Chapter 4 Chiara
Chiara
There’s a pneumatic drill going full throttle inside my head when I open my eyes. I’m half expecting to find myself chained to a wall in a concrete cell, but to my surprise, someone has placed me on a soft bed in an attractive, if somewhat bland, bedroom.
Soft cream drapes obscure the window. There’s a vase of fresh flowers on a side table, and a half-open door leads to an attached bathroom. Judging by the light flooding in through the drapes, I’ve been unconscious for more than a couple of hours.
The handsome bastard who ambushed me outside Mack’s bar said he was Angelo’s best friend. I grin as I remember the satisfying crunch his nose made when my head slammed into it.
Sadly, that was the only decent hit I got in.
Who knows where I am right now, but at least it’s comfortable.
Presumably, that will change if I don’t cooperate.
My head throbs, and nausea swirls in my belly as I drag myself off the bed.
I can’t ignore my bladder any longer, and I desperately need a drink of water.
The bathroom is luxurious, with a large walk-in shower, marble surfaces, and a bathtub next to a window overlooking landscaped gardens. Is this Angelo’s home? It doesn’t look or feel like a hotel room.
I should feel pissed. Angry. Fucking furious about being snatched off the street, removed from a life I’ve made for myself, away from my awful stepmother who never treated me as anything other than an investment. But I'm all out of spoons right now.
I’m tired of running. Tired of lying to everyone about who I am and where I’ve come from. And besides, I knew all along this cat-and-mouse chase would eventually end. Angelo Di Rossi is not a man to let a runaway bride get the better of him.
A wan face stares back at me from the bathroom mirror. My hair’s not in the best condition thanks to box dyes and poor nutrition, and there are bags large enough for a three-week Hawaiian vacation under my eyes.
Given the state of me, it’s a strong possibility my husband won’t want his bride any longer. If I’m really lucky, he’ll decide I’m too much trouble and trade me in for a new one.
I live in hope.
After brushing my teeth and drinking two cups of water, I explore my palatial new bedroom. The walk-in closet is well stocked with clothes, all of which are more or less in my size. Whoever shopped on my behalf has good taste.
Then I wonder if this is someone else’s bedroom. Does Angelo have a sister? I can’t remember. Too much time has passed, and the details of his family are sketchy. Mostly because I’ve done my best to block it all out in the interest of preserving my delicate mental health.
I try the last door, but it’s locked.
“Let me out!” Nobody comes. I rattle the door some more, kick it a few times, and even use a chair to hammer against it. But still nobody comes.
Hours pass.
My stomach growls at the lack of food, and my headache refuses to go away.
Since there’s nothing else to do, I take a long soak in the tub before pulling on some comfortable cotton pants and a long-sleeved tee. I draw the line at selecting any underwear from the drawers in the closet, in case it belongs to some other woman.
Eventually, I fall asleep again.
The second time I wake snuggled in the luxurious bed, it’s dark outside. The soft click of a door opening rouses me from a disturbing dream of being chased by a nameless monster. No guesses who that might be.
Normally, I’m a light sleeper. Months on the run will do that to a girl, although I never was a deep sleeper, even at home. I blame the drugs in my system for the fuzziness in my head and the nausea that lingers. At least the headache that plagued me earlier has largely gone. Small mercies.
When I roll over and look up, a woman wearing a gray uniform stands in the doorway.
“Mr. Di Rossi requests your presence at dinner in thirty minutes,” she says while studiously staring at the wall above my head.
“Dinner?” My stomach growls loudly.
“Yes, ma’am.” Having passed on the message, she quickly retreats and closes the door behind her.
It looks like my husband wants a catch-up over a bite to eat. How lovely. I debate ignoring the summons but quickly decide it’s pointless. One, I’m starving, and two, I can’t avoid him forever. At least this way, I can figure out his intentions.
A big part of me wants nothing more than to trash my room out of spite, but sensible me locks that shit down.
Just because Angelo has dragged me back doesn’t mean all hope is lost. Maybe if he realizes I’m unwilling to be a traditional mob wife—seen and never heard—he’ll decide I’m too much trouble and file for divorce.
There’s a chance, no matter how small, that I can persuade him to let me go.
Then I snort to myself. Yeah right. As if that’s going to happen.
A guard stands rigid and alert in the hallway when I open the now unlocked door. I haven’t bothered changing out of the comfy cotton pants and long-sleeve top. With no bra, my breasts wobble when I move, but I honestly don’t care.
The minute I emerge, the guard sets off walking down the hallway, so I follow him. We pass several closed doors, bland paintings that are likely very expensive, and at least two floor vases filled with scented blooms.
So far, so tasteful.
Downstairs, the house decor is equally bland, with a luxury hotel aesthetic. Lots of pale marble, cream walls, and forgettable artwork. If this is Angelo’s home, he clearly has zero personality.
The robot guard leads me into a large open-plan kitchen with a dining area.
This room is much more comfortable, with sage-green cabinets and black granite counters.
There’s a stone fireplace, a comfortable sofa, and sliding doors that open out onto a wide terrace, which is currently illuminated by string lights and a blazing fire pit.
My husband sits at the table, tapping his fingers on the polished wood and watching me.
It’s been a year since I saw Angelo Di Rossi. I wish I could say time had not been kind to him, but that would be a lie.
He has a few more faint lines, probably stress related, around his eyes, and he looks tired.
But none of that diminishes his sex appeal.
The man is a literal sex god on legs. Under different circumstances, I might have thanked my stepmother for gifting me such a handsome husband.
After all, she could have handed me over to Angelo’s awful father.
I shake my head. While my fate could have been much worse, it’s still not great. I’m married to a man I barely know and my autonomy’s been stripped away.
A man in a white chef’s coat hovers nearby, stirring a large pan on the range cooker. The scents of basil and Parmesan cheese cause my stomach to growl again, and I grit my teeth in annoyance.
“Hungry?” Angelo reaches for a bottle of wine and pours two glasses.
“I’ve not eaten anything for at least thirty-six hours,” I snap. “So yes.”
“Please sit down, Chiara, then we can eat.”
Eat? As much as I want to fill my belly with good food, I need an outlet for my rage more.
I walk over, my stomach busy cannibalizing itself at the delicious smells coming from the stove. Angelo watches me. He’s the hawk, and I’m the scared little mouse. Or so he thinks.
When I reach him, I spit in his face.
Time freezes as a thick glob of saliva slides down his perfect, stupidly handsome face.
His eyes are colder than ice chips. Blank.
The chef, or whatever he pretends to be, stands motionless, a spatula paused over the pan. Nobody says a word.
My body is stuck in the fight part of a fight-or-flight reaction. I know Angelo’s dangerous. Hell, he could murder me with his pinky. But since escape is currently off the menu, I refuse to take his bullshit lying down.
Maybe if I prove to be an especially troublesome prisoner, he’ll let me go.
Or kill me.
Anything’s better than being raped and forced to bear a child against my will.
“Are you quite done?” he asks before grabbing a napkin and wiping his face.
“I will never stop fighting,” I tell him, enunciating each word slowly so he understands the depth of my fury.
My body tenses as it waits for the punishment that’s sure to come. A slap. A punch. Or worse.
A few months back, a video of him punching a man in the face for daring to bump into him at a restaurant circulated before disappearing.
Angelo sighs. “Sit down, Chiara. You need to eat something before you fall over.” He frowns as he takes in my hollow cheeks. Like he fucking cares. I seethe some more, but he’s right; I need to eat. Passing out on the kitchen floor is not the brave, determined woman I’m doing my best to channel.
I pull out a chair at the far end of the table.
Angelo passes me a glass of wine, but I ignore it.
The guy in charge of the food finally unfreezes and places a steaming bowl of pasta in front of me.
I immediately dive in, not bothering to wait for Angelo to be served.
A plate of fresh bread appears shortly after, and I snatch up a soft roll.
The pasta is delicious. Easily as good as anything a high-end restaurant might serve. The chef deserves a pay rise, which I tell him when he brings me a second helping of pasta.
Angelo seems faintly amused as I demolish my food and shovel two more bread rolls down my neck. I’ve spent too long on the run, not knowing where my next meal was coming from, to be shy about eating food when it’s available.
When I can’t fit another morsel in my mouth, I sit back and wait for whatever bullshit is going to fall out of Angelo’s mouth. He has all the power, and we both know it, but I refuse to accept my fate without a fight.