Salvatore

21. Ivy

21

IVY

Shock—and maybe a little unwanted lust—renders me speechless.

Given what I’ve recently endured I didn’t expect giddy butterflies to be in my future anytime soon, yet here I stand, my stomach filled with flapping wings and nervous energy as I struggle to respond.

But all too soon he’s stepping away. “You should get some rest.”

My whirling gut is now accompanied by a panicked pulse.

“Text me once Catarina gets you a cell. She has my number.” He opens the front door without a backward glance and leaves.

I remain motionless, caught up in the urge to run after him and the self-preserving need to reclaim even a shred of my independence.

A loud shriek of birds carries from outside, the air in my lungs heavier than it should be as I inch closer to the glass panel beside the door to watch Salvatore being driven away.

It takes seconds for his absence to feel like a severed limb. For a wanted criminal and proud murderer to seem like the one person I can’t afford to lose.

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Don’t worry, dolcezza .” Catarina’s voice carries down the long hall. “I’m sure he’ll return as soon as he can.”

I swallow against the absurdity of my emotions. “I’m not concerned.” I stand taller through the lie and force a smile with her approach.

She gives me a pitying look, clearly not gobbling up my bullshit. “I’m going to head out and buy you a few things to get you settled.”

“At this hour?”

“There’s a Walmart that’s open twenty-four-seven. I will get you a cell phone so you can contact Salvatore whenever you?—”

“Please don’t leave on my account. It’s the middle of the night.”

She places a consoling hand on my arm. “You carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, and if a short trip to the store will help ease that burden, then I feel blessed to be able to help. It’s not a hardship.”

I scrunch my nose to fight the tingle.

Why am I so goddamn emotional?

“Lock up behind me if it makes you feel better.” She opens the front door, her shoulder-length bob swaying with the light breeze. “Nobody will enter the house while I’m gone. I promise.”

I nod as she closes the door behind her, then quickly sidestep to engage the lock, my chest tightening with the isolation.

It’s been weeks since I’ve been alone. Truly alone. In Gabriel’s apartment there’d always been someone on the other side of my prison door. Someone to listen to my movements. To remind me of my dire circumstances.

Now, staring through the front lights into the darkened garden, I see nobody. Not a single soul, even though I’m well aware guards litter the property.

I press my forehead to the glass and close my eyes.

This is what you wanted. You’re free. Alive. Even unharmed… at least for the most part.

I allow myself a moment to wallow. A few seconds where my throat burns and my sternum aches. Then I suck in a deep breath, stand tall, and stride back down the hall with an air of confidence that’s completely fabricated.

I enter my newly allocated bedroom and scour every inch of the generous space for hidden cameras or listening devices. I do the same in the bathroom, my limbs utterly exhausted while my paranoia remains on lock.

Eventually I shower, my tears suppressed beneath layers of stubborn pride as I take stock of the bruises Alonso inflicted.

Thankfully, I’m a pro at dissociating. The back of my mind is already a storage shed of trauma that’s neatly packed in locked boxes. I shove all the recent events in there, too—the memories, the complications.

There are things I should’ve told Salvatore. Important things. Problematic things. But I cram it into storage. Push it beyond the farthest reach of my consciousness. Then I escape to the shower, throw on a fluffy white robe, and place my clothes in the trash beside the toilet, praying I never have to see them again.

The bedside clock shines a bright 4:54 by the time I crawl under the crisp, cool sheets of the massive bed and tuck my head against a satin pillow that smells of subtle fabric softener.

I anticipate staring at the ceiling until the sun rises while I mentally pack more trauma boxes. But one minute I’m lying in the dark, actively ignoring the memory of Salvatore’s leap of faith seventeen stories above ground level, and the next I’m waking with a start in a room bathed in sunlight.

It takes a second to gain my bearings and for the bodily aches to kick in.

I’m sore everywhere—arms, thighs, face.

Bruises circle my wrists, the purple and pink bracelets an unwanted reminder of the sick bastard who inflicted them. I sigh and get back to packing. Dissociating. Compartmentalizing.

I’m good at many things, but nothing beats my trauma denial.

It’s the gift that keeps on giving after I stumbled upon something I shouldn’t have at one of my uncle’s elaborate soirées as a fledgling teenager. I’d brought my best friend with me. We’d both been dressed like children who wanted to be adults—tight dresses, tacky makeup—our ignorance at the company we kept blatant for all to see.

We weren’t supposed to snoop around the property.

We were told not to leave the house yard or go anywhere near my uncle’s sheds

But we were young girls who’d recently reached teenager status, and that came with a dose of reckless defiance.

I couldn’t have known we’d stumble upon a small warehouse full of drugged girls waiting to be processed and sold as sex slaves. I’d thought my family was normal. Just like any other.

Yet after the discovery, I never saw my best friend again.

Neither did her parents.

I fling back the covers, distracting myself from the memory that must have broken out of the chained box I keep it in as I pad to the door in my robe.

I open it a crack and search for guards. But there’s no one and nothing in sight except for a perfect row of paper gift bags a few inches from my feet—four of them, no, five—all neatly placed in a line like it’s Christmas.

I drag them into my room and sit on the carpeted floor to go through them.

The first bag is clothes, the items neatly folded, their tags removed and placed at the bottom of the bag, the fabric smelling of the same sweet scent that coats my pillows.

Whatever they’re paying Catarina isn’t enough.

I grab a sports bra that’s surprisingly close to my size, cotton panties, a long-sleeve linen blouse, and a pair of denim shorts, and quickly pull them on. It’s ridiculous how good new clothes feel. How clean clothes feel.

I open the next bag, finding every toiletry and feminine hygiene product under the sun—moisturizer, soaps, cleanser, tampons, pads—things I haven’t been afforded or even thought about in what seems like a lifetime.

I lunge for the third bag. It’s more clothes—pajamas, T-shirts, skirts, shorts. The forth is the same. But the last bag has a brand-new cell phone in a box with a Post-It on the front with both Salvatore and Catarina’s numbers.

I quickly claw at the shrink wrap covering the package and turn on the phone. I rush through the set-up instructions, the device in my palm making me feel like I’ve gained more freedom than last night’s escape.

Now, I could call for help. I could report Gabriel.

Instead, the first thing I do is text my unholy savior.

Ivy

Hey Sally, this is my new number.

Then I text my personal Santa Claus.

Ivy

Good morning, Catarina. Thank you so much for everything you left at my door. I really appreciate it.

I’m about to go on an app-downloading spree, my fingers frantically typing to get back into my Instagram account so I can find Liv’s profile and send her a DM, when an unconscionably loud beep notification blurts from the phone.

Salvatore

I appreciate how openly you attempt to make me think about fucking you. But to be clear, you don’t need to try so hard.

I fight a grin as another beep sounds.

Salvatore

I hope you slept well. You’re safe.

The happiness fades from my features, the reminder of my safety making me more keenly aware of how I am not in fact safe, anywhere, let alone here.

“I see you got the phone working.” Catarina steps into the doorway, a serving tray in hand. “Surely now you must be ready to eat.”

I nod and do my best to hide how her silent approach to my room has creeped me out. “I’m absolutely famished.”

“Good.” She continues forward and places the tray down on my bed. “It’s almost lunch but I thought you might still appreciate breakfast. There’s freshly squeezed juice, fruit, yoghurt, muesli, and also a bacon and egg muffin.”

My stomach squeezes, not only at the sight but the delicious smell. “Will you always spoil me like this?”

She beams and returns to the hall. “I’m glad to be of service. Please message or call out if you need anything else.”

I’m tempted to ask her to stay. To talk. To give me some more kind-hearted feminine company to wipe away a little of the threatening male attention I’ve grown accustomed to. But instead of leaning into the weakness, I murmur my appreciation and reclaim my new cell to type a reply to Salvatore.

Ivy

The things that trigger your dirty thoughts are alarming. You should get that checked. I only call you Sally because life is too short to have to deal with all the consonants and vowels in your diabolical name. My fingers aren’t cut out for that kind of work.

I press send, well aware I’m volleying back his flirtation and not entirely pleased with myself.

Salvatore

I guess my fingers are far more willing to put in the hard work. Remember that for when I return and you feel like calling me names.

My body heats. It’s ridiculous and uncalled for. It’s also entirely freeing and welcome after the past weeks.

Maybe he knows that. Maybe that’s exactly why he’s volleying over-the-top texts—just to distract me. But regardless of the reason, my smile is wide as I reply with a vomit emoji.

I change the setting on the phone, turning the volume off and switching to vibrate notifications like a mentally stable person. Then I go in search of Liv. I can’t remember her number, however it’s easy to find our message thread on Insta.

Liv

Please, Ivy, I’m freaking out that you’re in trouble. I know you wanted space, but something doesn’t feel right. Please return my calls.

She’s sent a string of messages while I’d been captive. Screen upon screen full of fear for my safety that I’m not ready to read through.

Instead I scour through the paperwork in the bag that came with the SIM until I find a typed sheet of paper with my new phone number.

Ivy

Hey Liv, I’m sure you’ve already heard from Remy that I’m safe. Thank you. I miss you. I love you. Here’s my new number.

I type in the ten digits and send the message into cyberspace, then climb from the floor and set my sights on sustenance. I spoon a mouthful of yoghurt as the message turns from delivered to read. It isn’t more than a heartbeat later that the cell starts to vibrate with an incoming call.

I drag in a deep breath, suddenly overwhelmed with uncertainty.

For as long as Liv’s known me I’ve been the easygoing, confident badass who doesn’t take shit from anyone, when the reality is a blinding contrast. I hope this unexpected peek behind the curtain isn’t too much for her.

“Liv?” I ask in greeting.

“Oh, God, Ivy,” she gushes. “Are you okay? Jesus Christ, of course you’re not—that was a stupid question, I’m sorry,” she rambles. “Is there anything I can do? I’ve missed you so much.”

I close my eyes, simply enjoying the sound of her voice. “I’m good. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

The line goes quiet, the seconds ticking by with slowly building unease.

“Ive, I know you’re not good,” she says softly. “And I hate myself for how we parted ways. If only I’d?—”

“Liv, I love you.” I place my spoon down, needing to concentrate to stop sadness taking hold. “You’re my best friend, and will always be my best friend, and yes, we’ve got a crap-ton of baggage to unpack, but I’m still really tired and need some time to…” I shrug. “I don’t know… I just need some time.”

I hear her pained exhale. Can visualize the effects of her concern through the image of her in my mind.

“I understand.” Her voice softens. “I won’t push. I do want to come see you though. Remy said it’s not a great idea right now—that Lorenzo is a little temperamental—but soon?”

“I’d like that.” I need that.

“Is there anything I can do between now and then?”

There are so many things.

For starters, I want my belongings from inside my apartment that I worked so hard to save for. But Liv isn’t safe around my home. It’s probably for the best if I kiss everything goodbye before someone has to inform me that Gabriel and my brother torched it all.

“There’s one thing.” I pop a grape into my mouth to stop my stomach eating me from the inside out. “Would you be able to talk to Allison for me? I’m not sure what she’s been told, but as far as I’m aware she still doesn’t know about my past or why I’ve been MIA. I need her to understand what’s going on, but I also don’t want her to worry. It’s not a conversation we should have over the phone, and I don’t know how much longer I’m going to be out of town?—”

“I’ll do it,” she promises. “I’ll go see her right now.”

The relief gets to me, hollowing my chest and squeezing my ribs.

We talk for a little while longer, beating around the bush of what happened to me. Saying things without really saying anything at all. Then I offer a reluctant goodbye, even though I don’t want to, because maybe distancing myself from Liv is a smart idea if I’ll never get to step foot back in Baltimore.

I finish my lunchtime breakfast while I sit on the window seat and stare at the lush gardens of Lorenzo’s estate. Armed men patrol the perimeter, their casual stroll around the property unsettling and slightly comforting in equal measure.

I don’t leave my room. I don’t need to.

I shower, then return to staring out my window some more and eventually nap. Catarina ensures I eat much more than necessary, but I decline her offers of dining in the open living area in preference to my quiet bedroom space. And I text Salvatore… way too much.

Ivy

What happened with Lorenzo?

Salvatore

Nothing I couldn’t handle.

Ivy

Do you still have ten fingers and toes?

Salvatore

I still have all the appendages you’ve previously enjoyed so much. Thanks for asking.

I don’t know why I’m surprised that he turns each interaction into an opportunity to flirt. I’m also sickened at how much I like it.

Ivy

Your overstated sense of self is showing. Maybe dial it down a notch for the sake of my gag reflex.

And before you take the on ramp to a conversation revolving around my swallowing skills, please be assured I’d rather choke down a box of rusty nails.

Salvatore

When I get you on your knees, mi bella reina, the last thing you’ll be swallowing is nails.

I slide the phone away— far, far away —and return to my previously scheduled broadcast of Lorenzo’s manicured gardens.

Days pass with a relatively similar timetable.

I refuse to wallow in my trauma but thoughts of it linger. I grieve Carlo’s loss and wonder if his pride in me would’ve changed if he knew the truth of my upbringing. I also ponder his involvement in the mafia alliance/body disposal debacle.

I’m tempted to text Liv about it, yet given the whole phones can be tapped and messages intercepted warning, I file my questions away for a later date.

Salvatore

Catarina is concerned you haven’t left your room, so from now on meals will be served at the dining table.

I wake to his message on day three and glower at his words as I read them for a second time. I haven’t left my room because there’s no need. I have everything I require within these four walls—amenities, bed, food…his gun.

Okay, so maybe I’m slightly acclimatized to isolation given my previous captivity, but I’m also living in enemy territory.

Ivy

Thanks for the concern. But I prefer my room.

Salvatore

It’s non-negotiable.

I wish I could throw the heavy-handedness back in his face. To tell him I’ll walk and find more hospitable accommodation. Problem is, we both know I don’t have that flexibility.

Ivy

I bet you feel like a big boy for revoking my room service privileges, but bossing around a full-grown woman is a major ick.

Salvatore

Not only is it a feeling, it’s a reality. Do I need to send you a pic to jog your memory?

Ivy

I guess ‘big’ is a relative term.

I thrust my cell away again, hating that I not only lack the necessity of a picture to jog my memory, but that I also agree with his insinuation.

I shower while in a mood, dry my hair as I scowl at my bruised and battered reflection in the mirror, then make my way into the open living area where the snitch busily hustles around the kitchen.

She pauses as I pull out a seat and take my place at the dining table, the sad smile she levels on me eating away at my annoyance.

“I’m sorry, dolcezza .” She approaches, her brow creased with remorse. “I was worried about you.”

“I understand, and the worry is appreciated, but you don’t need to go to Salvatore with your concerns. Just talk to me instead.”

Her pained smile deepens. “It is habit. My duty is to report to Lorenzo, but he has stated that I answer to Salvatore in regards to your well-being.”

I roll my eyes. “It must be tough working with men who haven’t evolved from primitive ways.”

She chuckles. “You would be surprised.” She makes her way back to the kitchen and pulls open the fridge. “Salvatore can be quite attentive and generous.”

“Are we talking about the same guy—roughly six-foot, dark features, smug smirk, arrogant personality?”

Her laughter continues as she places a carton of eggs on the counter.

“How often does he stay here?” I ask.

“At least once a month. Sometimes more if I’m lucky.”

“And why does he come? What does he do in Virginia Beach?”

She pauses in the middle of opening the egg carton, her lips parting on silent words, the awkwardness lasting a few seconds before she pastes on a sweet smile—a forced sweet smile. “I’m not sure.” She returns to the fridge, rummaging aimlessly through the shelves as if the task is an excuse to keep her face hidden from me. “Business I assume. But I don’t pry.”

Bullshit .

She knows exactly why he comes here and I bet it’s for something shady.

I don’t push though. I change the subject, eat my breakfast without causing drama, and then return to my room.

Salvatore

I heard you were such a good girl sitting at the adult table.

I scoff when I read his text that afternoon and curse at how my pulse misses a beat.

Ivy

Don’t you have better things to do, like practicing your sinister laugh while stroking a hairless cat?

Salvatore

The only hairless pussy I’m interested in is located in Virginia Beach.

Every time.

Every. Goddamn. Time.

His egotistical flirtation knows no bounds.

Ivy

Has anyone else ever mentioned that you have the confidence of a much taller man?

Salvatore

If you only knew how hard your insults make me…

Ivy

If only you knew how capable I am with a pair of scissors…

I picture him smirking, and it does absolutely nothing to lessen the speed of my pulse.

The next day I wake early, determined to make a positive improvement on my mental stability by ignoring my cell phone and the urge to message a certain dark-haired, dark-eyed criminal.

I’m in the middle of conquering how to use the ice-maker on the fridge when Catarina walks from the hall with a tray laden with what looks to be dirty crockery from a breakfast spread similar to what she used to delivered to my room.

“Oh.” She startles and stops her progression toward the kitchen. “I didn’t realize you were awake.”

“I’m trying to get into a routine. I hope you don’t mind me taking liberties with the orange juice.”

“No. Please make yourself at home.” She glances down at her tray, then back toward the hall as if contemplating an escape.

“Is everything okay?” I ask.

“Yes. Of course.” She dons that forced sweet smile. “I just forgot what I was doing for a minute. Let me get you some breakfast.” She makes for the dishwasher and quickly stacks the crockery from her tray. “Would you prefer a cooked meal or fruit and yoghurt?”

“Fruit and yoghurt would be perfect.”

She works quietly. Washing. Peeling. Chopping.

“Do you feed the guards, too?” I wonder aloud as she places a bowl of Greek yoghurt in front of me topped with tropical fruit and accompanied by a jar of honey.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“The used meal tray you carried into the kitchen.”

“Oh.” She retreats, averting her gaze, the easygoing eye contact she’s made since I arrived now gone. “That was my breakfast.”

Her response doesn’t pass the sniff test. Her vibe is off.

“I thought you would’ve eaten out here.”

“I prefer to keep things professional and have my meals elsewhere.”

Really? Weird.

I want to press the issue, but I also don’t want to increase her obvious discomfort, so I let it slide.

We do spend the morning together, though—me seated on a stool at the island counter, her making gnocchi from scratch. We chat about random things—her childhood in Italy, my love of food and fashion. It’s the most time I’ve spent out of my room, so when lunch arrives I wonder if she’ll ignore professionalism and stay with me. Instead, she loads up a tray with a meal identical to mine and smiles in apology as she leaves the room.

The whole situation is sus, which is why I wait a beat for her footsteps to fade before I silently push from the table and tiptoe after her.

She’s humming as I poke my head into the hall, catching her as she passes my room and stops before a door farther up on the left.

Her bedroom?

She juggles the tray in one hand, resting it against her hip while she grabs for the knob and glances toward me.

I jerk my head back at a Mission Impossible spy-level speed, then scurry to the dining table, hoping she didn’t catch me being nosy.

Oh, who cares?

She snitched on me. I snooped on her. Karma would consider us even.

I finish my lunch and return to my room to call Liv.

I don’t mention that the house manager is running some Michelin-star-etiquette type situation. Or how it leaves me feeling the slightest bit self-conscious. But it becomes clear it’s a routine when Catarina pulls the same disappearing act at dinner.

She returns to the kitchen ten minutes after I’ve finished my roast chicken and vegetables, her tray empty, her gaze averted as if she’s ignoring me while I read a book on my cell at the dining table.

We don’t really talk again until my eyes are so tired the words begin to blur on my screen.

“It’s past my bedtime, dolcezza .” She offers a comforting pat to my shoulder. “I will see you in the morning.”

“I should get to bed, too.” I push back in my chair and follow her to the hall, expecting her to join me as I walk toward my room, but she goes left instead, heading for the foyer.

“Where are you going?” I ask.

“Home.” She pauses. “I have a small cottage in the far corner of the property. You weren’t aware you had the house to yourself at night?”

“Oh” is the only answer I can come up with, which I’m sure beats— then where the hell have you been eating your meals?

“I’ll see you tomorrow.” She finger-waves in farewell and continues outside.

This whole eating thing just keeps evolving into increasing levels of weird, and with nothing else to occupy my mind, I let curiosity lead me to the door she keeps disappearing into.

If she’s watching television and having downtime, the situation would make sense. Obviously, she can’t work from sunrise to midnight without a break. But if she’s locking herself in an empty room while I take over the open living space, then I’ll demand a return to my room service so she isn’t being ostracized.

I grab the door handle and slowly twist, all the snarky comments I want to text Salvatore accumulating like a production line until I’m staring down at a dark staircase leading into an even darker basement.

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

Catarina cannot be eating in here. The basement? Really?

Lorenzo Cappelletti must be an A-grade vicious asshole.

Aside from the stairs, there’s nothing more than storage shelves, metal cabinets, a surgical bed, and what looks to be medical equipment. It’s a makeshift triage room just like the one my uncle had when I was younger—a necessary part of the criminal life—but an extremely sterile and unfit space to send your house manager while a guest enjoys the meals she’s created.

From what I can see, there isn’t even a chair for her to relax in.

Does she sit on the stairs while balancing the tray on her lap? Or have I just stepped into the wrong room?

I pull the door shut and glance farther along the hall. The next closest door is yards away. My perception can’t be that off. Can it?

I stew on the absurdity as I shower and then dress in my pajamas.

I lie in bed and consider whether the after-effects of trauma have made me a little cracked. And once the thought of sleep is overridden by a growing avalanche of unanswered questions, I throw back the covers and stalk into the hall for another look.

This time I turn on the basement light and crouch at the top of the steps, taking in every aspect of the downstairs space—the heart monitor machine thingy, and the large overhead surgical light that implies some serious shit gets taken care of below ground level. I scan every one of the industrial shelfs from my perched view, then stop at the one on the far side of the room that looks to be sitting at an odd angle away from the wall.

I lean closer. Tilt my head. Still, the metal shelving unit appears out of place.

I creep down the first few steps to take a better look, but even from this lower vantage point my perception doesn’t shift the shelves. The cabinet definitely isn’t positioned against the wall. It’s way off at the far end.

I keep staring at it. Keep trying to figure out if my eyes are playing tricks on me or if this entire situation is a wild goose chase because of some, hopefully temporary, messed up visual judgment.

Jesus Christ, just take a goddamn look.

I sigh, resigned not to get any sleep until I check it out, and descend the remaining stairs, the slightly colder air seeping beneath my full-length silken pajamas. And when I reach the basement floor with the cold concrete sinking into the soles of my feet, that damn metal cabinet still doesn’t look right.

I cross the basement toward it, passing IV stands and a defibrillator, the entire house silent apart from the swish of my pants as I move. But with each step, I realize my perception isn’t mangled at all.

The cabinet is angled away from the wall, just enough to be a raging OCD trigger.

Why in the hell ? —

I peek behind the metal cabinet, only to snap rigid at the dark passage tucked behind it.

It’s the opening to something private. Something potentially illegal.

There’s a small PIN-code panel embedded into the wall right before the start of the passage, a thick steel door already retracted into the cavity.

Shit.

I have a sinking feeling the metal cabinet isn’t meant to be sitting askew. The thick steel door shouldn’t be open.

Quietly I inch back, preparing to lock this memory in another one of the boxes in the back of my mind, never to be retrieved again, but then shuffling sounds from the darkness.

“Hello?” an accented woman asks from the void. “Is someone there?”