3. Isabella
CHAPTER 3
Isabella
I was back in the blackout SUV. This time sans gag and restraints. The cousin, Elio, was beside me again, happily sipping away at a coffee that smelled suspiciously like a pumpkin spice latte, which shouldn’t even be possible at this time of year. The driver and Lorenzo were as stoic as ever.
I had done my very best to stitch Lorenzo’s arm neatly before bandaging it again. He hadn’t explained what I would be doing for him, just that I would be coming to “the estate” with them. Now, we were driving out of Manhattan to God only knew where. I stared out the window and tried to figure it out based on the streets and direction we were traveling, but I realized that wherever we were going, it didn’t matter. I had agreed to work for the literal devil; I was just along for the ride at this point.
Forty-five minutes later, we were in Scarsdale, and there were big houses with lawns. We weren’t that far out from the city, but something about seeing neighborhoods like this made me feel like we had traveled for hundreds of miles. Panic rose in my chest, and I did what I could to choke it back down.
“You doing okay there?” the man beside me asked.
“Elio.” Lorenzo’s voice came like a growl from the passenger seat. “Enough.”
“What? She’s hyperventilating back here.”
“I’m fine,” I managed to force myself to say. “I just remembered an assignment that’s due tonight.”
Elio snorted and took a long sip from his coffee. “No use panicking about that,” he said. “You won’t be going back to school, I imagine.”
That thought settled like lead in my stomach. I only had a semester of nursing school left. I’d slogged through countless hours at the urgi-care to pay for my classes so that I could get my RN. And it was all for nothing. I would still get to use all of the skills I’d learned, of course, but I would never get my license. Never work in a hospital the way that I’d dreamed. “I guess I’m not,” I said and wrapped my arms around myself. The scar tissue on my right side pulled tight, and I winced, but that discomfort helped to ground me.
We made a turn onto a long, winding driveway, and I sucked in a breath when I saw the house for the first time. It was big and dark from the outside: all brick and wrought iron accents. It was like something out of an old-fashioned scary movie.
The driveway wrapped all the way to the back of the house where a massive external garage stood. When the SUV came to a stop, I knew well enough to wait for Lorenzo to open my door to let me out. The air was perfumed with flowers and grass; it was the kind of natural outdoor smell that you couldn’t find in the middle of the city. I allowed myself a few deep lungfuls before I followed Lorenzo toward the intimidating shape of his home.
We entered the house through a side door that opened directly into a kitchen that was so white and bright that it actually hurt to look at it for a moment. It reminded me of his office at the hotel: sleek and modern and obviously recently renovated.
In the middle of the kitchen was a pretty brunette who had a big smile on her face…until her eyes zeroed in on the coffee cup in Elio’s hand. “Elio Michael Vitali,” she barked. “Did you get Starbucks?”
“Goddamnit,” Elio muttered from behind me. “Of course not, tesoro ,” he lied. “I was just carrying it in for Damian.” He shoved the cup into the driver—Damian’s—hand. The man looked at the cup, affronted, and then threw it into the trash can that was near the door. “ Vaffanculo !” Elio yelled. “That was half-full.”
Damian rolled his eyes. “It was your second.”
The woman arched her brow at Elio and hummed, obviously pissed off. “We’ll talk later,” she said, and then her eyes slid to me, and her lips curled back into a smile. “Hi, I’m Amalia Vitali. You must be Isabella. It’s nice to meet you.”
She said it as if I was an expected guest. Lorenzo must have called ahead , I thought. “Yeah,” I managed to say. “You, too.”
“Put her in the blue guest room,” Lorenzo said, addressing Amalia as if I wasn’t here at all. “We’ll be working in my office until dinner.”
Amalia acknowledged him with a nod, and then we watched the three men as they left the room. Elio paused at the door and looked back at her. “Damian was lying about that being my second cup.”
“Later, pazzo .” When Elio was finally gone, sending one last hangdog look at her, Amalia let out a breath. “I’m sorry for my husband,” she said, and the apology felt like more than that he was holding up the house tour. “The man is a moron sometimes.” I chuckled despite myself, but that laugh quickly turned into a sob. Amalia clucked at me and wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Oh, you poor thing,” she said. “It’s going to be okay.”
I shook my head, scrubbing my face with the heels of my hands. “It’s not,” I insisted.
“Working as a nurse for the Cosa Nostra won’t be so bad,” she said, rubbing my arm. “Believe me, it could have been a lot worse.”
I glared at her. “Great,” I spat. “I’m so grateful that he didn’t gut me in his office.”
“See?” she said jokingly. “You get it.” She squeezed me a little, and I almost melted into it. Pathetic , I thought. To be so ready for the smallest bit of comfort. “You’re a tough girl. That’s good; you’ll need to be.” She let me go with a little pat. “Come on,” she said. “Let me show you to your room.”
I followed Amalia through a butler’s pantry off the kitchen that led to a set of stairs that wound upward to the second floor. Then, we went down a long hallway, turned a corner, and went down yet another hallway. “How big is this place?” I asked.
Amalia shrugged. “Little more than 12,000 square feet or so,” she said. “But it’s homey, don’t you think?”
I glanced around. Despite the kitchen being bright and modern, the rest of the home was more traditional. Like he’d gotten the kitchen fully updated, and then decided to stop entirely. Not that it was a bad thing: the built-ins, judge’s panels, and dark wood were lovely. But “homey” was the very last way I would describe it. Instead, the more we walked, the lonelier and more cut-off I felt.
We finally stopped outside a door that had been left ajar. Amalia pushed it open, and it was obvious why Lorenzo called it the blue room. The walls were painted a dark navy, which matched the canopy over the bed that was covered in a cream-colored duvet with navy accents. The room wasn’t overly large by any means, but it screamed opulence.
Amalia moved around the room as if she were doing an inspection. She touched the top of the dresser and looked at her finger. She turned on the lamp—the glow of it might just be the only thing warm in the entire room—and seemed satisfied that someone had dusted it recently.
“The ensuite is through that door,” she said, pointing. “I usually have dinner on the table by seven. If you don’t want to come down, I’ll bring you something up.”
I nodded, sucking in a breath. “Can I?”
“Can you what?”
“Am I allowed to leave this room?”
Amalia’s eyebrows furrowed in confusion for a moment. “Of course you are,” she said, but then an apologetic look came over her face. “I wouldn’t try leaving the house, though. Lorenzo wouldn’t like that.”
“I won’t,” I promised.
“Then feel free to explore the house. Any room with an open door is fine to go in. Steer clear of the locked ones. Lorenzo’s the only one with keys; the rest of us avoid them entirely.” She smiled, encouragingly. “Do you want to come back down to the kitchen with me?”
The yes was on the tip of my tongue—anything would be better than staying here— but I shook my head. “I think I’ll look around. Get my lay of the land, so to speak.”
Amalia nodded. “All right. See you at seven in the dining room for dinner.”
“Seven,” I echoed with a nod.
I was able to hold it together until Amalia closed my door behind her, and then I collapsed into a heap on the plush carpet. What the fuck was my life?