15. Contessa
15
Contessa
It’s strange that there isn’t a word for not-a-virgin. All the ones that come to mind feel ugly or judgmental. Experienced doesn’t fit well in my case. At least, not yet. The longer I try to find one, the more upsetting it is that I can’t. I don’t need a label, but it would be nice to have the option.
Lying in bed, I get the sense that I have woken up late. Last night runs behind my eyelids like a reel of film playing over and over. I try to capture that feeling again, but nothing satisfies as much as the real thing. I try to figure out my new, mysterious title. There is only one simple word I can come up with that feels right— his .
Salvatore is gone by the time I get up, but I find painkillers and water left on the nightstand. I don’t take them. The ache left behind isn’t something I really want to chase off. It feels right, this constant reminder of him, even if it hurts.
The world hasn’t turned upside down.
For better or worse, I don’t feel fundamentally changed. I don’t feel like I’ve lost anything, except a source of embarrassment. My room is the same, my morning routine still the old familiar process. Looking at my reflection in the mirror, only I would know the truth. I clench softly between my legs, feeling that flutter of soreness where he was. The pain is like a secret Salvatore has left inside, just for me.
I stare at my own face, trying to see myself the way my father would see me now.
Damaged . I study my expression and feel a satisfying nothing. Even in the calm morning light, I don’t regret it.
I trail my hand down the flat slope of my belly. A surge of warmth tingles between my legs at the thought of him taking root inside me. With just a few heated words, Salvatore has flicked a switch inside of my body, has claimed me as his—his property, his vessel, to be used how he sees fit.
This tight, empty belly my father worked so hard to protect might swell with a Mori baby.
If Salvatore hadn’t been so careful with me, so steady and protective, maybe I could feel the terror that thought deserves. Instead, I just feel his hands on me again, his body over mine, as if under him is somewhere I could finally belong.
I snatch my hand away before I can delve too deep into the thought. All I’ve ever wanted was freedom. I chased it my whole life. I can’t lose sight of that now just because Salvatore has an incredibly persuasive cock and commanding voice.
I try to distract myself. For the first time since owning them, I browse through the clothes Salvatore gave me that first day. So many black dresses and skirts. I don’t want it to look like I’m attending a funeral. I’m not in mourning. But maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to look as though I belong next to him, to try out the role just for a little while.
Among my many options, I find an exquisite long coat that flares open from the waist down. I pair it with a sinfully short dress and thigh high black stockings.
The door opens as I finish my lipstick. I expect Ava, but it’s Salvatore who darkens the doorway.
The heat rises into my neck, my heart skipping an unhealthy number of beats.
He looks me over, head to toe, dragging his eyes across my body with slow appreciation. For the first time, his expression is an easy read, even in the mirror.
“How long did you take putting that on?” He asks.
“Don’t you dare,” I smile, fixing the last earring in place. His jaw twitches unhappily, but he slides his hands into his pockets. He stands about as naturally as a soldier. It makes me flare with satisfaction that I can do this to him with clothes on.
I go to the mirror, looking myself over.
The image in the glass is no fairytale princess. This is the other kind of princess—the kind I was raised as, my birthright.
Salvatore comes to stand beside me and slides his hand around my middle.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
“Not as much as I’d like taking it off you.”
I lean back against him.
We really do look good together like this.
I have an insatiable desire to kiss him, and a healthy amount of fear that he might not kiss me back. I have no idea who we are to each other now. Just as I don’t know my own label, I don’t know our label. I have no idea how Salvatore feels beyond wanting to fuck me.
How do you ask a man that and still keep your dignity?
I slide my hand over his instead. He doesn’t pull away.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he complains against my neck. My stomach flutters as I raise my other hand, card my fingers through his hair as I lose myself in his arms.
“Maybe I’ll write something nice on your tombstone,” I whisper, daring to draw him into a kiss.
He kisses back, doesn’t press for more or throw me to the bed. I’m drowning in him, unable to get my head above water.
For a few seconds, I am in the arms of a perfect man, and I never want to leave.
“Why are you here so early? You don’t actually have a camera in here, do you?”
“No. Though the more you mention it, the more I’m coming around to the idea.” I resist the urge to suggest just keeping me at his side so he has no reason to spy. “I came to see how you are.”
“I’m okay,” I answer honestly. I didn’t really expect him to check in, and his concern is flattering.
“Good. Then we’re leaving?”
“Leaving? Leaving the house ?” I gasp, ruining our little illusion of being a serious power couple.
I’m like a dog offered a walk. I can be embarrassed about it later. Salvatore nods.
“Your first request was a bust, so we move on to the next. Take the day.”
I’m too familiar with him to be entirely swayed.
“What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one, but I’m sure I’ll think of something.”
It makes me feel guilty for being suspicious of him.
“No. I’d love to go out,” I admit. A whole day out of the house. With Salvatore. Before, his company would have felt like a caveat—the ball on the end of my chain. Now, I’m excited to have him with me, to see if I can find more of the man I met last night, who let me put my head on his chest and confided harmless little truths in me. He must still be in there somewhere, even if he’s harder to find in the light of day.
“Look at me,” Salvatore says, his serious demeanor interrupting my daydreaming. “It’s a lot of trust, Contessa. You will do exactly what I say, when I say it. No games. One step out of line, and you’ll never see the boundaries of this property again. Do you understand me? This is an opportunity I won’t offer twice.”
He’s dead serious about this, and it dunks my feverish excitement into cold water.
I understand his worries. Even I wonder if I can be out there, surrounded by freedom and open doors, and not instinctually run toward them. I force myself to nod.
“I promise.”
He looks me over again, cursing softly under his breath as he shakes his head and turns away. I bite my lip before it turns into a smile.
In the multi-car garage, filled with sleek sports cars and dark, tank-y SUVs, I am introduced to a man and woman, more members of the Mori crime family. The man introduces himself as Leo and calls the girl Frankie. I recognize her from the dinner, one of the women who caught my eye, wearing the same attire as the men.
Salvatore explains that these two will be our escorts. When on the street, I am never to pass ahead of Leo, never to fall behind Frankie. I am to walk on the inside of the sidewalk, on Salvatore’s side, putting him between me and the street. In no uncertain terms am I to ever be out of his sight. If I go to the restroom or a changing room, Frankie goes with me.
Between the four of us, we take three vehicles, all the windows blacked out. To my surprise, Salvatore selects an Audi. It’s one of the less flashy cars in the garage. He makes me sit in the backseat directly behind him. The other two take big SUVs, that look menacing as they form up the caravan. We leave Lambos and Ferraris in the rearview mirror.
“Do you have to do this every time you have to go somewhere?” I ask.
“We take some precautions. Maybe not this many.”
That confirms my suspicion that Salvatore is being extra careful with my outing. I wonder if it’s to keep me safe or to keep me contained.
The street passes by. My heart jumps into my throat as we pass through the final gate. My prison becomes tiny behind us.
“Why can’t I sit next to you?” I ask in the lull. “Not that I don’t appreciate being chauffeured around.”
“Child locks only work on the back doors.”
I gawk at his reasoning and immediately try the door. It hadn’t even occurred to me to try to jump out, but sure enough, the door doesn’t open no matter how I fiddle with the lock.
“You can’t be serious.”
I swear I can see the hint of his grin reflected in the rearview mirror.
“Really mature,” I accuse. “Right when I thought we were getting somewhere.”
His eyes glance up to meet mine in the mirror.
“It’s so I only have to protect one side of the car, Contessa.”
That silences me a little. I know what that’s like, and I don’t envy him the stress. Always looking over your shoulder, always second-guessing every action, every stranger on the street.
Growing up, my father would fill my head with horror stories, all the ugly what-ifs that could happen to me if I wasn’t always vigilant, always suspicious. But nothing ever happened, until finally, those stories felt like any other scary story told to children to keep them in line.
They became another boogeyman, something fantastical and exaggerated. For a long time, I thought my life was normal and uneventful, just how I always wanted it. And still, I ended up here.
“But you still put on the child locks,” I complain anyway.
The door clicks as Salvatore disables them. I fold my arms over my chest…to keep my hands from reaching for the lock again. If I got the door open, I know it would hurt to resist running. Even if I knew he would catch me. Even if I wanted him to.
The lure of freedom is a crazy thing.
“You haven’t said where we’re going,” I point out.
“I have an appointment to meet in the city. After that, you can decide where we go, within reason.”
I try to think of where I would want to go. All I’ve thought about for days is being out, being anywhere. Now that I have the option, the endless choices are paralyzing. But I know, deep down, the one thing I want to do.
Salvatore’s appointment, as it turns out, is at a men’s tailor shop in Manhattan.
When we exit the reserved parking garage, leaving the vehicles with a stationed guard, my senses are set alight. Horns honk. Sirens wail in the distance. Music pours from the storefronts.
Everything seems more vibrant, more alive than I remember. My hand curls into the crook of Salvatore’s arm. I have to catch myself, remind myself of the rules as we walk down the street together, our party making a loose formation.
Side by side, Salvatore and I draw a few looks.
The shop is just ahead, the windows dressed with handsome, exquisite suits.
“You know,” I mutter under my breath, losing the words in the cacophony, “I can still feel last night. In every single step.”
Salvatore’s stride breaks the slightest bit.
I push ahead, hiding my smile as I reach for the door. I am stopped by the closed sign hanging on the glass. Salvatore breezes past me. To my surprise, the door opens up. An array of crisp suits and tasteful ties stand on display under decadent lighting, the entire shop smelling faintly of men’s cologne. Leo waits outside, while Frankie steps in, each of them stationed up on either side of the doorway.
My eyes trail over the glittering displays of suits, ties, and watches.
“Looking for another black suit to add to your black suit collection?” I ask.
Salvatore gives me a look, but it’s cut short by the approach of footsteps.
A sharply dressed older man greets us and shakes Salvatore’s hand with familiarity.
“Mr. Mori, always a pleasure,” the man says, flashing a blinding, car salesman smile. He doesn’t address me. In fact, it’s as though he takes exceptional care to not even look my way.
“I appreciate the connect,” Salvatore says.
“Of course. This is Tatiana Molnar,” he says, drawing my eyes to a thin woman who has stepped in behind him. She reminds me of a model, with faint eyebrows and red hair, pulled back in a high, no-nonsense bun. The only thing stricter and more serious than her updo is her expression, the perpetual frown of her lips. “When I heard what you were looking for, I knew there was only one woman for a job like that.”
Tatiana steps up, extending a manicured hand to Salvatore, and then, to my surprise, to me.
Her pale eyes run up and down my body. I feel particularly judged.
“It’s an honor to work with you,” she says, her voice clipped with the hint of a foreign accent I can’t quite place.
“I’ll decide if that goes both ways. Let’s skip the formalities,” Salvatore says, “my time isn’t infinite.”
With no prompting, Tatiana begins to unbutton her shirt in front of him. He doesn’t stop her. My wild eyes dart between her and Salvatore. He doesn’t seem surprised in the least as the buttons start popping open, one by one, methodically working her way down her chest. Tatiana opens up her shirt and reveals a dark corset underneath it, cinching her waist and covering her breasts.
My mouth goes dry as he approaches her. He lowers his voice to that all-too familiar tone. All at once, I realize I have never heard him speak to another woman my age. The pain inside me flares sharper suddenly.
I want to scream at him, but what is there to scream about? I’m not his lover. I’m not even his romantic partner. I am his wife to-be. A legal definition. A means to an end. A womb in pretty packaging.
I feel sick at the realization.
I don’t know why I expected Salvatore to be mine and mine alone.
I don’t even know why it hurts that he might not be.
“Convince me,” he says to her, in that low voice that makes me ache inside.
“The external material is carbon fiber with Kevlar plates, front and back. Inside, the boning structure is customized, providing maximum protection with thin rods of galvanized spring steel, allowing for unimpeded movement and flexibility.”
Tatiana runs her fingers along the garment, showcasing its design.
“It’s rated for any caliber of handgun up to .44 magnum rounds and is resistant to stabbing. The flexible boning dispels impact force throughout the corset, minimizing soft tissue damage, and the shape protects a wide array of vital organs, including custom-fit breast cups that guard the heart.”
My head spins.
I feel painfully stupid. My flare of jealousy turns to a shameful taste on my tongue. We are not here for Salvatore. We are here for me. It would have been nice if he had at least mentioned what we had come here to do.
Salvatore has taken up a slow pace, circling Tatiana as he looks over the corset.
“It’s comfortable?” he asks.
“Very, if she’s used to corsets. Moreover, it will be designed to her exact specifications, and the lacing in the back allows for control over the tightness. It should never be cinched too tightly. Corsets are meant to outline a woman’s body, not compress it. Straps can be added to the shoulders for extra security and to reduce shifting, if desired. They look tactical, but I find them virtually useless in practice.”
Salvatore turns to me.
“What do you think?”
I am so blindsided by my own embarrassment and reaction; I’ve barely heard a word the woman has said. A Kevlar corset is a little BDSM for my taste, but no one would see it under my clothes. I’ve never owned a full corset, but the intention behind the bulletproof bodice appeals. If Salvatore is taking this many precautions, maybe he plans for me to be out of the house more regularly.
“I would wear it, if you think it’s necessary,” I tell him.
“I haven’t decided. Not yet.” Something silver glints in his hand.
Before I can utter a scream, Salvatore flips the switchblade and plunges it up into Tatiana’s stomach. She rasps in shock, half bent over against him.
“Sal!” I shriek. Three times he swings his arm back, driving the vicious force of the knife up into her again and again. The salesman jumps back violently, knocking down a display of sunglasses.
“Stop it!” I scream, pulling at him, pulling at his shoulder, his jacket, trying and failing to rip him away from her.
Finally, Salvatore steps back, leaving Tatiana bent at the waist and gasping.
The woman straightens slowly. She pushes a dislodged lock of hair away from her mouth.
Each breath heaves, but only superficial gouges mar the front of the corset’s material. I stare, numb, at the place where a devastating wound should be.
She locks eyes with Salvatore, her gaze cold as she comes to her full height.
Salvatore’s businessman mask settles back into place as if it never slipped.
“Admirable work, Miss Molnar,” he says, the blade flipping shut. “We’ll take it.”
For the first time, the woman nearly smiles.
“I expected you might.”
She’s utterly unperturbed by the savage, left-field attack.
My knees are jelly, the world narrow and tight. I think a pin drop might send me into a panic attack.
“If you’ll follow me,” she says to me, unflinchingly professional, “I’ll take your measurements.”
I can barely feel my feet as I am guided into the back to a fitting room. Frankie follows us. My fingers are clumsy on the buttons as I try to undress. I’m so dazed, Tatiana has to help me until I come out of the shock.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to her, as the measuring tape presses to my skin.
Tatiana ignores me. She doesn’t even meet my gaze, muttering off numbers that she records on a notepad. Her measurements are quick and familiar, wasting no time. She’s not shaken at all.
“Are you alright?” I finally ask again, desperate for her to seem in some way affected by what just happened. Everyone is too calm and composed. It makes me feel like I’m the crazy one.
“Of course,” she says, emotionlessly. “My design is perfect. If it weren’t, I wouldn’t stake my life on it by letting you wear it.”
I look into her face as the meaning clicks. It doesn’t matter which of us is wearing the corset. If it fails for either of us, Tatiana is as good as dead. It’s insured with her blood just as much as it’s meant to protect mine.
She snaps the notepad shut.
“Put your clothes back on.”
When we reenter the room, Salvatore and the tailor are talking like old friends. Except, there are now two distinct sweat stains darkening the tailor’s underarms, his smile stretched a little too wide at the corners.
Tatiana informs Salvatore it will take a little over a week to produce. I watch, empty, as he cuts her a generous check for the deposit. Farewells and niceties are exchanged as we leave, as if they are all fine friends. As if Salvatore didn’t try to drop that woman right in front of us all.
We step back into the street again, into the bustle of everyday life. The world continues on around us, oblivious. Salvatore has pushed his hair back and fixed his jacket. I am the only one who can’t move on, hyper-focused on the drive of his arm. The powerful roll of his shoulder. The buck of the woman’s body. The way his hair was tossed by the sheer force of the strikes. A part of me finds that raw power undeniably attractive. Seeing it in action, though, I want to stick my fingers down my throat and purge that part of me all over the sidewalk.
“What the hell was that?” I demand, rounding on him, able to speak freely for the first time in fifteen minutes.
“A business deal.”
“Hey, don’t shrug this off!” I step in front of him, making him stop and look at me. I’m trying desperately to make sense of him again. Just like I’ve been doing, shuffling the pieces around, trying to figure out where they fit, what image they’re supposed to make. So much for that glimpse of clarity I thought I’d had last night. “You could have killed that woman.”
“Only if she was trying to swindle us. Since she wasn’t, she was safe. And if she had, I would have killed her for it anyway. All roads lead to Rome.” He walks past me, as if that blasé attitude settles the matter.
I glare at his back and hurt. Maybe my optimism is a helpless thing. Maybe I am like one of those lunatics who buys lions and tigers, who coddle them when they purr and show their belly, living in the pretty delusion that the beast can be tamed. But a wild thing will always be wild, and one day, it will fulfill its nature. It can’t help it.
“You were so determined not to hurt me last night,” I call out. He stops, forced to turn around and face me again. “And now it’s like you don’t care.”
“Making sure you aren’t hurt is exactly what this trip was about, Contessa.”
A siren screams past, echoing the frustration in my head.
“Is that all that’s real to you? Physical protection? That little stunt you just pulled; you think that doesn’t hurt? Why doesn’t that matter to you?”
“Because I have priorities —”
“You really can’t even say that you’re sorry, can you?”
I am puffed up like an angry little bird, but my attitude is nothing compared to Salvatore’s dark glare.
“I won’t apologize for keeping you safe. I’m not sorry. Do you want me to lie to you and pretend that I am? Will that appease you?”
I swallow.
Maybe this is asking a lot of him. For me, empathy comes a little too easily. I take on everyone’s pain like it’s my own, will pick up any old cross and carry it. Maybe I shouldn’t expect Salvatore to be able to do the same, even when it’s my pain. I just don’t see how he can protect me so meticulously with one hand, while still hurting me with the other.
“Of course not,” I say. “But I don’t understand why I’m the only one who has to change to make this work,” I mutter. It doesn’t feel fair. I feel like I’ve given in to him over and over, tried to meet him halfway, played by all his little rules. But that never goes both ways.
For a long moment, Salvatore doesn’t answer. Finally, he shakes his head.
“…I can afford a lot of things, Contessa, but even I can’t afford that.” He reaches out, puts his arm around my shoulders, and shields me from the street as he makes me walk along with him again.
We march back toward the parking garage together. I still feel him, in every single step.
That’s not quite the fun little anecdote it was earlier. Salvatore opens the car door for me, as if he’s a fucking gentleman. I glare at him, the juxtaposition makes me want to tear my hair out, but there’s no heat in his eyes. No anger. He’s simply resolved, as if there was no other way it could have happened.
I brush past him, trying to hold onto the anger that’s rapidly slipping out of my clutches.
In the back of the car, my thoughts snake into circles, devouring themselves. All those pretty feelings from this morning seem bleaker now, my softness for him like an affliction I carry with me.
Another cross.
The city begins to drift past the window again.
He finally speaks up into the silence.
“We both know what we were playing at last night.”
Heat rockets into my face as Salvatore brings that up here in broad daylight.
“So, what?” I ask, feebly. “What does that have to do with—”
“Everything,” he says, simply, his eyes meeting mine in the rear view. My belly clenches involuntarily again. “It has everything to do with it.
You can’t toy with a man’s instincts and not expect him to act on them, Contessa. Right now, you are the only thing that matters. The only thing in the world.”