine Durand, Alexandre Bouchard’s second, appropriate I guess for them to die so close to one another. “Rot in hell,” I wish them both.
I've never killed anyone, and I could wallow in becoming a murderer. I could pray, beg for forgiveness, pretend to care about a life lost, but I don’t. Why lie to God when he knows the truth of my heart?
I head deeper into the house to find the office Antonine was looking for. If he came here willing to break in, there must be something awfully important to find, and I need leverage. I’m going to see what Niko Bouchard is hiding if I have to chip the door down with my murder weapon. But I don’t try to leave the house because where the fuck would I go?