10. Nicci
10
NICCI
T he worst part about being kept in Savio’s guest room isn’t that I don’t have clothes. It’s the absolute boredom that has set in. Halfway through the day, I catch myself laughing out loud, because I can’t help but think that it’s ridiculous that he tried to tempt me with orgasms last night. That he told me that my pleasure was his, insinuating that if I’m good, if I’m the submissive pet that he wants, he’ll give me more.
Right now, I couldn’t care less about sex. If he wanted to tempt me with something, it would be a book. Having a television in my room. Being allowed out of this fucking room.
I’m so bored I could scream. There are only so many baths I can take, so many times I can run through episodes of my favorite shows that I’ve watched in my head before I’m painfully aware that I’m locked in here with absolutely nothing to do. I do a basic workout, shower again, and try to meditate, but I’ve always been absolutely shit at it. And the itchy, cabin-fever-like feeling coursing through me only makes it more impossible.
It’s just starting to get dark when I hear the door being unlocked. I assume it’s Savio bringing me dinner, but instead, he steps inside, his jaw set and an angry, frustrated look on his face.
My next assumption is that he wants me to ease that frustration, and I try to ignore the prickle that runs over my skin at the thought. I’ve been fighting back the memory of last night all day—or the end of it, at least. I’ve gone over the memory of killing Lucas a dozen times already, remembering every moment, the sweet thrill of victory and how it felt to see that look in his eyes, when he realized that the woman he once treated like meat was turning him into exactly that.
Dead meat.
What I don’t want to let myself think about is what came after. Savio touching me, hot and hungry and possessive, making me call out every place on my body where Lucas touched me so he could do it instead. Savio, making me chase my own orgasm, forcing me to accept that I wanted that pleasure, even if it was from him.
Maybe even because it was from him.
I feel confused. My emotions feel tangled. I wish I had someone to talk to about what I did last night—not because I feel guilty, or regret it, but because I killed someone. A man who wanted to hurt me, who undoubtedly hurt others, who had it coming…but still, I wish I could talk to someone who would understand how that first time feels. Savio, I imagine, would understand. But I can’t imagine talking to him about it. I can’t imagine letting myself be that vulnerable with him, especially after last night.
He’s my jailor , I remind myself. Another name on my list…just the very last one on it. I’m doing what he wants because I need him to facilitate my plans, not because of anything else. There can’t be anything else. Feeling things for him—for a man who is keeping me captive, who kidnapped me—is impossible. It would mean I’ve fallen even further than I already had, before all of this.
I’m so distracted that it takes me a moment to realize that Savio isn’t holding a dinner tray—but folded clothes. He clears his throat, the irritation in his face deepening.
“Do you have something else to do, principessa ?” he asks flatly, a mocking note in his voice when he uses the nickname. “Somewhere to be?”
“No, sir.” I force the words out, trying not to let him hear how much I hate saying it. I picture myself slapping him, shoving him out of the room, grabbing the keys and clothes and running. I let myself think about it for just a moment, before I push the image away—along with all the rest of the things I’ve let myself daydream about from time to time.
“I’ve had a frustrating day,” he says, his voice clipped. “I’d like to go out for a meal. And you’re coming with me.” He sets the clothes down on the bed, along with two small pouches and a pair of shoes. “You have thirty minutes.”
I’m embarrassed at the excitement that floods me, and I hate him for it, too. I shouldn’t be this thrilled to go out, like a dog finally being taken on a walk, but the idea of going out to dinner makes me feel almost giddy. “Yes, sir,” I manage, reining in the emotion.
Savio leaves abruptly, every movement radiating annoyance, and locks the door behind him. For once, the sound of it doesn’t make my stomach drop.
He brought me a sleek, dark blue dress, knee-length with a slit up one side and thin straps, along with the same jewelry and heels I wore last night. I get dressed quickly, inspecting the earrings for any flecks of blood that he might have missed, but there’s nothing. They’re perfectly clean.
It doesn’t take me long to do light makeup. I hear the click of Savio unlocking my door ten minutes before it’s time for me to meet him, and I’m downstairs and kneeling by the front door before my thirty minutes are up. When I hear the tap of Savio’s shoes against the floor, I feel that rush of anticipation again. I wished earlier that I could get out of that room for a little while, and it looks like my wish is going to come true.
“Up,” Savio snaps, but when I stand up, I think I see a glimmer of approval in his eyes, slipping through the tension that’s radiating from him. It sends an answering warmth through me, a feeling like pride that I’ve pleased him, and I grit my teeth.
I don’t want to please him. I don’t want to make him happy beyond what it takes to get what I want. I need to remember that.
“The driver is waiting,” Savio says curtly, opening the door, and I follow him down to the elevator.
Once we’re in the car, I lace my fingers tightly in my lap, trying not to let Savio see how excited I am. It feels a little foolish—I was out just last night, after all, but that was different. There was a purpose to that. This feels like the first normal night out I’ve had in…well, in months. Since before my life fell completely to pieces.
I can feel Savio’s eyes on me for a few minutes, but I don’t look at him. I stare out of the window, worried that if I look his way, he’ll be able to see all my conflicting emotions. I don’t want him to see anything about me. I don’t want to be any more open to him than I’ve already been forced to be.
The car stops in front of a fine-dining Italian restaurant downtown, and the driver opens my door. Savio comes around, waiting for me as I step out, and he reaches to touch my lower back, urging me ahead of him as if we’re actually together. As if this were a real date.
There’s a gorgeous woman at the hostess’ desk, wearing a tight black dress and high heels, her blonde hair in a neat bun on top of her head. I see Savio’s eyes sweep over her, and inexplicably, I feel a stab of jealousy.
I hadn’t wondered, until this very moment, who else there might be. After all, I don’t want to belong to him. Why would I care if anyone else does? But now, seeing him look at the hostess, his gaze sliding over her figure briefly as she takes his name and starts to lead us to our table, I wonder who else is in his life. A girlfriend? A fiancee? Not a wife, I don’t think; there’s no sign of a ring on his finger, not even a line where he might take one on and off. Other women he keeps, like me? That jealous feeling intensifies, a hot coal in the pit of my stomach, and I hate it.
Why do I even care? I want to be free of him, just like I want to be free of every other man who has ever hurt me. It doesn’t make sense.
The hostess takes us to a table near the back of the restaurant, dimly lit in a small alcove that seems uncomfortably romantic to me. Savio pulls out the chair, a more gentlemanly move on his part than I expected, and I sink into it, feeling my stomach growl. I didn’t have lunch today, and I’m hungrier than I would have thought.
He sits down without a word, opening the wine list. He doesn’t look at me, and I sit there with my hands in my lap, utterly silent as he peruses the leather-bound book, then snaps it closed, glancing at the menu. A server approaches, and before I can say a word, Savio speaks up.
“Sparkling water for us both, please, and a bottle of the Le Pin merlot. Salmon carpaccio to start.”
He hands back the wine list, and glances at me. A retort instantly rises to my lips, something sharp and cutting about how he didn’t bother to let me order anything for myself—not the wine or appetizer—but I swallow it back. He’s waiting for that. I can see it in his face. It’s clear that something pissed him off today, and I wonder if that’s why he brought me out with him tonight. He’s hoping that I’ll slip up—give him some excuse to take that irritation out on me.
I resolve not to give him anything to complain about. Not that he needs an excuse to punish me—I’m his , after all. But I can make it so that he has no excuse other than his own selfish desire to use me for his needs. I can make sure that he can’t justify it to himself, and I know that will eat at him even more.
I know men like Savio. Men who thrive on power. He needs that power over me. Any chance that I get to undercut it, I will.
The wine and our appetizer arrive, and my stomach growls again, a little louder this time. Savio smirks, but he barely looks at me as the server pours two glasses of wine and steps away, leaving us to look at our menus.
“Are you going to order for me, or can I choose what I want?” I try to keep my tone as neutral as possible, to keep the sarcasm and resentment out of it. Savio looks up at me, that smirk dropping.
“You can order what you like, principessa .” There’s an expectant look on his face, and I know what I’m supposed to say next.
“Thank you, sir.” I force a smile, looking at the menu. It all looks delicious, and I can’t decide what I want. It’s been months since I’ve been out to eat like this, something I once took for granted, and now I feel ravenous to enjoy the luxury of dining out on expensive food and wine again.
I reach for the wine glass, taking a delicate sip. It’s delicious, smooth, dry, and rich, and I have to force myself not to moan. I haven’t had wine this good in ages. The salmon is delicious, too, sliced paper-thin with lemon and capers, and I carefully put a single piece on a slice of crostini, raising it to my lips. It’s heavenly.
Savio says nothing to me as he sips his wine, just watching me. It’s a bit unsettling, but it doesn’t stop me from eating a second slice of salmon and sipping my own wine. I’m determined to enjoy this, especially since I have no idea when it will happen again.
The server comes back to take our orders—a Caesar salad and veal tortellini for me, filet with gorgonzola sauce and portobello mushrooms for Savio—and then Savio finally speaks, refilling his wine glass.
“I’m sure you’re wondering why I brought you out with me tonight,” he says neutrally, still watching me, as if he wants to catch my every reaction.
“I’m sure you have your reasons.” I take another sip of my wine. “Should I think about it? I assume you’ll do what you want, and I’ll obey you.”
“Because I have something you want.” That smirk tilts the corners of Savio’s mouth again, and I can tell that he’s enjoying reminding me of the power he has over me.
“You have the means to get to what I want.” I wonder if he’ll object to me taking a third slice of salmon. Fuck it. I have no idea when I’ll get out of that fucking room again. I reach for it, enjoying the buttery taste of it, the bite of the citrus on my tongue. I haven’t been eating badly—every meal Savio brings me is high-quality, probably delivered from one of the many restaurants in the area. But this is different. This is making me feel human again.
“What do you think I’ll do with you once we’ve both gotten what we wanted?” Savio asks, taking a bite of salmon himself. “Have you wondered about that?”
My throat tightens. How could I not have? Savio owns me. Whether I like it or not. "I’ve thought about what happens if I fail—if I can’t kill him and escape after I’ve taken everyone else out. I’ve wondered if he’ll kill me in retaliation or if he’ll just subject me to some hellish place like the Gilded Lily, forcing me to work off the debt of trying to take his life.
But I can’t say any of that to him, of course. I have to be very, very careful to keep him from suspecting how far my plans go. So instead, I try for a version of the truth. “A little,” I admit, because I don’t think he’ll believe that I haven’t thought about it at all. “I’m sure you’ll get tired of me eventually. You can’t send me back to my father or my brother, because they’ll be dead.” I smile tightly at him. “I thought you might sell me off to some friend. Put me to work somewhere. A maid, or something else.”
Something tightens in Savio’s expression when I mention him selling me off. Something that almost looks like anger, like a flash of the possessiveness that I’ve seen before. “Work is what I had in mind,” he says, almost casually, but I hear that same tightness in his voice. “I’m sure I can find a use for you, when I’m finished with you. But I won’t be selling you to anyone else.”
I manage a smile. “Why not?” I’m pushing a little too hard, I know. Prodding at the edges of something that clearly burns him. But I can’t help it—I want to see him squirm, just a little.
His expression hardens. “Who would want you when I’m finished with you?” His smile is cold, cruel. “You’ll be so thoroughly used, pet, that no one else will want a turn.”
Anger flares up in me, hot and brutal, and I feel my fingers curl around my dinner knife. I imagine hurling it at him, I imagine lunging across the table, burying it in his throat. I think he sees the thought flicker across my face because he tenses, his gaze darkening to something as sharp and deadly as the fantasy I just had.
“Careful, pet,” he murmurs. “You wouldn’t want me to think that you can’t behave yourself in public.”
I swallow, forcing my fingers to loosen, just as the server comes back with our entrees. It’s a welcome distraction. Savio clearly picked up on my anger towards him, but what he didn’t see—and what I don’t want him to ever fucking know—is that I was angry with myself, too.
For just a moment, when he talked about how thoroughly he plans to use me, I felt excitement. Arousal. I could feel myself getting wet, the thin lace of the panties he brought me clinging to my skin, and I hated it. Hated myself for wanting him— him for making me feel that way.
I’m angry at both of us.
I pick up my fork, forcing myself not to look at him. The food is delicious—the veal is tender and spiced perfectly, the sauce creamy, the pasta pillowy soft. I take a small bite, and then another, sipping my wine, focusing on the taste, the sensation of pleasure that has nothing to do with Savio. Or at least…very little to do with him. For a moment, I can almost lose myself in the luxury of good food and wine, almost feel normal again—until I hear a woman’s voice coming towards us, one that I recognize.
I don’t need to look to know who it is. It’s Estella Gallo, Antony Gallo’s daughter. She was there at the last party I went to—before my life fell apart. She saw me publicly humiliated. She saw the man my father had arranged for me to marry—after Dimitri refused to accept the engagement, after my father had set it up to ensure that the proposal would be public, a means of restoring our social standing after what my failure with Dimitri did.
I can’t let her see me here, with Savio. I can hear her voice coming closer, hear the click of her heels, and I can’t think straight. Panic washes over me, and before I can remind myself that angering Savio is far worse than being embarrassed, that I could lose everything that way, I bolt upright out of the chair.
Savio says something, but I don’t hear what it is, my blood pounding in my ears. The hallway that leads to the ladies’ room is in the opposite direction of Estella, on the other side of the restaurant, and I bolt for it, weaving through tables and away from her as quickly as I can. All I can think of is that I need to get away.
I bolt into the ladies’ room, which is blessedly empty right now. It has a small lounge area separate from the toilets, and I drop down onto the tufted couch against the wall, trying to regulate my breathing. I feel like I’m on the verge of hyperventilating, and I don’t know how to calm myself down. For a moment, I don’t know if I’ll be able to. It feels like everything is rushing back up—all the fear and pain and abuse of the last months—all of the humiliation and disappointment—and I feel a scream clawing up my throat, desperate to be let out.
With the last shreds of self-preservation that I have, I force it down. I force it all down, until my rib cage hurts, like all of that emotion is trying to crack through the bones and be free. If I make a scene, Savio will be angrier than he already is. I can’t make this any worse than I already have, or all of it will be for nothing. The one thing that I thought I could get out of this will be lost.
Somehow, I manage to breathe. In through my nose, out through my mouth, until my heart no longer feels like it’s trying to escape my chest and my pulse is no longer hammering in my ears. I stand up, walking a bit unsteadily over to one of the mirrors, and look at my reflection.
I look pale. I can see hints of dark shadows under my eyes, even through my concealer. I look tired, and I am. I’m tired of all of it—of being owned, used, forced to bend to the whims of men who don’t care about me. I want to fight back.
And unfortunately , I need Savio for that.
Swallowing hard, I run my fingers through the loose pieces of my hair, fixing the twist that I put my hair in earlier. I left my purse at the table, so there’s nothing I can do about my makeup, but it isn’t that bad. I dab a tissue along the edges of my lips, making sure that my lipstick isn’t smeared.
There’s nothing else I can do except go back out to the table and hope that Estella isn’t seated right next to us. And, of course, hope that Savio isn’t so furious that he’s done with our bargain altogether.
Taking a deep breath, I walk out of the bathroom and back to our table.
The moment I see Savio’s face, I know he’s beyond furious with me. His mouth is set in a hard line, his eyes dark with anger, and I can see his jaw is clenched. The food is gone, and for some reason, that, more than anything else, makes me want to burst into tears.
Instead, I force the feeling back and glance for Estella. She’s on the far side of the restaurant, too far away to easily spot me, and I sink back into my chair, feeling my heartbeat pick up its pace as Savio glares at me.
“No need to sit,” he says icily. “The driver will be around soon. We’re leaving.”
He stands up, and I know there’s no point in arguing that I’m still hungry or that I don’t want to leave yet. I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and follow him back out to the car.
The moment the doors close behind us, Savio turns towards me, his voice laced with fury as he speaks. “Do I need to put a leash on you, pet? I don’t recall giving you permission to leave the table.”
“I didn’t think I needed permission to?—”
He cuts me off before I can finish. “I’ll ignore the foolishness of that statement to stop you from lying to me, pet. I know why you ran off. I saw Estella Gallo walking by our table just after you ran. You’re ashamed to be seen with me? Is that it?”
The question stops me in my tracks. I’d been on the verge of demanding how he knew I had bad blood with Estella, but it’s clear that he doesn’t. He’s assuming something else—that I ran away from the table because I didn’t want one of my former peers to see me at dinner with Savio Valenti.
As if I had a choice. But of course, she wouldn’t know that.
I look at him sharply. “Why do you care if I’m embarrassed to be seen with you?”
His hand shoots out, grasping my wrist and pinning it to the leather of the seat between us. “I’m the one asking the questions here, principessa . Do I need to remind you that I own you? That everything you have and are is at my whim?”
I resist the urge to yank my wrist out of his grasp. It won’t help anything, and it will only raise the odds that after this fight, my deal with Savio will have fizzled into nothing. But I can’t stop the words that spill out of my lips, even as I feel the tension between us pull tight enough to snap.
“You bought me,” I hiss, venom dripping from my tongue. “You don’t own me.”
“You should be grateful I bought you, principessa .” He laughs coldly. “I saw the life you were living. You’re in the lap of luxury now, compared to?—”
“You know nothing about the kind of life I’ve lived!” My voice rises, but I can’t stop it. “You don’t know anything about me, Savio Valenti, except a handful of facts that anyone with an internet connection and half a brain could figure out. You don’t know what I’ve gone through, what I’ve endured. What’s been done to me.” I let out a long, shuddering breath, fighting back the tears that are threatening at the corners of my eyes. “Haven’t you wondered what would make someone like me murderous? What would make me hate someone enough to want to kill them?”
His face is impassive. If he’s reacting at all to what I’m saying, I can’t tell. I can’t even begin to read what he might be thinking. “You still haven’t said why you ran off.” His voice is deceptively calm, and I feel a bubble of panic—of hopelessness—start to well up in my chest.
I look at him and give the only answer I can think of, without going into a history of all that’s happened that I know he doesn’t care about. “I didn’t want to be humiliated again,” I whisper.
It’s the wrong answer. I see immediately that he thinks that the humiliation was that I would have been seen with him, and I also see that I won’t be given a chance to explain otherwise. His expression hardens, and his gaze holds mine, dark and relentless.
“If you behave that way again,” he says, his voice low, “you’ll find out what real humiliation is, principessa .”
Something about the way he says it feels like a shock to my system. Hurt ripples through me like a wave, and an ache settles in my chest, caught behind my ribs, strong enough that I almost put my hand to my chest as if it’s a physical pain. As if his threat really, truly hurt me.
I don’t understand it. I know the situation I’m in. I know who he is and why he wants me—at least, part of it. And I know the bargain that we have. It’s all out there in the open, with no pretense that it’s anything but what it is—captor and captive, a devil and the deal we’ve made. There’s no reason for me to be hurt that Savio would threaten me, that he would look at me like that, as if he’s furious with me.
He doesn’t say another word as the car takes us back to the penthouse. When we’re in the parking garage, he steps out, waiting as the driver opens my door for me and I exit the car, my knees feeling shaky. He leads me up to the penthouse, his hand on my lower back, never leaving—as if he thinks that I might try to run, to escape.
As if I have any place that I could go.