Chapter 25
25
SAMANTHA
O ne moment, I’m staring at the Colosseum, wondering how many jasmine flowers it took to build the ancient walls. The next, my arm is caught behind me, twisted so viciously that a scream rises in my throat. I don’t set it free, though. I can’t, because my captor covers my mouth with his other hand, crushing my lips against my teeth.
Adrenaline scorches a valley through my brain, but I’ve trained for this. I took a self-defense course the first week of law school, when I realized I’d be walking across campus alone after the Lowood library closed every night.
Raising my foot, I’m grateful for the stiletto heels I wore to match my skirt. I stomp down hard on my attacker’s foot, aiming for his toes but willing to rake his insole if that’s all I can reach.
He’s ready for me. He kicks the back of the leg I’m standing on, buckling my knee—a double threat to my balance because of my high heels. At the same time, he cranks his grip on my wrist, bringing my pinned arm higher behind me.
Fire flashes from my elbow to my shoulder. I tighten my abs like this is life-or-death Pilates, bending my knees for better balance. I try to rotate into the hold, the way I learned so many years ago.
The technique is right, but my captor is simply too strong. Instead of breaking free, I’m pulled closer to his body. My ass presses against his waist. The weight of his boner, heavy through my flimsy skirt, raises acid in my throat.
Before I can swallow, before I can spit, he yanks my head back against his chest, jamming his meaty fingers against my nostrils to cut off my breathing completely. He stinks of sweat and cigarette smoke, smothered in Acqua di Parma cologne.
Don Antonio .
The fight drains out of me, like water poured onto desert sand.
“Yes, gattina ,” he whispers in my ear. “Sheath your little claws.”
I’m not his kitten. He doesn’t have the right to call me that. I try to tell him to go to hell, but his hand still smothers me.
“So much spirit in you,” he says. “Much more fight than your cousin.”
My effort to bite his palm is rewarded with another yank on my arm, sharp enough to make me see stars.
“Now I will release your mouth,” he says. “But if you scream, I will break your arm. Understand?”
I manage to nod against his chest. I need to agree. I can’t breathe with his hand pressing so hard and my ears are starting to roar.
“Such a smart girl, my sweet Giovanna.” He moves his hand and I gulp in a huge breath of air. He continues with his oily compliments. “And you are so considerate as well. I hoped that you would be here. I hoped we could speak in person, instead of over the phone.”
“What do you want?” I spit the words, trying to ignore his numbing grip on my arm.
“It is always business with you, is it not, sweet Giovanna? You will learn better, once you come to live in my house.”
“I’ll never live with you!”
He laughs like a man plucking whiskers from puppies’ faces. “You will. But first, I have a task for you. I want information about the drugs Braiden Kelly runs through the Port of Philadelphia.”
I don’t tell him Braiden has nothing to do with drugs. I’m not that naive. My husband earns money wherever he can. “Why would I get that for you?”
He goes on as if I didn’t speak. “There is a major shipment arriving on Sunday night. I need to know who Kelly has on the inside. And exactly what leverage he holds over them.”
“Even if I knew that, I’d never tell you.”
“Oh you will, sweet Giovanna. Because if you do not, I have some very pretty pictures I will make very public. I will start by sharing them with your husband. Then your employer. Then the Delaware State Bar. By then, the media will have an interest. I will be happy to share.”
I think of all the pictures he could have. Me kneeling in front of Braiden. Me tied up in the greenhouse. Me sprawled across Braiden’s bed. I don’t know how he got them, where he hid his cameras.
A good lawyer knows never to ask a question when she doesn’t already know the answer. I have to make a statement, though, have to challenge the monster behind me. “You’re bluffing.”
Without a word, he twists my arm harder, forcing me closer to his stinking body. His free hand reaches into his pocket, which forces his hard-on closer to my ass. Even as I try to edge away, he holds his phone in front of my face.
He’s not bluffing.
He’s got pictures. A dozen or more that he flips through with his thumb.
But they’re not pictures of Braiden and me.
They’re pictures from That Night.
“You fucking bastard,” I say, when I can breathe again.
This time when he yanks my arm, something shifts in my shoulder. “Such a mouth on you. We will have to work on that. But first, you will get my information. By Sunday. Or these pictures become public.”
“ Va al —” Diavolo , I’m going to say. Go to the devil. But before I can spit out the last word, I hear the crack of shattered glass.
“Take yer hands off m’ wife, motherfucker, or ya’ll be bleedin’ out on all these pretty flowers.”
It’s Braiden’s voice, thick and heavy with rage. Don Antonio’s entire body goes rigid, like he’s stumbled into an electrified bath. His fingers tighten, and my arm arcs, pain sawing a jagged line across my shoulder.
I can’t turn my head. I have to roll my eyes to the side. Braiden’s hand is millimeters from Don Antonio’s throat. He’s holding a jagged crystal knife, aiming it toward my captor’s carotid artery.
“Try me, ya cocksucker,” Braiden says.
Incredibly, impossibly, Don Antonio backs down. He uses his leverage to throw me toward Braiden, harnessing momentum from the toss to stumble toward a giant statue of Michelangelo’s David made of daisies.
Braiden edges me behind him. Without turning his head, he asks, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” I gulp down air as I shake my arm, trying to force away the stingers from Don Antonio’s abuse. More than that, I try to shove away the images in my head, the photos I never knew existed.
I’ll be ruined if those get out. Everything I’ve worked so hard to achieve will be worth nothing. The freeport will take a hit too, and even Braiden—everyone who knows me, everyone who is associated with me in any way, they’ll all be tarnished.
I want to beg Braiden to take Don Antonio’s phone, but I know the device isn’t the real threat. The original photos must be kept in a secure location. Don Antonio probably has issued instructions—they’re to be released if he comes to any harm.
That’s what I would do if I were blackmailing someone.
That’s how I would destroy someone’s life.
Braiden twists his wrist, still eyeing a solid target as Don Antonio tugs his suit jacket into place. I realize the knife Braiden holds is the stem of a champagne flute. Shattered glass fans across the base of the Colosseum.
“Get on with you,” Braiden says to Don Antonio. “You have one minute before I slice off your bollocks and bury them in the dirt.”
“Sweet Giovanna might have something to say about that.”
“Her name is Samantha,” Braiden says, each syllable a master class in restraint.
“If she was my woman?—”
“She isn’t.”
Don Antonio says, “Blood before marriage, Kelly. Blood before marriage.”
“Samantha chose me, gobshite.”
“Whores do not choose anyone,” Don Antonio says. “They just spread their legs wide for?—”
“Gentlemen?” It’s a waiter who cuts off Antonio Russo.
Not a waiter. It’s the head waiter, and from the terrified looks on the faces of the three servers huddling behind him, he knows exactly what he’s walking into.
“Please,” says the man in a tuxedo. “Allow me get you all fresh glasses of wine. We’ll just get this cleaned up, and everything will be fine.”
He snaps his fingers, and two men kneel in front of the Colosseum, digging in the moss to collect slivers of shattered glass. A jerk of the head waiter’s chin, and a nervous girl comes forward with a tray of full glasses. She offers to Don Antonio first. He takes one with a sneer of frustration.
When the girl offers champagne to Braiden, he shakes his head. “We were just leaving.”
His fingers close around my elbow with surprising gentleness. I let him lead me out of floral Italy, using all my willpower not to look back at Don Antonio. We stalk past half the sworn officials of the City of Brotherly Love. Braiden doesn’t look twice at Millicent Kennedy, holding court among other donors.
I wonder what all of them will say when my secret is made public in three short days.
It’s not until we’re on the escalator heading down to the garage that I realize I’m supporting my right hand with my left. Braiden notices at the same time. “Is it broken?”
I shake my head. My hair brushes my shoulders, my elegant French twist now a wreck. “I don’t think so. But it hurts,” I say, forcing myself to let go of my wrist. “A lot,” I add, unable to keep from wincing.
At the foot of the escalator, Braiden puts me through a ten-point medical exam. I wiggle my fingers. I spread them wide. I flex my wrists and I bend my arm at the elbow. I shrug exaggeratedly, up then down. I carry phantom shepherd’s pies on my flat palms, then on the backs of my hands. I spread my arms toward the walls and reach overhead.
All of it hurts. None of it is impossible.
“It’s a sprain,” he says. “If that. We’ll ice it at home. A sling will help, for a few days.”
I nod. But then I have to say, “What Don Antonio s?—”
“He’s not your don.”
I blink. “That’s his name.”
“That’s his title. One he should have earned. He doesn’t deserve an ounce of your respect. Call him Russo, if you have to call him anything at all.”
I swallow. It’s harder than I expect to ignore a lifetime of conditioning, to start again with language Braiden will accept. “What Russo said, back there.”
“Yer not a whore.” Hoor , it sounds like. His accent’s gone thick again.
I shake my head. We could debate semantics, but I’m a woman who lets a man put a collar around her neck before he dominates her. I live in my husband’s house, eating his food, using his computers, wearing the clothes he buys me, and I don’t contribute a cent to our common household.
But I push out the words I really need to say. “Blood before marriage.”
This is it. The moment I can tell Braiden. Russo wants to know about your deals on the docks.
But then I’ll have to tell him about That Night. He’ll know the worst thing I’ve ever done—not only that I did it, but that I’ve kept it secret eleven long years.
He’ll be disgusted. Revolted. He’ll hate me. There is no way our relationship can survive his knowing about my past.
And maybe I am a whore, because I don’t want to be thrown out of Thornfield. I don’t want to give up the meals and the clothes and my shiny new office.
I don’t want to give up the sex.
I nearly melt with relief as Braiden’s hand cups my cheek. He looks into my eyes as he says the words carved into the ring on my finger: “ Is liomsa tú.” You are mine. And then, like none of this has happened, like none of it matters, he says, “Let’s get you home.”
We enter the silent garage. Six blue-painted spaces front the row of luxury cars, access for people with disabilities. Only one of the slots is occupied—by a blood red sports car, nestled low to the ground. A golden bull snorts in a plaque centered on its blunt nose.
“Motherfucker…” Braiden breathes. He hustles me over to his Jeep.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Nothing I can’t fix,” Braiden says, yanking open my door. “Get in. Buckle up.” Instead of climbing in on the driver’s side, Braiden reaches under the seat.
“What are you—” I start to ask.
He pulls out a baseball bat. It’s made of metal, shiny and green, like some exotic reptile was baked into the surface. Braiden hefts it in one hand, testing its weight as he strides back to the illegally parked car.
He plants his feet wide. He closes both fists around the knob of the bat. He takes a short practice swing, and then he connects with the narrow red eye of the car’s tail light. Plastic shatters and the metal frame crumples.
He knocks out the other tail light, then moves to the front of the vehicle. He batters the headlights, sending metal and glass and plastic spinning across the floor of the garage.
It takes more work to shatter the windshield. The driver-side window spiders into a million pieces but holds its place for the first four blows. The passenger side gives up faster, as if there’s no reason left to fight.
The roof crumples before the hood does. The doors take deep dents. The charging bull logo bends and flares before it springs free from the nose.
Braiden wrestles with a side mirror, yanking it free. Some connecting piece must be sharp, because he stalks to each of the tires in turn, stabbing deep into the rubber and twisting hard. As he prowls back to the Jeep, he tosses the mirror over his shoulder, an afterthought that rolls on the garage floor like a severed head.
He shoves the bat under his seat as if he’s putting away a toy. When he keys his own ignition his fingers are steady. Glancing in the rear-view mirror as he heads toward the exit, he says casually, “I told Madden I wanted Russo’s Lambo. The Huracán was supposed to be mine.”
I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. I’m silent the whole ride home, thinking, thinking, thinking. If I don’t give Don Antonio what he wants, my life is over. And if I do, Braiden Kelly will send me packing.
Either way, I’ll be wrecked as thoroughly as the mangled red car left behind in the Convention Center garage.