23. Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Two
Olivia
I ’ve only ever played with makeup a few times in my life. It was never my own, always one of my friends who brought it back with them during a holiday. So when the old woman— Donatella— opens a large black box, full of brushes, compacts and tubes, I feel instantly like a fish out of water. This entire experience feels medieval. When we returned to my room, she shoved a razor, hair products and some incredible smelling body wash into my arms then herded me into the bathroom where a Mexican standoff took place over her wanting to stay. Communal showers do nothing for the ego and Ironwood didn’t raise no sissy, but I was not about to get naked in front of a woman helping him. She gave in first, much to my relief, spitting Italian words and huffing all the way back out.
Occasionally, I heard the door creak open and knew she didn’t give in completely. Probably checking I was still breathing with the time I spent in the cubicle. When I emerged, she had a stool from the kitchen sitting in front of the sprawling view, the black box beside her, along with a fancy blow dryer and a curling wand.
“Where did all this makeup come from?” I ask as she matches foundation against my skin.
“Mistress Greco.” My gut clenches.
Mistress Greco. The poor girl married to Emilio. Arranged marriages sounded terrible, but when Alessandrio told me that Emilio had a wife, my heart broke for her. Then Emilio came to me in the living room and threatened me if I harmed Donatella without even blinking. I hated him not just for myself, but for that poor girl tied to that beast.
Despite all the questions on the tip of my tongue, I remain silent, letting the woman go about her business of turning me into a Mafia princess, a girl hell bent on taking over the family business. God. I am so in over my head. I even feel grateful that I won’t be alone, grateful that Alessandrio will be with me as I step into that horrible world of theirs. That’s when you know shit is truly bad, when the monster you know is better than the monsters you don’t.
Alessandrio. A knot of dislike twists in my stomach at the mere thought. He doesn’t trust me, that’s glaringly obvious, and by his threat, neither does Emilio. My eyes slide to the older woman, her movements sure and agile as she holds a brush to my cheeks and swipes it against the bone. How does she stand it? Being around them. How does Lorenzo? God, how does Emilio’s wife handle it? How has the government not swept these two up and put them in a test lab? I drop my gaze, torn by everything. Torn and uncomfortable as to why, when Alessandrio mentioned Emilio being married, my imagination blossomed with disturbing images that warmed my insides.
Even now I can vividly remember the journey my eyes and mind took, trailing over his furred forearms, the dark patches outlining crude images. The familiar heat rises, making me squirm as I try to bury the images and quell my body’s response. Images of Alessandrio being gentle with a woman. Of those clawed hands caressing instead of tearing, of his teeth scoring against a neck with gentle, tempting precision. Oh God. I groan and pull away from Donatella as she lifts a mascara brush to my eye.
“He kidnapped me.” What I meant as a thought comes out as a choked whisper as I fight my body’s response. He’s a monster. Both outside and in.
“I am sorry,” Donatella says, causing me to look up.
I can see from the look on her face she actually means it. Those words were never meant to leave my mouth, but now they hang in the air between us. He took me from the only home I ever knew, from a future, although uncertain, that was still rife with possibility. I feel the tears well, see the guilt track across the other woman’s face, and my anger flares.
“I hate him,” I grit out through my teeth, these words as sure as anything I have ever spoken.
She flinches as my eyes slide back to the view behind her and a world I might never get to explore. Anger stills the tears in my eyes and fuels my movement as I gesture for her to continue. That feeling of hatred needs to be nurtured. It’s the salve to my traitorous body, something tangible to cling to in my moments of confused weakness.
It sees me through the entire process, her skilled hands moving over my face and hair. The silence between Donatella and I is heavier than it was when we began. Heavy with anger, hatred and unsaid things. She doesn’t try to defend him at least, doesn’t talk about their plan and my captivity. No. She at least can read the room. With her, I actually have some power and that feels good—really fucking good.
“Done.” I take a moment to process her word.
My gaze flicks at her. There is something in her dark eyes as she assesses me—approval, maybe? I don’t know how long she has been working on me, even though I have watched the world outside grow darker and know it must have been some time. Absent-mindedly, my hand reaches up and pats at my hair. It’s crispy with hair spray, but it’s all there.
“Beautiful.” Surprised, I meet her eyes again. “Now for the dress.” She moves around me.
My anger has simmered down, replaced with curiosity and a desire to see what it is she sees. There is rustling behind me and moments later she reappears before me, a garment bag hanging precariously off the end of her finger. I watch, uncertain of what she is about to reveal as she unzips the bag and holds up a dress. Before I know it, my hand is reaching out to touch the material. I exhale, fingers grazing the thick velvet fabric.
“Put it on,” the older woman urges, swinging it toward me, her face expectant.
Standing, I take it from her and hold it up, hugging it to my body draped still in Alessandrio’s day old shirt.
“I will when you leave.” I meet her gaze unflinching, a challenge in my eyes.
Donatella clicks her tongue in frustration, but moves around me. “Underwear,” she says, gesturing at the bed, where a white box stamped with La Pearla sits on the bed. “Shoes,” she adds, pointing to another box by the door. “I will see to the boys,” she says, throwing me a last look, a half smile on her face.
The boys. My stomach becomes a tight fist, my momentary excitement at the dress lost. You mean monsters? I want to say, but bite the tip of my tongue as the door closes behind her. I move toward the bed in her absence and sit with a sigh, the hanger clenched in my hand and the dress curled over my knee. Reality hits me like a bus, pinning me beneath its substantial weight as so many emotions flood me. Anxiety that I will expose myself as a fraud tonight. Fear of what Alessandrio and Emilio will do if that happens. And most troubling, I’m nervous about what the former will think of my transformation. Not because I care, of course not, but because I would hate for him to demand Donatella fix me under his watchful eyes. With my stomach a swirling mess of nerves, my eyes glide back to the box of underwear beside me.
With another resigned sigh, I flip the lid off to reveal black lace on a bed of nude satin. Oh God. I hook an item with a shaking finger and lift a black lace thong from its place. With dismay, I drop it back and reach for the bra. Upon inspection of its lacy, minimal expanse, I see the size is perfect.
Ironwood only ever issued me with basics. I wasn’t as buxom as some of the other girls, and always opted for a sports bra instead of anything structured and uncomfortable. In my stolen moments with Declan, I always wished I had something more… more like this. He never seemed to mind, though, and because time was never on our side for any true romancing, we fumbled with the urgency of wanting to taste something we knew would be fleeting.
Standing, I reach for the hem of the shirt. I want to rip it off, but I’m careful not to disturb Donatella’s work as I navigate it over my head. When it’s off, however, I crumple it up and toss it by the door with a satisfied smile. The thong goes on first. It too, like the bra, is the perfect fit and I try not to pay too much attention to it sliding up my smooth skin. I was never one for thongs either, the way it slides between my butt cheeks to settle against my most intimate flesh feels confronting. Knowing someone else purchased this for me fills with me with discomforting awareness. Yet I feel strangely giddy and nervous, making my nipples sensitive as the inside padding of the bra scrapes against the pink tips. Looking too close at the reason for those nerves isn’t good, as I unzip the dress and step into it, pulling the black velvet up my body. Goosebumps rise as the velvet slides up my skin. The thought of a pair of blazing blue eyes staring at me with approval makes everything feel raw.
“Get it together,” I huff to myself.
I am only nervous. That is all. He’s already invaded my privacy enough for a lifetime. Despite my best efforts, I can’t get the zipper all the way up, so I move onto the shoe box and toe off the lid. Oh no. The black heels nestled inside make me swallow—hard. I don’t know how to walk in heels very well with little to no practice. I tried on a few pairs at Ironwood, but only out of curiosity when my friends showed them off. Sucking my teeth, I turn the box up, letting the shoes spill onto the floor, and using the wall for support, I step into them. Wobbling as the arch of my feet adjust, I take a tentative step before bending down to do the buckles up.
"Heel, toe, heel, toe," I use that core memory from the last time I wore heels to make my way to the ensuite to assess Donatella's work.
“Oh,” I breathe. “God.”The word slips out on an exhale.
I do not know what a Mafia princess looks like, but if Alessandrio doesn’t approve, he may find the toe of my heel in his shin. Donatella is a wizard with all those bits and pieces. She’s tamed my hair back in a fancy twist, the front bangs smoothed and artfully arranged to frame my face. Gone are the tangles that I have been sporting all day. Hell, Gone is the girl. If I’m truly honest with myself, the woman before the mirror is someone else. My lashes are long and black, making the grey of my eyes seem starker. The surrounding skin is flawless. My cheeks are a soft pink against the foundation and my lips appear fuller with a gloss coating them.
Did she do the hair and makeup to compliment the dress? Because it’s like the whole look was pre-planned. The long black velvet sleeves, with a low sweetheart neckline works well with the up-do displaying my clavicle and a gentle swell of my breasts. It’s all too much, too perfect. The urge to rip the clips from my hair rises and I reel back to sit on the edge of the bath, hard, the stupid heels catching on the floor. Breathe, just breathe. I suck down air like I was taught, inhaling deeply through my nose and exhaling through my teeth. The threat of tears makes me breathe harder. I don’t want to be touched again in order to fix something I ruin.
“Olivia?” My head jerks up as Donatella’s voice sounds from the other room.
I lurch up and stumble, cursing these fucking heels as my bare knee slams into the door and press the lock on the handle in place.
“I’m okay!” But I don’t sound it, even to my ears the words are choked.
The handle moves a whisper beneath my palm as she tries it on the other side.
“Please—” I press my forehead against the door. “Just give me a moment,” I plead.
“Okay dear,” she replies, her voice gentle and patient. “When you are ready.”
Beyond the door, the room goes silent. Did she leave or is she just waiting? Undoubtedly, she was sent to make sure I came together properly. I let my head rest on the door for a bit, changing my breaths from hard and fast to calm and soft. The panic falls away and the threat of tears eases. They might have taken away my free will, but I get to choose how I respond to it. That at least is my choice. With a fire in my belly, I raise my head and check my image once more in the mirror. I look good, and I will use that as my armour tonight. With one more breath, I twist the door handle, the lock clicking as I pull the door.
Donatella stayed. From where she stands I see her face brighten and her hands come together. “Beautiful.” The word at least sounds positive as her smile radiates.
It’s infectious and I feel the last of my tension melt away as she comes toward me, circling to get the full view.
“I’m okay?” I ask, feeling self conscious and in need of reassurance.
“You look perfect. He will be very pleased.” I look up sharply at that last part. “May I help with your zipper?”
I nod my consent and feel her step up behind me. Her firm hands finish the job my shaking ones couldn’t and I breathe a sigh of relief. I take a few unsteady steps and collapse onto the bed, feeling my heart rage inside my chest. I am not ready to go out there, not ready to have them assess me and find me lacking in some way. When I look up, Donatella is watching me, her face soft with knowing.
“I’ll leave now. Emilio wishes to head back to get dressed and see his wife.” She points toward the box of makeup and hair tools. “This will stay and I will return for the next party if…” She looks at a loss for words.
“If I am still alive?” I offer, my tongue weighed down.
She shakes her head adamantly. “Alessio will let nothing happen to you.”
I see the determination in her face.
I regret the bitter laugh that swells from my mouth and see a knot form between the older woman’s dark brows. She watches me for a moment, assessing before a soft smile pulls at her lips, making me feel as if she has come to some sort of conclusion about me.
“I meant if you want my help child,” she reiterates.
I don’t answer her immediately. She was a welcome surprise and has given me armour to face what’s coming. If everything goes well tonight and I can pass this first test, I have her to thank.
“I definitely need your help.” Her face brightens.
“Well, I will see you soon then.” Donatella makes her way toward the door and pauses, turning back to stare at me. “You will be fine. He will protect you.”
But will he protect me from himself? Will the accusation and distrust in his gaze fade when he realizes he did this? I nod and drop my eyes to my hands folded over my knee. The door closes and my eyes slide across the floor to the night coated city. An ache fills my chest and for a few minutes I marinate in the feeling, praying the others leave so that I only have one monster to face. I would rather face him alone and have him judge me without Emilio, Donatella or Lorenzo present to hear his spiteful tongue.
With one final breath, I rise to my feet and make my way to the door, pressing my ear to the wood. No sound greets me, nor murmuring voices, just silence. My hand shakes as it grips the doorknob, and I open the door and step into the hall. The debris littering the hallway gives me something else to focus on other than the rapid thundering in my chest. All my focus is on picking my way toward the living area without tripping over any of the plaster. If I slip or trip on anything from this height, I will go down hard. It’s so distracting that when a door behind me opens, I yelp in surprise.
My feet get tangled, the stupid heavy heels catching on each other and I feel myself lose my footing. But the dark mass in the doorway that just opened moves as warmth encircles my waist, steadying me and for a moment I can only stare dumbly up into those familiar blue eyes as they narrow on my face. I can’t breathe, can’t move, that warmth remains longer than I know is necessary and all I can think is that up this close, his size is even more intimidating.
Those monstrous hands easily span my waist, reaching from fingers to thumbs as they burn into my skin beneath the thick material. Overwhelmed, my eyes fall from beneath his, down the buttons of an expensive white dress shirt, to the silver buckle of his belt, bridging the gap across to his bare forearms to where his hands sit on my waist. I swallow. The sight of his hands on me is too unsettling. I pull from his grip, retreating an appropriate distance—s afe. And yet I still can’t breathe. His eyes are heavy with assessment, and my skin prickles with awareness.
With some distance between us, my gaze takes a moment to assess his black pants and white button-down shirt, which look made to fit. A watch and rings on his fingers round out his look. He rolled up his shirt sleeves, revealing powerful forearms, and I realize that the dark patch near his wrist looks strikingly like a coiled snake. He looks like a demon prince, terrifying and powerful. Finally, my eyes trail back up and our eyes clash and burn. The intensity in his gaze has me turning away first, stumbling through into the living room brightly lit by the down lights overhead.
It’s night out, so I can see nothing but the reflection of the room. He’s still just a dark shape in the hallway, watching me as I make my way over to the windows. When I finally stop, I see him move, his large form walking into the kitchen, where he pulls things from the shelf. Stop staring.