Chapter 20
20
G ia
“Five minutes!” Dante shouts from the other side of the door.
He let me use the bathroom and wash myself.
There isn’t a window in this bathroom, and the mirror over the sink has been removed—no sharp objects to use for a fighting chance to escape. I relieve myself and then slip into the shower, hoping the hot water that swirls around me will relax me and help me find a solution.
Jets of warm water flow down my body, and my wrists sear with the contact. My arms hurt—sore from staying in the same position, my hands cramping, but my wrists feel the worst. A latent throb steadily stabs at my pulse every few minutes, reminding me that I shouldn’t have pressed them so hard into the metal rings like there was a chance in hell they’d burst open.
I lather the body wash on myself, and the sensation gives me a temporary reprieve. What am I going to do?
I’m going to die.
“Two minutes!” he shouts again.
What’s he going to do?
I close my eyes and let the powerful jets caress my shoulders, hoping to alleviate the kinks. I stretch my arms and legs, sighing, enjoying every moment. Then, an intrusive memory flashes into my brain.
Ciro shoves me into the mirror over the sink, and I hear the crackling sound of glass hitting the sink before I see the drops of blood falling from my forehead. The pain is acute, raw, like someone twisted a knife deep into me.
“Fucking bitch,” he says behind me, rage swimming in his eyes.
When he’s like this, unhinged and exuding contempt, I know it’s going to be bad. The smell of cheap perfume and alcohol swirls in the air, a dead giveaway that he’s been seeing a woman and drinking. I only hope she doesn’t have the same fate as me—I doubt it. Even to his lovers, he keeps up his good guy facade.
I’m the lucky one, the receiver of all the built-up frustration and self-loathing.
“You didn’t get dinner ready on time. Now I have to wait and be late for my meeting.”
I don’t know what kind of meeting someone like him would have on a Wednesday night. Especially now that he’s between jobs again, and I’ve been working double shifts at a café to get us through without letting his father know. He hates asking his father for money.
“I just got home,” I say in a low voice, avoiding an apology. He gets madder when I say I’m sorry for not fulfilling whatever expectation he has of me. “I can cook dinner really quick.”
He looks at me in the broken mirror, many pieces now missing from the frame and sparkling at the bottom of the sink. “You’d better.”
He releases me, and I wait for him to leave the bathroom before I sigh in relief.
I pray that he’s drunk enough to be stopped by the police and go to jail for a few days for driving intoxicated. Or worse, I pray for him to die. Drive himself off the road or into a pole.
“Gia,” Dante says, and I blink out of my trance.
I hate remembering all that the bastard did to me, and I usually shut down those thoughts quickly—I guess it’s harder when I have more time to think. Water still cascades from my hair down my body.
“Get out,” Dante says.
I turn off the tap, and he gives me a clean towel. I dry myself efficiently, aware that he’s watching my every move.
The memory of Ciro’s abuse is still fresh, even if I want to erase it forever. A part of me feels limp. Dead.
“Come,” he says.
At first, I didn’t think he’d treat me poorly. But now, I don’t know. Although he doesn’t have that rage energy oozing from him like Ciro, I can tell he's disappointed every time he looks at me. Upset. Hurt.
I put Dante in this predicament, and I should suffer the consequences. What if they’re too harsh?
Is he going to kill me?
I don’t know if Ciro ever considered truly ending my life while we were together. He needed me to feel better about himself.
What does Dante need me for?
Dante guides me into the bedroom, wrapping the towel around my body. I don’t see any pieces of clothes around, so don’t even bother asking for them. I know he wants to make me feel bare. Vulnerable.
“Can you please not cuff me? I can’t run anywhere,” I beg. “I’m sure you have people outside the door, and while you’re in here, while I’m still alive, I can’t hurt you.”
“Get on the bed,” he says, cocking his head in the direction of the bed.
“Dante, please?—”
“You don’t make demands.”
Sighing, I do as I’m told and sit against the board, and he lifts my arms to cuff them again. My limbs cramp in response, recognizing the aches that return to me all too quickly.
The top of the towel loosens on me slowly until my breasts spill into view.
A wave of embarrassment sweeps over me. I look at him, and our gazes hold.
I purse my lips, and desire shoots down to my core. That, I never experienced with Ciro. When he was rough or beat me up, I was never aroused. I was ashamed, scared, angry.
Dante is different.
He’s so different that I wish he weren’t.
He reaches behind his pocket and lifts a sleek handgun.
I inhale all the oxygen in the room, and my pulse stops working for a moment. “Dante.”
He shushes me and brings the gun to my chest.
The device is cold and heavy, the metal rubbing against my skin. Goose bumps rise on my arms, and a hot wave of awareness crosses my cheeks. This is all kinds of wrong. Dante is about to kill me, and I don’t know what to feel.
“I have a very limited amount of time to get you to talk,” he says, pointing the muzzle at my breast. I recoil, and he drags the weapon over my skin until the muzzle grazes my nipple, which hardens, proving that my body can’t be trusted. “Wonder how I can get you to talk.”
“I would tell you if I knew.”
He ignores my comment and rubs his weapon down my body like he wants the device to catalog me inch by inch. I moan, part turned on, part terrified—and completely at a loss. Seems like I can’t tell him anything he’ll believe. What are my options? Fuck.
Then, he traces the gun below my belly button. Shivers of fear and anticipation run down my spine, and I thrash my wrists, protesting.
“Why did you sleep with me?”
“Because I wanted to.”
“Because you wanted to get closer to me. Wasn’t it? Just admit.”
I frown, impatient. “No.”
He does the unthinkable and eases the gun into my pussy. The cold metallic feels different from his warm cock or any vibrator I’ve used. Because my sex toys never carried a bullet that could end my life.
“Was it why you ordered those sex toys? Because you wanted to get the conversation started with me?”
“I ordered them because I enjoy them.”
“Oh, I know,” he says, sending me a cold smile.
He still thinks I’m calculated. I planned on a new start, yes, but getting sexually entangled with him was never an advantage.
I swallow, then stare at him. “My whole marriage, I had to hide any toys because my husband is an insecure bastard. The idea of me having pleasure was unacceptable to him. So when I left, yes, I bought a couple here and there. I also needed the distraction. So I wouldn’t think about why I left him,” I say, unsure if my words are sinking in, but I don’t have many options. Even if he won’t believe me. Even if he kills me. I need to share these things because I didn’t for so long. “Getting involved with you wasn’t my goal,” I continue. “If anything, it complicated my life.”
“Finally, we agree on something,” he says. “You complicated my life, too. Because otherwise, you’d already be dead.”
I sink my teeth into my lower lip. Is that a nugget of hope? I search his eyes, desperate for an answer, but he avoids my gaze and focuses his attention on the gun, thrusting it inside me.
It doesn’t fill me like his cock, but the idea that it’s in between my legs adds an unexpected excitement to the already tense turmoil. I don’t know what to do. He thrusts it in and out slowly, and I’m sure he notices how wet I am.
I try to be strong and ignore these urges, but my thighs part wider, and I buck into the weapon. Is he going to fire it? Is he going to kill me? Why am I not screaming? I can’t scream. I can’t run. In the same way I can’t escape my feelings.
I… I’ve fallen for Dante.
The man who has a gun buried in my pussy. That’s my life.
He could kill me at any moment, and somehow, I trust him not to.
I only hope I’m not wrong.
He maintains a quick, shallow rhythm, so fast that every time he slams the gun into my pussy, a beat later, he withdraws it and continues the same pattern. I moan, no longer caring to save face or anything else.
Pleasure builds inside me like a rocket ready to launch. A rocket that could destroy everything in its path. My body contracts in anticipation.
“Look at me,” he says in a deep, sexy voice that accepts no refusal.
I obey, and a dangerous, intense glint darkens his eyes. He moves his finger to the trigger, and I hear a click. I stop moving, my heart thrumming in all my pulsing zones. This is it. I should run, move, fight, kick him in the guts, and hope he’ll grant me one more minute of breathing. One more minute alive.
But now, in a way I can’t understand, I don’t.
I stare deep into his eyes, unaware of what kind of messages I’m sending, but completely taken. Claimed. His, even if he doesn’t want me.
He pulls the trigger. I feel the movement of his fingers against my inner walls. And I can no longer wait or hold back. Not knowing if I’m still alive or already gone, I let the pressure turn into pleasure, the uncertainty into euphoria as a wild current takes over me, and I come—the hardest I’ve ever experienced.
Sounds that are foreign to me are part of my lips. They’re loud, rough, raw moans I’ve never produced before. They suffocate every part of me that was unwanted and unholy and spit out the hope of living again to make a difference.
My heart gallops in my chest, my inner walls still clamping around the handgun that he slips out of me. Sometime during this delicious ecstasy, I closed my eyes and now open to find him positioning himself between my legs.
Blurry dots still fill my vision when he rubs the thick head of his cock at my sex. I inhale deeply, dazed after the intensity of the orgasm, in a limbo state, not quite back yet. He doesn’t care. He thrusts into me violently, all the way to the hilt, and I gasp, wrapping my legs around his back.
“Fuck,” I say, rattling my handcuffs, wishing I could run my fingers deep into his hair or scratch his shoulder blades. Because I’m tied up, my senses are heightened. I feel the rush from the blood in his dick, every minor pulse, like we’re so attuned to each other.
Our sexual organs rule us, and they don’t want to quit.
“Dante,” I whisper. “Dante,” I repeat like I’m chanting an old prayer carrying a secret that can save humanity.
He doesn’t let up and slings my legs over his shoulders, fucking me deeper, harder, faster. Grunts escape his lips, and it’s like he’s trying to end this desire we share at once—to kill it, to eliminate it forever. While I’ve come to terms with the fact that it’s not happening, he hasn’t.
Maybe he thinks if he thrusts deep into me one more time—just once, it’ll do.
I clamp my pussy around him, the sensation of my flesh being stretched to the max sending surges of aches and exhilaration through me. Soon, the signs reveal themselves to me, and I come, wishing I could wrap my arms around him, touch him, embrace him, and never let go.
A few moments later, he slides out of me and slams back in. One. Two. Three times—until his growl slices the air and he shudders, coming, filling my pussy with his hot load. He’s trembling when he slips out of me, his cock still leaking, his face flushed.
He grabs a sheet and flings it over me like my nakedness offends him. The smooth fabric hangs above my chest. If I breathe deep enough, it’ll dip down and expose my breasts. A convenient piece of information.
I sure don’t have too many tricks up my sleeve.
“What happens next?” I ask, avoiding the question of why he fucked me.
He sits on the edge of the bed. “Until you tell me about Ross, I can’t let you go.”
“I don’t know jack about Ross. Ciro never discussed work with me, and I preferred it that way.”
“Why didn’t you leave him?” He asks the same question I’ve asked myself one too many times.
I could have, couldn’t I? I wasn’t shackled to a chair.
A mix of regret and shame fills my chest. Time was what it took for me to grow up overnight and understand my options. It took even longer to overcome fear. Hell, I’m still overcoming it, and I left him months ago. “I married him because I thought that was the right thing to do for my mom. She was married to his dad and somewhat happy. I thought Ciro was a good guy. Well… I learned quickly after honeymoon that wasn’t the case.”
He sends me an apologetic look, and I appreciate that small gesture of kindness.
“Then I feared him. I feared what he could do if I tried to leave. One day, his dad came over and tried to rape me.”
He raises an eyebrow. “What?”
“Yeah. Aroldo was drunk. Oh, what a surprise. He’d never tried anything with me before that day… Of course, he creeped me out. His hug always lasted a bit longer than necessary. His eyes were always on me. He was bigger than me, so when he shoved me onto a bed, I did the only thing I could—grabbed the bottle of beer on Ciro’s side and smashed it over his head. I got him distracted and slammed it against him, over and over, until he died,” I say, running the play-by-play in my head. “Ciro came home right after and yelled at me, and at that point, I knew it was do or die. I launched myself at him with a broken bottle and shoved it in his eye. I left with the little money I had and ran. And ran.”
“Gia…”
“All I wanted was a new beginning,” I say, tears forming in my eyes. I can’t wipe them away with my hand or a napkin. I have to understand they’re meant to come out, and I can’t hide anymore.
Different images flash in my mind.
Ciro slapping me across the face in the kitchen because he was let go from yet another job.
Ciro pushing me into the kitchen island, whispering all he’d do to me later—not sexual stuff.
Ciro slamming my body against the wall, yelling at me, his face twisted in rage and deception .
“You’re right. I didn’t leave soon enough. Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t have had to kill someone,” I whisper.
Tears now fill my field of vision, and the more they fall down my cheeks, the quicker they multiply, like on repeat. I sob, my nose stuffy, my head hanging down. I don’t want Dante to see me like this—I don’t want to see me like this, which is why I avoided thinking for so long. Reliving. Remembering.
I sob, the sound loud, haunted, pained. I no longer care. I may die—maybe not by Dante, but by one of his brothers or an employee doing his job. I don’t want to die without acknowledging what I’ve done and, most importantly, what was done to me.
I can’t see Dante’s face.
I hear him move, his steps on the ground. Then, I feel the weight of his knee on the mattress as he says, “Fuck it,” and reaches for my cuffs, finally setting me free.