Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
B ianca
One moment, everything is soft, black, and peaceful. The next moment, I blink, and the harsh light of day has me desperately craving a way back to the peace. I close my eyes, attempting to find it again. From far away, I can hear the music for the opening credits of a popular sitcom and want to scream because the peace is slipping further and further away.
No, please come back .
My lungs are burning, demanding air. Shit. There’s no fighting it anymore, I’m awake. I blink and wonder for two seconds where the fuck I am. Then I inhale, and the scent of Gaetano fills my lungs.
Gaetano? My eyes pop open, and I search the room for him. It’s a huge room that’s basically empty. There is only the massive bed I’m on, two black bedside tables with boring, black metal lamps with plain white canvas shades, and an enormous flat-screen television. The walls are stark white without any pictures or artwork. I’ve seen hotel rooms with more warmth than this room.
Wait, I flick my eyes back to the bedside table. The black alarm clock’s digital display has me frozen in shock. It’s three o’clock? It’s sunny from where the heavy black curtain didn’t close all the way. What? No, it’s the afternoon. I remember vaguely that it was around six when I got here. Oh my god, I almost slept for a full day.
Dim fragments of memory that feel like they happened years ago are tumbling around in my head as I try to remember even coming in here. Gaetano holding me while I cried. The way those usually hard black eyes were so soft as I told him about the woman in the bookstore. Then I was in my dorm room, and he was a dick and rushed me to get my stuff. Somehow, we were here again, and he made me a bean and cheese burrito I ate while I started floating.
And the final memory, Gaetano admitting what he did. Drugging me in case he needed to keep me here to hand me over to Sandro… Oh my fucking god. Gaetano drugged me. I cannot believe him. How could he do that when I trusted him?
I think that’s what hurts the most. Gaetano’s loyalty to Sandro came before me. There shouldn’t be any pain—it was stupid. Of course, he’s going to do what he thinks is better for Sandro than me. I don’t care, it still hurts.
Without thinking, I’m scratching my neck. As my nails leave a mark, I see the skin is red from how strongly I was scratching. No, oh damn it. It’s back with a vengeance. And I need it, or I need a gummy right fucking now.
Damn, Gaetano. Throwing off the sheet and thick comforter, I find I’m in what I wore yesterday. Gross. I usually can’t sleep without taking a shower at night. Another mark against Gaetano. I swear to god, I’m getting clean, and then I’m never going to see the smug fucker ever again.
I find him on the recliner in front of the television, reading like he’s got nothing better to do. I’m stunned by how badly I want to strike out at him, not only verbally but physically. “You bastard. I hate your fucking guts, and I’m never going to forgive you for what you did to me.”
One lone eyebrow goes up. “And what did I do exactly?”
“You drugged me, and you got me hooked on THC. How could you do that when I came to you for help?”
His sigh is one of suffering, and the urge for violence won’t leave me. “You are not hooked on THC. It isn’t something you're going to be dependent on, like the speed you were taking. Once the withdrawal is over, you won’t want a gummy again. You want it now because you know you can’t have the other shit—that’s all it is. Whether you want to believe it or not, I was trying to help you. Now, do you want a gummy to calm your ass down or not?”
I don’t trust him. As badly as I want a gummy, I don’t think it’s safe to take one from him. He’s also so very wrong. Who the fuck wouldn’t want to float away rather than be stuck dealing with all the angst, pain, and bullshit that comes with being stuck here?
Another sigh from him and I can’t stop from taking a swing at him. Before I get within a foot of him, he’s got me up in his arms, my back to his front.
“Let me go, you fucker.” I’m yelling as I struggle against his hold. Hating him and myself for wanting to give up fighting and just cling to him with every muscle in my body.
“Not until you calm down. Here, take it. This is unopened, still factory-sealed, fifty milligrams worth in only five milligrams per gummy. So, a full quarter of what you took yesterday. This is what you would have started with if I hadn’t had questions about what I would do with you.” He squeezes my middle in warning when I refuse to take it.
Giving in, I take the pouch from him. The moment I do, he sets me down on my feet and lets me go, and I’m back to hating him.
I study the package, reading every single word. It is unopened and not something that could be faked by shrink wrap or anything. The picture shows little balls coated in sugar.
Annoyed with myself for the way my hands shake as I open it, I’m fighting not to tear it open. It’s another struggle to pull apart the zipper closure. Once it’s finally open, I don’t even hesitate to pop one in my mouth and swallow it without chewing.
Finding Gaetano’s eyes on me, his expression is unreadable. When our eyes meet, half of his gorgeous mouth slides up, and that damn wicked grin starts heat flowing where it shouldn’t because I hate him. “You have a horrible right hook. Sandro should be ashamed.”
I shake my head. “No, I’m ashamed. I really wanted to hit you. And I slapped Kitty when she didn’t give me the number of pills I paid her for. I hate this stuff, feeling like this. This isn’t me.”
Those black eyes narrow on me as he studies me. His head goes to the side. “I told you, that’s what drugs do—they lie to you. Don’t be so hard on yourself. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Haha. You’re fucking hilarious. When is the THC going to kick in? Will it be like yesterday…” I’m trying to calculate how long it took before I felt the effects of it yesterday. “Holy crap, an hour, it’s going to take an hour to feel better?”
Shaking his head, he checks the watch on his wrist. It’s a nice watch. How the hell did I not notice it yesterday? Or maybe I did and don’t remember it. It’s a freaking Patek Phillipe watch.
I went shopping with Sandro when he bought his a few years ago. Sandro’s was more than two hundred grand. The one Gaetano has on is one I would have picked for Sandro. I loved the black face with the stars and a sliver of a moon on the face. Sandro wanted one that was plain, and he didn’t think the three hundred and twenty-five thousand dollars was worth it for the slight difference between the two watches. So does that mean Gaetano makes more than Sandro?
“This dose will probably be about half the time. The one thing that’s a pain in the ass about THC is your body will get used to it pretty quickly. More than likely, by the time you’re coming out of withdrawal, you’ll need a twenty milligram to feel better.”
“Are you serious?” Please let him be wrong or joking.
The asshole nods. “By day three, you’ll probably feel it within ten to twenty minutes. You will also have developed a high tolerance from taking it every day, four or five times a day, to keep the withdrawal effects at bay.”
“So many times a day is insane,” I argue.
An eyebrow goes up. “It’s up to you. But it only lasts about four, maybe five hours.”
My legs threaten to give out from under me as I sag into the recliner he was in. Running a hand over my face, “I’m such a fucking idiot.”
An exhale of air that might be a laugh comes from him. “No, you aren’t. You’re a kid trying out the world and seeing what she likes and doesn’t like about it. It’s called growing up. Sometimes, it’s figuring out if you have a taste for oysters only to find they give you food poisoning because they weren’t kept cold.”
“Is it the weed kicking in, or are you actually being nice to me right now?” The words are out before I can stop them.
Holy shit, it’s an honest to god laugh that comes out of him. Oh, it is so unfair how gorgeous this man is. I can’t believe a part of me is glad he doesn’t laugh because I would be so fucked if he did it often. I finally understand the word stunned. My whole body is frozen, unable to move for fear of missing a second of him laughing.
He shakes his head. “I’m hoping the weed kicks in fast for both of us. You hungry? Are you ready for me to make you something to eat?”
I consider the question. My body’s reaction isn’t quite as strong as it was yesterday at the thought of food, but it still doesn’t appeal. “No, thanks. I’m not hungry yet.”
“This is why it’s important to phrase it properly. My own damn fault for not saying it the right way.” Gone is the softness to his eyes and his gorgeous face, everything is hard and unforgiving. “What do you want to eat? It’s been almost an entire day since you ate a single bean and cheese burrito. You will eat something. I’ll give you the choice first, but if you don’t choose, I will.”
“Fine. I hate you, and I hope I throw up on you. I’ll take another burrito. Right now, I need a shower. Except I don’t have the stuff I need for my shower.”
“We can go get the stuff you need now.”
“Ew, no. I’m not running around unshowered. That’s gross.”
Rolling his eyes. “I have stuff, including an electric toothbrush with extra toothbrush heads in the linen closet in the bathroom. The shower stuff and deodorant smell like a guy. No vanilla sugary crap, one time isn’t going to kill you.”
Anger flares hot and bright at how he’s treating me like a little kid, speaking slowly and in a soft tone. “You’re such a jerk. Make me the stupid burrito, and I’ll go figure it out.”
Stomping away from him without another word. I slam the door to his room closed. Only to be the one who pays for it when the loud crashing sets off a stab of pain above my left eye. Ouch, fucking hell, that hurts .
I make my way into the attached bathroom on unsteady legs. While I remember I needed my bathroom stuff, I don’t remember what he has that I can or can’t use. I also don’t remember this bathroom, which is crazy because it’s nice. A large four-piece in all-white porcelain and marble, with the toilet in a closet. The shower is a large walk-in with a row of body jets and a handheld showerhead in addition to the overhead rainfall showerhead. The bathtub is huge, large enough to fit two in a deep jacuzzi that has an electronic pad with more buttons than the dashboard of my SUV.
The double sink vanity is a thick slab of marble. Only an electric toothbrush, an electric razor, and a tube of toothpaste are on it. Through the glass walls of the large walk-in shower, I see shampoo, conditioner, body wash, shaving cream, and a razor in the large cubby hole in the wall.
I open a door and find the linen closet I assumed it would be. There isn’t much in it besides towels and refills to the stuff he’s using. Although I am relieved to find a bottle of expensive unscented lotion that I’ll be able to use after my shower. Two razors for him, but nothing for people who might need it. Sighing, I shake my head, he really never has anyone over—not his brother or women.
I’m going to not think about how sad that feels. I need a shower. Maybe the cool water will soothe my tight and itchy skin and make me stop thinking of Gaetano and his empty house while I do it.
Grabbing a washcloth from the closet and a towel, another sigh escapes me when I realize there is nothing for me to put my hair up with. While it’s been a few days since I washed my hair last, it’s not so dirty that I have to. Since there’s no hair dryer or anything to style it with, I’d rather wait until my next shower to wash it. And I’m good to use his shampoo and conditioner. It’s the kind of stuff you pay forty dollars per tiny bottle for at a salon.
Annoyed, I leave the bathroom in search of my purse for the ties I usually keep in it to put my hair up. When I come out of the long hall, I find the living room empty and Gaetano moving around the kitchen.
Seeing me, he stops. “What’s the matter?”
“I need my purse. For something to put my hair up with so I don’t get it wet.” I explain.
“It’s in the walk-in closet with all of your stuff. I emptied a drawer for you in the island, top one on the right. Do you want to eat this now?” He offers me the burrito.
Suddenly, I’m starving at the smell of it. I take the plate with a shrug and head back to the bedroom.
“Nope, not in there. Sit down and eat where I can watch you.” He shakes his head and nods to the recliners in front of the television.
Rolling my eyes, I sigh and sit down in one. “Fine. Control freak.”
“That’s me.” He agrees as he sits in the other recliner beside me. Picking up the remote, he flicks through the channels until he stops on sports news.
Ugh, I hate sports. A glimmer of a memory shines of him saying the same thing yesterday. “So what happened yesterday?”
Black eyes might be void of emotion, but the air around him is suddenly thick with a tension I don’t understand. “What do you mean?”
Now I’m embarrassed. “I don’t know. I don’t remember much, and it feels weird to forget a whole day.”
“Wasn’t much to it. You cried some, called me some names, and then you were out.”
“Well, that’s informative.” I scan the room. “Do you not like furniture or something? Why is this place so empty? How long have you lived here?”
Those black eyes narrow on me, studying me for a moment. “You really don’t remember yesterday.”
“You answered the question already…yesterday.” The words spill out of me.
“I did.” The words are soft. A sigh comes out of him. “I keep the place empty to keep my little brother from coming over and annoying me. Since he brings up the past—the years of us growing up when I would rather forget it. As far as this house, it belonged to my in-laws, and when my father-in-law died… With my wife dead and her husband dead, my mother-in-law ended her life. This was their place, and I liked it more than where I was living. I moved in here six years ago. It’s not that I don’t like furniture. I just don’t care about what’s not necessary.”
My stomach drops, and my chest twists painfully. “You were married? And she died?”
A small nod.
“Did you love her, and that’s why you’re so mean? Because you’re sad she’s dead.”
His laugh is bitter, without humor. “I’m mean because I was forced into a marriage at nineteen with a seventeen-year-old girl who made my life hell. My only release from that hell was her death five years after we married. Her death wasn’t a surprise. It was a long, hellish four years of hospitals, chemo, radiation, and nurses. She had childhood leukemia that kept coming back before it finally killed her. I’m glad she’s dead. Don’t look so sad, angel. Neither one of us deserve your tears.”
“Why did they force you to marry her?” Escapes between numb lips.
“Eat your burrito.” It’s an order. When I take a bite, he nods. “Her parents came to me when she was sixteen to discuss me marrying her.”
“Sixteen?” I’m glad I swallowed my bite of food because I would have choked on it.
His jaw is tight. “She wanted me after seeing me at a la familia event. The whole thing grossed me out. I was eighteen at the time and not really interested in marriage. As far as I was concerned, marriage wasn’t for another decade or something. Her father teamed up with my father. My father was pissed at me for resisting and finally said if I didn’t marry her, he would block access to my brothers. For me, my brothers were the most important thing in my life. I needed to ensure they were taken care of because my father was a functioning alcoholic who rarely remembered he had children. The only good thing to come from the marriage was it gave me the excuse to never marry again that the bosses understand. They aren’t saying I need to marry the way they talk about Sandro and Luca.”
My stomach twists painfully. “Why did she make you miserable?”
“Because she thought wanting was love. Except even the wanting she had for me was bizarre. I wasn’t a real person to her. She was a kid who didn’t know the first thing about love. She thought she could make me love her if she tried hard enough—I only felt suffocated. In the end, I was grateful when she died.”
It sounds like they were both miserable. I couldn’t imagine being tied to Gaetano and him not even liking me let alone loving me—it sounds like pure hell.
I focus on the burrito and take another bite. Until a thought hits me. “You’re not weirded out this place could be haunted with everyone dying in it?”
Actual laughter comes pouring out of him. I’m so freaking proud of being able to make him laugh not once but twice. A part of me aches at how rusty it sounds, like he doesn’t do it often, and it’s almost new to him.
Shaking his head. “I’m not because, as far as I know, no one has ever died in this house. My father-in-law died due to a car accident. They got him to the hospital and got him a few more hours before he died. As for my mother-in-law, she wasn’t taking any chances, and she used her sister’s gun at her home. When he died, I took all the weapons in the house—per his request. I think he knew she would do something. So, while she was dealing with everything at the hospital, I cleaned the place out.”
A commercial comes on about a college game, and I’m reminded I’m supposed to be at school right now. “Shit. I need to email my professors and see who will be cool and who will fail my ass.”
Hoping to catch them before they leave for the day, I move fast into the bedroom and walk-in closet. Oh wow. The closet is huge. It’s bigger than my dorm room was, and it’s filled with clothes. While almost all of his clothes are black, there are a few different dark colors like gray, blue, and brown. I lose count of how many suits he has. His casual clothes are barely casual, there almost no t-shirts and only five pairs of jeans.
I’m jealous of the number of shoes he has. There are fifteen pairs of handmade dress shoes, twelve pairs of sneakers, and four pairs of work boots. Everything I can see looks brand new, with no rips, tears, or even a stray thread, both clothes and shoes. The difference between this filled-to-the-brim closet versus the empty house means something but I have no idea what it could even be.
Giving up on figuring it out for now, I focus on my stuff on top of the large island. I blush as I see my panties and bras folded neatly on my shirts and leggings. There is no memory of me folding this stuff or even what it is. Did I do this? Did he do it? Or did he see my stuff like this while he emptied the drawer?
Ugh, never mind. It’s done. Focus girl. It’s frustrating how I know I need more than bathroom stuff, but can’t remember what I do need.
I count three pairs of panties, four bras, two pairs of leggings, a super stretchy camisole I had to have grabbed by accident, and three shirts.
Great, I’m going to need to grab more stuff. I freaking hate buying fat clothes at any place that isn’t a fat chick store. The red bullseye place is okay, but the clothes are super cheap and don’t always fit quite right.
In my purse, I find my phone. There isn’t a single missed call or text from anyone—not even Sandro. Twenty-four hours without a phone, and no one knew or cared enough to reach out to me. Shaking my head, I blink back the tears and refuse to think about it.
I get into my email as I walk back into the living room. It’s going to take me a minute to write this freaking email.
“You aren’t done with your burrito,” Gaetano says as I sit down again.
Sighing, I take a bite. “Can I get something to drink?”
“Yeah, I got sweet tea, Coke, orange juice, and coffee.” He stands.
“Sweet tea, please.”
I’m deleting my last sentence when he comes back with a glass and hands it to me. I take a sip and try again to write something better. A few more tries and a bite of the burrito, and it’s as good as it’s going to get.
“What do you think?” I offer him my phone.
Taking it, he reads the email. “I missed class today because I have the flu. I’m expecting to be out for the next two weeks. Is there any way I can make up the time I missed once I’m back, or is there work I can do while I’m out?”
He shakes his head. “They’ll all shut this down. The flu is too much of a maybe on time?—”
“You’re using the flu excuse. I can’t think of anything. I’m scared someone is going to ask for a doctor’s note or something showing I went to the urgent care or ER.” I admit.
One broad shoulder goes up and down. “I can get you a note, no problem. It’s best to go with pneumonia. Pneumonia will give you more flexibility on time and recovery. If you feel better sooner, they’ll believe it since someone relatively young and healthy could recover faster. However, if you need more time, it would be understandable to them.”
He pulls out his own phone from his pocket. It takes him a minute to find the person he wants to call. While he’s focused on his phone, I study him. He’s wearing almost the same thing he was wearing yesterday: a button-down black dress shirt, black slacks, and slick black dress shoes. I’m reminded of the few pairs of jeans compared to the rest of his closet.
A part of me is still grappling with the knowledge he was once married. It’s wrong, so completely wrong, to hate a woman who is dead. Especially for hating her because she had him first, had his name. He had to have cared about her even a little bit—maybe in the beginning? She’s the reason he’s mean. I wonder what he was like at nineteen before he married her.
“Hey, Colin. I need a favor. I’ve got someone who needs a doctor’s note for school. I need you to say it’s because of pneumonia. I’m thinking two weeks minimum is needed.”
The other person says something I can’t hear.
“Thanks, yeah, email it to me. Name on the note is Bianca Leonetti. I appreciate it. I’ll owe you one, call it in whenever you need something.” Ending the call, his eyes meet mine. “The two weeks is an outside and the three weeks gets you more sympathy from your professors.”
He’s working my phone, and I realize he’s rewriting my email. Once he’s done, he reads it again. With a nod, he hands me my phone. “Now read it and see what you think. I’m getting into my email and forwarding you the note. Attach it to what you send your professors.”
This is much better than mine. I copy it so I can send the same thing to all of my professors and hit send on the first one. It takes a few minutes to send them all. By the time I’m done, I have two responses, and both are as sympathetic to me as Gaetano promised. One professor instructs me to read the next four chapters and do a summary of each one by the end of next week. The other professor gave me the two papers that will be assigned. He’s willing to wait on both papers until the end of next week.
I relay everything to Gaetano, relieved. These were my most important classes and toughest professors. If they’re responding this way, I’m certain the three other professors will, too. “Thank you. Okay, I’m going to take my shower now.”