Chapter 7 Livia
The door closes behind Enzo with a loud thud, the sound echoing through the vast suite. I stand frozen in the center of the room, my heart pounding in my chest. The silence allows worried thoughts to enter my mind.
I take a hesitant step forward, my fingers reaching out to brush against the carved mahogany footboard of the massive bed. The wood is smooth, cool, and solid.
This is real.
This is happening.
My eyes drift to the sheets, pristine and white. I run my hand over them, the soft feel of the impossibly high thread count is a luxury I've not experienced much.
I wonder how much these cost? I think to myself.
I let out a little laugh. Here I am, in a forced engagement to a mafia don, and I'm wondering how much the damn sheets cost.
I move to the window, pushing aside the heavy curtains. The fabric is thick and velvety, probably worth more than my car back home.
Home.
The thought sends a pang through my chest.
I press my palm against the cool glass as I gaze out at the manicured gardens below. Guards patrol the perimeter, and I can't help but wonder if they are here to keep people out, or to keep me in.
A sudden feeling of being trapped surfaces, causing my stomach to churn, and I have to fight the urge to vomit.
Below, a guard walks by, and he reminds me of Gabriel. I had been so carefree, so naive. I should have known something was wrong when he called. I should have just ignored him—but would I have truly been able to escape this?
I turn away from the window, my gaze landing on the door to the walk-in closet. I wander inside, my fingers trailing over designer labels I've only ever seen in magazines. Silk, cashmere, leather—fabrics I've never worn. The price of a single dress could probably cover my rent for a few months.
I stop myself from getting lost in the dresses, shoes, and accessories. A wave of anger washes over me. How dare he? How dare Enzo think he can buy me with pretty clothes and fancy rooms? I'm not some doll to be dressed up and paraded around.
I'll stick to my own damn clothes, thank you very much.
I storm back out into the bedroom, my fists clenched at my sides.
My eyes land on a vase sitting on a side table.
Without thinking, I grab it and hurl it across the room.
It shatters against the wall, water and flowers scattering across the marble floor, and I watch as some of the water is soaked up by a nearby rug.
The sound of breaking porcelain is oddly satisfying.
I grab another trinket from the table, ready to throw it too, but I stop myself. What good will destroying things do? It won't change my situation. It won't set me free.
I drop to the floor, my back against the bed, and bury my face in my hands. Tears threaten to spill, but I refuse to let them fall.
I feel so tired.
So worn out.
I need to think, to plan. I won’t be some helpless damsel.
A knock at the door startles me, and I hastily stand. "Miss Falcone?" a voice calls out. "Your luggage has been brought up."
I take a deep breath. "Thank you," I say. "Just leave it by the door, please."
The man sets my suitcase down and shuts the door.
As I walk down the hall to grab it, I realize that I need to sleep in order to think clearly. I feel too worked up, too on edge emotionally, and I know it's my lack of rest.
I pull the suitcase down the hall and almost knock over a bust of Ares - that would have been much worse than the vase. I continue walking and set my bag in the corner.
Turning to stare at the massive bed, a battle rages within me. Part of me, the exhausted, aching part, longs to collapse onto its plush, impossibly soft-looking sheets. The other part, the fiery, defiant part, recoils at the thought. Sleeping there feels like surrender.
"Fuck you, Enzo," I mutter, and march over to the bed and toss some of the smaller decorative pillows to the floor and grab the first large one I see. I snatch the blanket and drag it across the floor as I walk over to the chaise lounge.
I toss the pillow on the chaise, and I take a seat. It's much more comfortable than I thought. I lay down and instantly feel my muscles relax. I drape the blanket over my legs and wrap it tight around me like armor, shielding me from the unknown.
I lay there for a moment and relish in my small defiant victory.
I won’t give him the satisfaction of sleeping in his bed, I think to myself.
I breathe deeply and take in the fresh linen scent from the bedding mixed with some type of polish from the furniture.
The remnants of anger and anxiety flutter in my mind, but I shove them aside, forcing myself to fully relax.
You can't think clearly if you're tired.
The need for sleep comes on too strong. I close my eyes, and before I know it, I slip away to gain my much-needed rest.
I wake to the soft chime of a clock. Blinking, I realize it's already evening. The room is bathed in the warm glow of the setting sun, casting long shadows across the floor. I stretch, and I'm momentarily disoriented by my surroundings.
This isn't my apartment.
Then the events of the previous day come rushing back, and I squeeze my eyes shut, willing it all to be a dream. But the soft fabric of the blanket wrapped around me and the plush cushions beneath me are very real.
I sit up and look around. My stomach grumbles, a reminder that I haven't eaten since yesterday afternoon. I see my bag and push food out of my mind; having my things is more important right now.
I open my suitcase, and a wave of relief washes over me as I spot my laptop case, clothes, books, and research notes. I smile. These familiar items are like a lifeline to my real world, my real life.
I rummage through the contents, pulling out a change of clothes - a black v-neck shirt and matching color leggings. For a moment, I consider changing right here, stubbornly refusing to use anything Enzo has provided. But after everything—I know I need to shower.
With my clothes in hand, I reluctantly make my way to the bathroom.
As I flip on the light, the brightness momentarily blinds me.
When my eyes adjust, I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror.
I barely recognize myself. Dark circles shadow my eyes, which look hollow and haunted.
My skin is pale, almost sickly, a stark contrast to its usual olive tone.
My clothes are wrinkled from the journey—and my hair—it's a tangled mess.
I look like a wild creature, trapped and desperate.
Is this what Enzo sees when he looks at me? A disheveled, frightened girl? The thought makes my blood boil.
I straighten up. No. I won't let him see me like this any longer—or ever again for that matter. I won't let him think he's won.
I open a drawer, revealing an array of expensive products. The labels are simple with a promise of luxury and indulgence. I grit my teeth, hating the fact that I need to use them. I grab some soap, a face cleanser, and shampoo.
As I set the products down, I take a moment to really look around the bathroom. The marble surfaces shine in the light and feel so impersonal. My eyes are drawn to the sunken tub, its size almost obscene. For a moment, I imagine sinking into its depths, letting the water wash away everything.
But no. I can't.
Instead, I turn to the large rainfall shower. Its glass enclosure gives off a different kind of escape, one that feels less intimate and protected. I open the door and place the products I've selected on a shelf in this ridiculously large shower.
I step out and look around to make sure I don't see any of those secret camera moldings Enzo pointed out.
When I'm satisfied, I strip off my clothes, letting them fall to the floor in a pile.
I instinctively cover my breasts and southern region for fear he might come in, or—I don't know—I just feel too much on display.
The cool air raises goosebumps along my arms. I step into the shower, the glass door closing behind me.
For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the array of knobs and buttons. It's more complicated than any shower I've ever seen. I fiddle with the controls, and suddenly, water rains down from above, surprisingly warm and somehow perfectly pressured.
As the water cascades over me, I close my eyes and imagine it washing away more than just the dirt, sweat, and grime of travel. I picture it removing my fear, my anger, my confusion.
As I reach for the shampoo, the scent of lavender fills the air. It's subtle and smells real, nothing like the synthetic perfume drugstore brand I use at home. I lather it into my hair, my fingers working out the tangles, and for a moment, I allow myself to enjoy the sensation.
I grab the soap, scrubbing my skin almost violently, as if I could wash away Enzo's touch, or the very circumstances that brought me here.
After 10 to 15 minutes, I shut off the water and step out, quickly wrapping myself in a towel. I wipe the steam from the mirror and stare at my reflection again. My skin is flushed from the hot water, my eyes bright with unshed tears. I look cleaner, yes, but also more alive.
As I dry off and get dressed in my own clothes, I run a comb through my wet hair, leaving it to air dry. No need for the fancy products lined up on the counter.
I step back into the bedroom, feeling marginally more like myself. But the sight of that massive bed, the lavish furnishings, the sheer size of the room—it all serves as a stark reminder of where I am and why.
I see the broken vase on the ground and almost feel bad about it - almost.
I walk over to my suitcase and reach for my laptop. I then stop and see the worn spine of The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. I grab that instead, as Wilde's witty dialogue always makes me smile, even when I don't feel like it.
I sit down on my chaise lounge bed and open the book. Part of me wants to formulate a plan, start thinking of ways to make Enzo hate me and move on, but a bigger part of me wants to to what I've always done - get lost in my books.
I rub my skull pendant and begin reading. The first thing I see hits me differently than ever before: 'Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault.'
Is there anything beautiful about this? I ask myself. Because all I see is ugliness.
I dismiss it; maybe I'm being too analytical.
Just as I suspected, I lose myself in Dorian and Basil's banter, and before I know it, there's a knock at the door.
I lean over to have a visual of the door and yell, "Yes?" I'll be damned if I'm getting up.
A moment later, the man who escorted me into the study earlier this morning enters.
"Good evening, ma'am. Mr. Bonventi asks when you will be joining him for dinner?"
Glancing over at the clock, I see it's 8:15 p.m. At first, I want to tell the man to go tell Enzo to fuck off, but I'm hungry, and while I've tried to ignore it, my stomach is starting to turn sour and ache.
I put the book down and stand.
"I'll come now," I say.
The man nods. "Very well. Please follow me."