Chapter 17
I take much longer than I need to come downstairs.
I brushed my long, thick hair so many times it now shines brighter than a diamond.
I changed clothes, trying on at least three different dresses before finally settling on a cream-colored one, sleeveless, knee-length.
Not because I really care about tonight’s look, but as a way of stalling the inevitable: talking to Gianni.
I don’t know how to open up, much less trust.
I’ve learned to bury what scares me, because I’ve never had the luxury of breaking down in front of Amber. I’m the oldest, the strongest. I’ve always had to pretend I’m indestructible, too.
My sister and I are chameleons. To survive alone in a dangerous world, we become whatever we need to be. We’ve always let people see us however they want: defenseless orphans when we were younger, femme fatales when we grew up.
Disinformation.
That’s the key to survival.
Never let them know you.
Let them interpret.
Never show your fears. Pretend they don’t exist.
We’re judged all the time, and to be honest, I’ve never cared.
But even so, I’ve never outright lied. If someone were to ask me something directly, I wouldn’t invent stories. I deflect, evade, redirect. . .but I never lie.
It’s not easy, living under dozens of different last names or running from your own origin. After years of that kind of life, Amber and I only wanted to leave it all behind.
Right before my disastrous encounter with Angelo, we were planning to leave the country for somewhere in Europe. To reclaim our Romani heritage and start over for good.
And then, just when we thought we were safe, untouchable after so many years. . .I was kidnapped.
Now I know it isn’t fear that’s the most dangerous feeling in the world. It’s safety. Comfort. That illusion of being shielded from evil.
We were so close to finally escaping our past that, when I look back, I want to cry.
Our ambitions weren’t even that big. After so many years of switching surnames—Douglas, Martin, Stevens—keeping only our real first names, we were living in a full-blown identity crisis.
It bothered Amber more than me, but even so, I longed for just one peaceful night’s sleep without thinking someone would drag us back to our father’s community.
I could never go back there. Not after years of being free.
We learned to be alone, to defend ourselves, and now this Italian man, who’s nothing but a stranger, brings back a feeling I don’t want to accept but can’t quite push away either: the desire to believe he’s sincere, that maybe there are good people in the world. Heroes.
When I was locked up by Angelo’s men, I felt strong. Maybe because there was no other option and the terror was so overwhelming, I couldn’t let myself relax.
Now everything feels different.
If I close my eyes for just a moment, I can pretend I’m at some charming boyfriend’s house in Italy. I can live that dream for a day or two, but it’s as stupid as it is dangerous.
There’s a knock at the door, and when I open it, I find one of the maids I saw when we arrived.
“Buona sera, signorina,” she says, and I blink at her, confused.
“I don’t speak Italian.”
“I’m sorry,” she replies, blushing, her English heavily accented. “I meant, good evening, miss.”
“Oh! Wow, in Italian it sounded like a confession of love,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
She smiles. “Mr. Andresano is waiting for you for a drink before dinner,” she says. Exactly what I’d been dreading.
“I. . .um. . .I’m ready. If you can take me, I’d appreciate it.”
If Amber could hear me now, she’d laugh at all this formality. My sister has the manners of a princess. I’m the simple girl who’ll talk to anything that stands still long enough.
I follow the maid, taking my time, trying to calm my nerves. But all my preparation crumbles the moment I step onto the terrace and see Gianni.
Damn it. Not Gianni. Giancarlo. I don’t want intimacy with him.
Liar. The problem is exactly the opposite.
While Angelo, handsome as he was, never stirred more in me than the thrill of watching grass grow, Gianni makes my knees weak just by looking at me.
“You look beautiful, Elodie,” he says, his gaze traveling over my body before settling firmly on my face, which, against my will, makes me respect him a little more.
I know my body draws men’s eyes, and usually that’s all they see. Like I’m a filet mignon they’re eager to devour, they rarely bother to look me in the eyes.
“Thank you. That was kind of you, providing clothes for your prisoner,” I say, not to irritate him but to distract myself, because the way he’s looking at me right now has butterflies somersaulting in my stomach.
“I always give my guests the best,” he says, stepping closer. “Even the kidnapped ones.”
Despite the hint of playfulness, his eyes darken as he approaches, and I think for a second he’s going to touch me. But instead, he slips his hands into his trouser pockets, and I shove away the faint sting of disappointment.
To distract myself, I look him over, too.
He’s dressed head to toe in black—slacks, dress shirt, shoes—which offsets the dark blond of his hair and the piercing blue of his eyes.
Add the twilight sky behind him—not quite night but no longer day, painted in colors only God could invent—and he looks devastating.
I swallow hard as my gaze returns to his face, forcing myself to speak, to break through the web of sensuality he seems to weave so easily. “Your prisoner thanks you, although. . .”
“Although what?”
“Beige isn’t a color I’d pick for myself.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s common. Lifeless.”
“What do you like, then?”
“Does it matter?”
“Answer me.”
“I like red. Darker shades of pink. Green. I hate the feeling of being lost in a sea of sameness.”
“You like to stand out?”
“Not in the way you’re thinking. I like to have an identity. I refuse to be just a number, a color, a name. My sister says she wants to be a daisy.”
He frowns. “A daisy?”
“Yes. Amber wants roots. Stability.”
“And you?”
“I want to never have to make plans. I like the unexpected.”
I only realize what I’ve admitted when he takes another step closer.
I didn’t mean to say so much. But I don’t regret it, either.
What I wasn’t prepared for, though, is that after greeting me with that indolent, self-assured posture. . .Gianni is about to do what we both have wanted from the very first second we laid eyes on each other.