Chapter Seven #2
Another swish through the air landing with a crack against my ass.
“Ow, I’m sorry! Why did everything change when I mentioned the restaurant?”
He didn’t answer right away, delivering six more stinging spanks with the cane while I blubbered and hung onto the handles for dear life.
When he stopped, my ass was on fire. But what he did next brought a matching heat to my face. “Go stand in the corner, Gaby, and hold your shirt above your hips.”
I was about to refuse the humiliating request and chanced a peek at him over his shoulder.
The look of anger and regret in his eyes shut down my rebellion and I shuffled to the corner like the proverbial naughty girl I now felt like.
How many times had I fantasized about this very thing?
But never had I understood why this made naughty girls repentant until experiencing it first hand.
The room felt impossibly quiet. A few minutes ago, I'd been angry, and felt justified in that anger, certain I was right. That everyone else was wrong.
Now, with nothing to distract me from my own thoughts, the certainty began to crumble.
I replayed the meeting in my head.
The questions.
The warnings.
The concern hidden beneath the interrogation.
None of them had treated the situation like a joke.
Because it wasn't one. And for the first time since leaving Toronto, I allowed myself to consider the possibility that Tano and his family might be right.
What if I hadn't escaped as cleanly as I'd believed?
What if every decision I'd made since leaving home had been influenced by someone else? The thought weighed heavily in my chest.
Worse than the fear was the realization that Tano had tried to protect me before I'd understood the danger. And I'd fought him every step of the way.
My anger slowly gave way to something far more uncomfortable.
Regret.
Not because I'd asked questions, or stood up for myself. But because somewhere in the middle of all my fear and frustration, I'd forgotten that he was trying to help.
That realization hurt more than anything else.
“Stick that ass out and place your nose against the wall.”
This was worse than the spanking, way worse. Shame swept through me as I recalled my outburst in the other room. Tears leaked from my eyes, and my ass throbbed painfully. How many spankings had I managed to earn in the past twenty-four hours?
“Come here, Gaby,” Tano ordered icily after what felt like hours in the position.
I’d fucked up and didn’t want to face it. I never expected to have feelings for him, but in this moment with my punished backside exposed and the tone in his voice, I knew that how he felt about me mattered.
“I’m not sure I can, Sir. I can’t face the disappointment I hear in your voice.”
There was an uncomfortable pause as I waited for him to respond. Every hair on my body stood on end and my pulse raced, but still nothing. Unable to bear one more second of silence, I swallowed my pride and my fear and turned around.
I found him leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his eyes laser-focused on me. Never had anyone looked at me with such intensity.
“Are you ready to obey me, Gabriella?” His tone was soft and full of feeling, but not an ounce of disappointment. Behind his carefully constructed wall was yearning and sensitivity.
The whiplash I’d experienced with his multiple attitudes finally made sense. He was protecting himself, just as I was. Despite his larger-than-life persona, he was just a man who had doubts just like everyone else. And now I saw that my monster was a man who desired to protect me, even from myself.
I ran, stumbled across the room to him. My heart cracked open when he wrapped his muscular arms around me. Gently he rocked us from side to side as I cried out a lifetime of guilt and regret.
“It’s all right,” he murmured as he held me. “You’re safe now, safe with me.”
That was a week ago—seven long days and nights in one of their safe houses with round-the-clock guards stationed at every door. The first day, I was too shocked to do much of anything.
I slept. When I woke up, I ate. Then I slept some more. My body seemed determined to reclaim every hour of rest I'd sacrificed over the previous year.
The second day, panic set in. I demanded answers. Demanded my phone. Demanded to leave. None of it got me anywhere. The guards remained polite but immovable.
The doors remained locked. And Gaetano remained frustratingly absent. By the third day, boredom became my greatest enemy. There were books. Television. A small gym. Even a beautiful garden enclosed by high stone walls. It should have felt luxurious. Instead, it felt like a very comfortable prison.
I spent hours walking the property under the watchful eyes of whichever guard had drawn the short straw that day. Vincent was my favorite.
Not because he told me anything useful, but at least he occasionally smiled at my jokes.
The others treated me like a fragile package that might explode if handled incorrectly.
By day four, I started journaling.
At first, I wrote down facts.
Names.
Dates.
Memories.
Anything that might help me understand how I'd ended up here. Then the journal became something else. A place to record questions.
Questions about Red.
Questions about my father.
Questions about my mother.
Questions about myself.
Each answer seemed to create three new mysteries.
By day five, I told myself it was because I wanted information.
That I was tired of being treated like a child.
That was a lie. Because I found myself watching the driveway.
Listening for engines, and rushing to the window when I heard one.
Disappointment became a cloak while I waited for news.
While I waited for him, Gaetano. The realization irritated me enough to throw my journal across the room.
A guard retrieved it and politely handed it back without comment.
By day six, even my anger had begun to wear thin.
Fear settled into the empty spaces it left behind.
Not fear for myself.
Not entirely. Fear that everything I'd believed about my life had been a lie. And that Red, the only person I’d ever considered a friend, had never truly been one.
Fear that my father had somehow known exactly where I would run. Every possibility seemed worse than the last and by day seven, I was exhausted.
Not physically.
Emotionally.
I wanted answers.
I wanted my freedom. And more than anything, I wanted Gaetano to stop disappearing every time things became complicated.
I’d been given a lot of time to think about Red, my father and my role in this possible charade.
I still didn’t believe I was a pawn in a massive scheme to undo the controlling powers that be.
I wasn’t raised to be anything special, despite being aware that I had a role to play.
But one thing did haunt me and as soon as Tano showed up to visit me, I would discuss it with him.
My mother never fought my father on any of his rulings against her concerning me.
At the time, I’d just assumed it was because his word was law, and she was obedient to the head of our household, but what if there was another reason?
Growing up, we’d never met my mother’s family.
We were told they had died when she was young and I never questioned it.
I knew only that my mother claimed to be from northern Italy, which explained her lighter coloring and blondish accents.
But what if she wasn’t Italian at all? Every aspect of my family and life was now suspect, and I examined the pieces as they came to me, making notes in a journal I’d requested until restlessness overcame me.
I paced the confines of my room for a time, but movement only exacerbated my anxiety. I couldn’t do this anymore. I needed a distraction.
I opened my bedroom door, and saw the familiar face of Vincent, one of the guards placed there to ensure my safety.
He stood at attention when I cast an impatient glare on him. “Where is Gaetano?” I demanded. “I have things to discuss with him, and my patience is wearing thin.”
“Il perdono, prima donna. He has been called to an emergency, so I cannot say.”
Hmm, figured. “Did you ask him about a phone for me? I’m going crazy here!”
Vincent cast his eyes downward. “Si, and he said to read a book and maybe journal a little more. No technology yet.”
Anger flared, winding me quickly into a temper tantrum.
I knew it was wrong, but I was past caring.
I stomped past Vincent and ran down the stairs.
I was leaving, never mind that I had no shoes, money, or identification.
I had rage enough to propel me all the way back to Toronto barefoot and confront my father.
“Miss Calabretta, please stop or I will be forced to—”
“Forced to what?” I spun on my heel, yelling at him. “Forced to shoot me?”
“Non, prima donna. Handcuff you to the bed and report to Gaetano.”
Under my outraged glare, he shifted and ultimately dropped his eyes. Instantly, I made my move, grabbing his gun from his holster and pointing it at him.
“You’ll report to Gaetano, will you?” I scoffed. “Fine, you do that. Tell him to get his ass here, pronto, or he’ll be mopping your brains off the floor, comprende?”
“I think you mean capiche,” he said calmly, too calmly for a man looking down a gun.
I could feel myself blushing, but I lifted my chin anyway. “I mean fucking do it, wise guy.”
A part of me felt bad threatening Vincent, who had been nothing but kind to me, but I was past caring about his feelings, or anyone else’s. Gaetano had ignored me for almost seven days and I would not let him or anyone put me in a box on a shelf to be forgotten.
Vincent held up his phone, showing he’d sent Tano the message. I handed him back his gun. “Thank you, Vincent, and I’m sorry for the extreme measures.” Before he could say anything, I stomped back to my room and slammed the door.