Chapter 9
Valentina Denaro
Nervous sweat gathers on my skin and soaks into my sheets, but I stare up at the ceiling and count my breaths.
My wedding to Romeo Yovanni is today, but I haven’t seen or heard from Mario since he tried to throw me over the parking deck railing two and a half weeks ago.
He told me no more strip teases, but I haven’t been able to resist wearing his gifts under my nightgowns. Part of me misses the thrill while the other part is relieved I don’t have to risk my father finding out.
My insecurities plague me. Despite the emotional trauma of our last meeting, the sexual tension and overall intensity buoyed me for days. Nothing could dampen my spirits. A magical barrier kept me on cloud nine.
Time chiseled away at my protection and self-doubt crept in.
Nothing has changed. My father still manages me to within an inch of my life, Romeo rarely remembers I’m alive, my mother hasn’t miraculously returned, and Mario has me dangling on the end of his rope.
My alarm rings. I don’t move.
I’m alone again.
Soon I’ll be alone while surrounded by people. In a handful of minutes, room service will deliver the breakfast my father chose for me. I’ll eat alone. Dress alone. Leave alone.
After that, I don’t have a single moment of solitude for the rest of the day. I don’t know when Mario will make his entrance, but he called me his future wife, so it’ll probably be before the wedding. Hopefully.
My phone beeps a strange sound. It must be the device’s default tone for the snooze alarm, but a good girl never misses her alarm and doesn’t need the snooze function, so I never hear it.
I cover my face with my hands and breathe to a count of ten, but still can’t force myself to sit up, so I roll onto my side instead.
My braids slide along the pillowcase. I pull one over my shoulder and close my fist around it as I slip a hand under my pillow.
I’m alone but not defenseless.
The steak knife I stole off my room service tray one morning won’t cause much damage, but it makes me feel better. My father has kept his physical distance, but the growing glint in his eyes fills me with dread.
Housekeeping knocks on my door. I call out a greeting, force my body to sit up, and plaster a welcoming expression on my face. The woman pushes in my breakfast cart, gives me my first wedding day congratulations, and slips back into the hall.
I fill my lungs and release the breath on a sigh. After dragging my heavy body off the mattress, I rub my face and stumble toward the bathroom, but a flash of color draws my eyes to the breakfast cart.
Adrenaline rushes through me. I step toward the cart on unsteady legs. A small white box with a blue ribbon sits tucked between the trays.
I pick it up, lift the lid, and fight back a sob of relief.
The lacy blue panties can only be from one person.
Mario Luciano.
He hasn’t abandoned me.
For the last decade, I hated him. He wrecked my fairytale childhood and plunged me into a world of dark loneliness.
Now he’s my only hope of escaping my father, but he’s not the lesser of two evils. He’s the king of evil.
I take what feels like my first full breath in a week and a half and close my fist around the slip of fabric.
It’s softer than my hair.
An unhinged chuckle escapes my mouth. I disappear into the bathroom to complete my extended morning ritual, the importance of the day heavy on my shoulders, but smile in satisfaction when the panties cup my sex and hug my waist.
My nipples pebble and warmth pulses between my legs.
I haven’t touched myself since the gifts stopped. It feels wrong without his influence hovering around me.
A glance in the mirror gives me pause.
The panties are the same color as my eyes.
What the fuck am I getting myself into? The hidden messages in every decision Mario makes reveal his character. He’s so intense.
The front door lock beeps as someone inserts their keycard. My heart leaps into my throat. I snatch a towel off the rack and wrap it around myself even though I locked the bathroom door.
“Valentina?”
I run the gamut of emotions as I recognize my father. Disappointment. Relief. Anxiety. Fear.
“Yes, Daddy?” I ask through the door.
“Is everything okay?” he responds.
I swallow and pull the towel tighter around me.
“Of course! Why wouldn’t it be?”
I hate my light, playful tone.
“Housekeeping said you were still in bed when they brought breakfast this morning,” he says.
I left my phone on the bedside table. I never turned off my alarm. I didn’t even check my notifications.
My diaphragm seizes as I recall the weird chime, but I push away my instinctive panic and rationalize it away.
I only use my phone for socializing with people my father deems appropriate. One glance at my phone proves how sad and lonely my existence has become. I have nothing to hide. Mario has never attempted to contact me through it.
He hasn’t needed to. Between the gifts to my room and the bodyguards always trailing behind me, Mario has constant access to me. If my father knew he hired people loyal to his ex-best friend, he’d kill them all without blinking.
“Did you not sleep well last night?” my father prompts.
I fiddle with my towel and respond how I know he expects.
“I had a little trouble falling asleep, but I slept well. Waking up was rough, but I’m okay now,” I say.
“That’s good to hear. I’ll have breakfast with you,” he announces.
Dread settles in my chest, but I thank him and hurry through the rest of my morning preparations, wearing my travel clothes over the blue panties and applying the barest of makeup so the professional doesn’t have to remove much later.
The hairdresser requested I leave my hair down, so I spritz it with a bit of water and run my brush through it before letting it fall around my shoulders. I dyed my roots yesterday, so no trace of my natural color shows.
When I step out of the bathroom, the utter silence emanating from my father triples my dread. I meet his eyes and wish the floor would open and carry me into another realm.
“You look so much like your mother,” he breathes.
My insides twist in disgust and shake in terror as he stands and walks toward me.
“I’m sorry.”
The words slip from my lips without my permission. He freezes with his fingers an inch away from my temple. I duck around him and grab a plate from the breakfast cart.
“She left me too, Daddy,” I say as I use the metal pastry tongs to pick up a bagel from the tray.
I don’t know where the courage comes from. Maybe I’m channeling the madwoman Mario brings out in me, but I talk back to my father for the first time since I lost everyone except him.
“I’m sorry I’m not her. I can’t give you what she gave you, even though I look like her.”
He wraps his hand around my upper arm in a bruising grip.
I squeak and drop the plate. My bagel bounces on the tray and rolls off the edge.
I catch the tongs before they fall, closing my fist around them so hard my knuckles turn white.
With the two sides clamped together, they look like a dull knife.
“You don’t have to give me anything. It’ll all be mine anyway,” he hisses in my ear.
Bile climbs up my throat. Worms crawl over and under my skin as he leans closer. His body heat seeps into my back. He digs his fingertips into my muscles until I fear he’ll crush my bones. Agony spears down my arm, and a whimper escapes my throat.
He tucks my hair behind my ear while he stands terribly close.
“If Romeo wasn’t expecting you to be a virgin, I’d make you mine right now,” he mutters.
When he slips his hand around my throat, something deep inside me breaks.
I lift the arm trapped in his brutal grip and jam the tongs between my body and his knuckles, punching the tip into his ribs, and jerk away, but he curses and shoves me to the ground.
Pain lances through my body as I land on my hip.
I roll onto my hands and knees to scramble away, but he grabs my shoulder, flips me over, and wraps his fist around my throat.
He raises his hand. I flinch.
With a curse, he shifts his grip to my face and pinches my cheeks, pursing my lips.
“You’ve always liked testing my control, haven’t you, baby?”
Tears trail down my temples and wet my hair. I shake my head as much as his painful grip allows.
He grimaces and tests his ribs. Crimson blooms on his white dress shirt.
“I’m sorry, too, Valentina. We don’t want to mark this pretty face up on your special day, do we?”
I shake my head harder.
His laugh encases my body in ice and shatters the last of my soul.
“You’ll be a good girl for the rest of the day?”
I nod.
“Good. All you have to do is look pretty and say, ‘I do’. Capisci ?”
I nod again.
He pats my cheek, pushes my hair back, and rises. I lie broken and miserable as he looms over me.
When he turns and leaves without another word, I stare at the closed door in shock.
A sob wracks my chest. Another breaks free.
I cover my eyes with my hands and cry so hard I can’t breathe.
A small, desperate part of me wishes Mario would bust down the door, scoop me off the floor, and cradle me to his chest like he used to when I was a child, but as the minutes pass and the door remains closed, my hope fades.
Cold, hard reality settles over me. My tears cease.
At least now I know exactly what my father wants.
Romeo doesn’t give a shit about me.
Escaping on my own was never an option. Maybe if I were stronger or smarter or wasn’t stripped of all my freedoms by my father, then I could find a way, but I have no skills. No way to make money. No chance of supporting myself while dodging my father’s power.
Mario is my only hope.
I take a deep breath, pull myself off the floor, and drag myself into the kitchen by sheer force of will.
If I show up to the venue with a splotchy face and swollen eyes, my father will kill me before I have the chance to escape him, so I grab two water bottles from the minifridge and press them to my eyes.
When my eyelids start to sting, I roll the plastic over the rest of my face until my skin goes blessedly numb.
After placing them on the counter, I walk to the bathroom on wooden legs.
The woman in the mirror is beautiful. Her delicate features, vibrant blue eyes, and the light dusting of freckles on her cheeks and nose belong on a porcelain doll. Even with my hair dyed brunette instead of blonde, I superimpose my mother’s face over mine with ease.
My father was right. I look like my mom. All my attempts to change the way he looked at me were bound to fail. The only characteristics his genes gave me were my slightly thicker eyebrows and more pronounced cupid’s bow.
I wash my face, pull my hair back into a loose ponytail, and apply lip gloss but leave the rest of my face bare.
Nothing matters anyway if Mario doesn’t enact his revenge today. I refuse to let my father touch me again. One of us will die.
I desperately want to live.
With my conviction wrapped tight around me, I unplug my phone, toss my charger in my purse, and check my notifications.
I stiffen as I read the text sent by an unknown number.
Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue. Wear my gift under your dress. C u soon.
My heart stalls before kicking into overdrive. I read the text again.
Mario Luciano thwarted my father’s extensive efforts and obtained my phone number.
I should feel threatened. He’s testing me. Commanding me.
Relief and excitement flow through my veins.
I’m not alone.
The devil is coming for me.