Chapter 17 Grace
GRACE
Iwant to store this moment in a bottle.
The scent of the ocean, the way his cologne lingers on my skin, the freshness of the air. I want to take it all and immortalize it.
I've always been good at compartmentalization. When life gets to be too much, I know how to escape. But for some reason, when I'm with this man, I feel it all.
I want to join him in the water, but I sit down on the blanket instead.
Dante returns a few minutes later. I try to keep my eyes averted, but he looks like some dark god with water dripping down his muscular torso. All of his tanned skin is on full display, making my core clench with that now familiar need.
He has tattoos covering nearly every inch of his body. I see a cracked hourglass on his spine, along with what looks like a date written next to it. The hard muscles of his body shift as he moves, demanding all my attention.
"There's something I want you to know," he says, still keeping his back to me.
He slips a long-sleeved cotton shirt over his arms, but leaves it unbuttoned. He turns to look at me.
"I'm not going to hurt you, Grace." There's turmoil in his eyes, like he's trying to hide his pain from the world. "I'm a lot of things, but I'm not someone who hurts women. I need you to understand that."
Something cracks inside me. A flood of emotions I'm not supposed to be feeling envelops me, taking me to a place I know I can't return from.
"I know," I tell him.
And not for the first time since I met him, I get the feeling that there's more to this man than what meets the eye. There's more to him than what he shows the world.
I honestly don't know what to make of it.
He sits beside me and opens the picnic basket. There's fresh fruit, a cheese platter, and sandwiches. He hands me one of the wrapped sandwiches, but I shake my head. I'm not interested in the food.
There are too many emotions fighting for space inside my body. They've only amplified since I've seen what he looks like without a shirt.
"Wine?" he asks, screwing open a bottle.
"I don't drink."
"Orange juice?"
I nod.
He pours orange juice into a paper cup and hands it to me. I wait for the usual paranoia to hit me. Every time someone hands me something to eat or drink, I'm always suspicious of it.
But I don't feel anything as I take the cup from Dante.
There are no nerves. There's no anxiety.
I take a small sip. It tastes like it was made with freshly plucked oranges, which it probably was.
It's a gorgeous evening. I just want to sit here on this blanket and enjoy the sunset. But there are more questions than answers, and I need to understand this situation I'm in.
I take a deep breath.
No guts, no glory.
"Let's play a game."
"I like games."
"Twenty questions," I say. "I think we should get to know each other better."
He looks at me with cautious eyes, but I can see he's intrigued.
"Okay," he says, popping a cracker into his mouth. "Let's play."
"I'll start," I say. "What was your first tattoo?"
"There's an hourglass on my back," he answers. "I got it when I was fourteen."
"What does it mean?"
"It's a reminder," he says. "Of where I come from."
There's something calculated in his eyes. I get the feeling that he's trying to be honest without giving too much away.
"What's the deal with your mother?" he asks.
"That's a can of worms I'd rather not open," I say. "But long story short, she's a narcissistic, abusive woman who's obsessed with control and beauty."
"How was she abusive?" he asks, his eyes hardening.
I drop my gaze to the cheeseboard between us. I don't like discussing this. But I learned that it's important for me to talk about it. The power my past has over me grows weaker every time I do.
"Munchausen syndrome by proxy," I say. "She would get us sick on purpose and then take us to the hospital. My sisters and I were in and out of hospitals our whole lives. And when we tried to rebel against her in any form, she would hurt one of us to keep the others obedient."
Her sick games were all I knew. It wasn't until my sisters left home that I learned I could let myself dream about what I wanted, too. But by then, it was already too late.
"And your father?" he asks.
"He's always been a weak man," I say. "And she only made him weaker."
"He let her hurt you?" Dante asks.
"He was a victim too," I say. "My sisters never saw it that way, though. They’ve always resented him for not protecting us when we were younger.”
"Where is he now?" Dante probes.
I remember the last time I saw him. He was behind metal bars, withering away into a wisp of the man he used to be.
"Isn't it my turn to ask a question?" I say.
Dante leans back and pops a grape into his mouth. He doesn't say a word, but I can tell by the hard set of his jaw that he's on edge.
I feel the need to probe into his mind. I want to understand him better, because he's still very much an enigma.
"Last night, I was practically throwing myself at you," I say. "But still, you refused to touch me. Why?"
"Because I didn't have your consent," he says. "You were under the influence of the aphrodisiac.”
"So consent is important to you?" I ask.
He narrows his eyes at me. "What are you getting at, piccola?"
"I grew up with wealth," I say. "I could get anything I ever wanted. I could get any designer bag or any diamond bracelet. But the one thing I never had was freedom. My mother took that from me. And now, it's you."
There. I finally said it.
I don't care that he's a dangerous mafia man who rules over a big chunk of Italy.
I will always fight for the life I want. I owe that to the little girl inside me who never even had a proper childhood.
He watches me for a moment. I can tell by the look in his eyes that I've gotten under his skin.
"Do I scare you, Grace?" he asks.
His voice isn't mocking. He's not trying to provoke me. He's just asking a question.
"No," I say. "I probably should be scared, but I'm not."
"I don't want your fear," he says. "You've had enough of that. I want to say that I can let you go, but my hands are bound too."
I’ve had this thought already. I had a feeling that Dante didn’t have a choice in this either.
"Do you even want to be married to me?" I ask.
"I want you, Grace," he says. "Haven't I made that obvious?"
There's a tug deep inside my core again, making me feel restless.
I glance down at the diamond ring on my finger.
"That's not what I asked," I say. "You just said your hands are tied. Does that mean you don't have a choice in this either?"
"I already told you that it was an order from my boss."
"So if your boss hadn't given the order, none of this would be happening?"
"I'll be honest with you, piccola," he says. "I knew I wanted you the minute I saw you. I had no intention of letting you go."
His words are supposed to feel like a noose around my neck. But instead, they feel like a stolen kiss.
It's so twisted, but I like that obsessive look in his eyes every time he looks at me. I like the way I get a little breathless every time I hear his voice.
"I told you about my family. Tell me about yours,” I say.
He looks away, but not before I catch the way his eyes burn. "There's nothing to tell."
"Siblings?" I ask, noticing the way his jaw flexes. "Parents?"
"Dead," he says.
The single word drops like a heavy anchor inside my stomach.
"I'm sorry," I whisper.
He's staring at the ocean. I watch the way the last rays of the sun light up his eyes.
"Can I ask what happened to them?"
He closes his eyes. I study his face shamelessly.
"They were killed," he says. "Murdered in cold blood."
I swallow. I want to ask him if he knows who their killer is, but there's a heaviness in my throat that keeps me from speaking. I get the strangest feeling that what I'm feeling isn't mine. The emotions I'm feeling are his.
He opens his eyes and looks up at the sky, trying to compose himself.
We sit in silence as the sky turns a violent shade of violet, its final color before darkness takes over.
He speaks up a moment later.
"Let's finish the game," he says.
"Okay," I whisper.
"Tell me about the dungeons at your childhood home," he says.
I take a deep breath. My mind has deleted many memories from my childhood, but some events can never be erased.
“My mother kept her prisoners there," I say. "It was for anyone who displeased her. Most of them never made it out."
I vividly remember the wasted bodies and skeletons. I've seen a lot of horrifying things, but the worst of all was the room with the abducted children.
"But some did?" he asks.
"There were children," I say. "A whole school bus of kids had vanished in New York City a few years ago.
My mother was behind the whole operation.
She was keeping them captive in the dungeons.
They were being groomed for...unthinkable crimes.
My sister's fiancé helped get them out. They're safe now, even if their life will never be the same again. "
"I heard about this case," he says. "Was it just children? Or were there other women too?"
"They were all kids," I say. "I don't remember seeing any older girls or women. There were other men in the dungeons, though. These were the people my mother believed had wronged her somehow. All of them were set free when there was a raid on the compound.”
"Good," he says.
I look at him.
"So you're opposed to the trafficking of human beings?"
"You must have a very low opinion of me to even ask that question."
I take a sip of the orange juice. "The circumstances under which we met and all the things that followed don't exactly paint you in the best light."
He watches me. “That's fair."
"What were you even doing at the auction, Dante?" I ask.
His eyes snap up to meet mine. There's a flare of something possessive in his eyes. He likes it when I say his name out loud.
"If I told you it wasn't to bid on vulnerable women, would you believe me?" he asks.
A deeper part of me already knows the truth. He's part of a dark world, but his heart isn't all black.