Chapter 11 Grace
GRACE
"Grace," a male voice growls.
I crack open one of my eyes to find Dante looming over me.
Flashes of last night reel through my head, and I jolt upright in bed. My skull smacks the headboard, and I wince, rubbing the sore spot as my eyes lock on him.
He watches me with quiet amusement.
"Come on, we're going out for lunch," he says, pushing his hands inside his pockets.
"Lunch?" I ask.
"It's past noon."
“Oh."
“Did you sleep well?" he asks.
I slept like a baby.
"Yes," I whisper.
"How do you feel now?" he asks.
The aphrodisiac made me uninhibited last night, but I unfortunately remember every little thing that happened. I remember him sitting in the chair, watching me.
A flush creeps its way up my cheeks.
"I take it the effects of the drug wore off?" he asks.
I nod, avoiding eye contact now.
"We don't have to talk about it if you don't want to," he says.
I can tell that he means it. Every time I look at him, I see something in his eyes that makes me want to trust him.
The circumstances we met under should make me suspicious, but I can't shake the feeling that there's good in him. It's either that, or I'm just trying to make the best of a bad situation like always.
"What time is it?" I ask.
"A quarter past one," he says.
It's not like me to sleep so soundly. Maybe it's another side effect of the drug.
“And Sarah?" I ask.
"I'll take you to see her after lunch," he says.
"Why can't I see her now?" I ask.
"She's located in another building," he says. "This is my private home, and I don’t let just anyone live under my roof."
He pours me a glass of water from a carafe on the bedside table. I didn't realize just how parched I was until I take a sip. I gulp down the whole glass, and he refills it.
"Thank you," I say, wiping the water from my lips.
His eyes flick down to my lips for the briefest second.
"We'll leave when you’re ready,” he says. "There are some clothes for you in the closet. You can also take a shower if you like.”
I nod.
After he leaves the room, I stay in bed for a moment longer.
I glance at the window. I remember the night in vivid detail. The way the stars glittered so brightly, the way I let the fever consume me.
The billowing curtains give me glimpses of bright blue sky. I don't remember the last time I saw a sky this blue. Or maybe I had, but I never stopped to notice it. Fragrant air wafts into the room, so sweet that it makes me forget about everything else for a moment.
Golden sunlight kisses my skin as I slip out of bed.
I walk to the bathroom and look inside. It’s cozy—complete with a clawfoot tub, mosaic tiles, and potted plants on the windowsill.
Fragments of last night come back to me as I shower.
It makes me burn again. I want to blame it on the purple pill, but I know this is different.
This is all me.
I wrap a towel around my body and head to the closet.
Inside it, there's a collection of summer dresses, cotton tops, and linen pants.
I go through everything slowly. The stitching on the clothes is immaculate, and the fabric is of excellent quality.
But the sight of the dresses makes my chest feel tight.
They're just so...pretty.
My mother always told me that I was too big to wear certain types of clothes. All she ever let me wear were loose-fitting clothes that made me feel frumpy. I never owned anything that I truly enjoyed wearing.
I select a simple white dress. I'm not surprised to see that it fits perfectly. What surprises me is how I feel while wearing it.
I feel like myself in it.
Dante knocks on the door just as I finish getting ready. My hair is still a little wet from the shower. The only makeup I'm wearing is mascara and tinted lip gloss. But when he enters the room, he freezes at the threshold. He stares at me in a way that’s almost innocent.
I study him as he studies me.
He looks handsome as sin in that white button-down, the color a stark contrast against his tan skin. The amber in his eyes burns brighter when the sun hits them.
Desire unfurls inside me as we look at each other.
"You look lovely, piccola," he says, taking a deep breath.
"It's the dress," I say, glancing down at the way it tucks and flares in all the right places. “The fit is perfect.”
“It’s you,” he says, not taking his eyes off me.
I blush so violently that I’m afraid to look at myself in the mirror.
“Please thank whoever went shopping for me,” I say. “All of the clothes are very cute.”
“I got them from a local boutique earlier today,” he says. “We can visit it again later if you like.”
“It was you?” I ask.
He shrugs like it's not the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me.
"It's the least I could do after I basically abducted you from the amphitheater," he says.
"Right," I say.
And that's the dark truth.
There's an airy, fizzy feeling in my chest, but I can't let myself get carried away by it. At the end of the day, he's still a man who purchased me at a human auction.
"Let's go," he says, gesturing for me to follow.
I walk behind him as he leads me through the inside of the house. It's nothing like the ostentatious home I grew up in. This house is warm and welcoming. It feels like a home, even if the only people inside are the two of us.
We exit through the main double doors and step into the afternoon light.
There's a light breeze in the air, but it's a hot day. I don't remember the last time I had this much sunshine on my skin. I don't remember the last time I felt so alive.
"Do you live here alone?" I ask, glancing back at the house.
"For the most part, yes," he says. "Enzo stays over from time to time."
"What about the staff?" I ask.
"What staff?"
"Cleaners, cooks, gardeners?" Guards.
"I already told you," he says. "I don't like having other people in my personal home."
I assumed that a man like him would have people catering to his every need. But if what he's saying is true, he looks after his home himself.
"Do you have sunscreen on?" he asks. "Your skin is nearly translucent. I don't want you to get a sunburn."
"I applied some.”
"Good. The Mediterranean sun is no joke, especially at this time of the year."
He walks toward a nearby tree, underneath which a cherry red Vespa is parked. My steps slow as we approach it.
There's a single helmet hanging from the scooter's handle. He hands it to me.
"You ride a Vespa?" I ask, placing the helmet over my head.
"You don't like it?" he asks.
"It's just not very mafia Don of you," I say, trying to secure the chin strap.
His eyes flash with surprise and something else I can't decipher.
"What makes you think I'm a mafia Don?"
"You mean apart from the kidnapping and the coercion?"
“Touché.” He smirks, making something flutter inside my belly. “But I’m not the Don.”
He steps forward, moving with the grace of a predator as he reaches for me. I hold my breath as visions of last night consume me once more.
His fingers deftly fasten the chin strap of the helmet.
The scent of his skin infiltrates my lungs, and it takes everything in me to breathe normally. He swings his leg over the Vespa with practiced ease.
"Come on. You'll like the view," he says.
I hesitate. “This isn’t going to end with me in a ditch somewhere, is it?”
His whiskey eyes are glimmering now. "Not unless you insult the Vespa again.”
I climb on behind him, still skeptical. “You’re not what I expected, Dante."
He revs the engine. "The feeling is mutual, piccola."
We take off, the wind snatching the rest of my thoughts. There's a grab rail at the back of the scooter, but I hold his shoulder instead.
His muscles bunch underneath my hand the second I touch him.
He feels so solid underneath me. So masculine.
I try not to get too ahead of myself.
I keep seeing kindness in his eyes, but it's very possible that I'm just seeing what I want to see in him.
After a beat, I yell over the noise, “If you’re not the Don… who are you?”
He doesn’t answer right away. But then he replies, “Someone who doesn’t like being told what to do. Even by the Don.”
There's something in his voice that I recognize—the frustration of feeling trapped. The anger and the helplessness that comes with it.
But then again, I might be completely off.
The fresh breeze and sunshine make me feel like I'm living in a movie. I'm enjoying this. I'm enjoying it way more than I should.
The winding roads of the small town are beautiful. As we descend the mountain, I catch glimpses of the dazzling ocean. I see distant white sailboats and the azure blue of the water.
After a few minutes on the road, he slows down.
"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he asks.
Our eyes clash in the side mirror. He's been watching me. I barely recognize myself in the mirror. There's wind in my hair and a bright smile on my face.
“I don’t know what I love more, the view or riding on this scooter,” I say.
“Do you know how to ride one?” he asks.
“I never even learned how to ride a bicycle.”
“Really?”
"My mother didn't think it was important," I say. "My sisters and I were homeschooled, so we didn't have a reason to go anywhere outside the compound."
"The compound?" he asks.
"My house," I say. Although it felt more like a prison than a home.
There's a pang of sorrow when I think about my sisters. As long as my mother is out there, she'll move heaven and earth to make our lives miserable.
I stare at the bright jewel blue of the ocean until it's imprinted on my retina.
"There was a family that lived across the street from us," I say. "They had two girls who were around the same age as me. Both of them had pink bicycles with wicker baskets. I used to think they were the luckiest girls in the world."
"Are you close to your sisters?" he asks.
"I love them," I say. "But they're different from me."
"How so?" he asks.
There's a knot in my stomach now. There always is whenever I compare myself to my sisters. Both of them are effortlessly beautiful. And unlike me, they're also strong and courageous.
"In every way that counts," I say.