10. Playing Pretty Woman in Somebody’s Mansion
Playing Pretty Woman in Somebody's Mansion
Bianca
My eyes roll under the weight of my lashes, struggling to open. They flutter, lifting slightly to the ceiling lined in the soft glow of light strips illuminating molding and a large mirror.
“Shit,” I groan through a deep breath. Did Claressa Shields punch my forehead just because?
My throat is on fire.
My stomach is farting.
Back up.
I pop an eye open at the silk sheets under my fingertips and recoil against a leather headboard. An ocean of black covers me in a bed that isn’t mine.
“What…where?”
The bedroom in my apartment is a palette of white walls and a queen bed facing a view of Naples between slate blue drapes tucked under a box valance.
Simple and warm. Not a dark lair.
Shadows creep across the room, sheathed in ebony and mirrors. The dim ceiling lights hum across the walls and down the lacquered wall panels. Onyx marble veined in gold flares in the echo of mirrors around the windowless room.
What in the entire fuck?!
“Think.” I force the fog in my mind to part. I’ll pee if I strain any harder, but I didn’t put myself in this sea of a bed. At least, I don’t think I did.
My hands work over my bonnet, still holding my edges. They travel down the worn threads of my comfort pajama shirt and stop at the shorts, squeezing my coochie lips. I’d use an eggbeater to climax before I let a man catch me spreading my legs in this mismatched outfit.
“Okay,” I sigh. “No signs of pleasure or trauma that I remember or feel. Where am I?”
Based on the Dracula ambiance, nowhere I’d willingly clap my ankles. Whoever owns this bedroom is the kind of person who collects teeth in a jar or is into some wild shit. Black drapes hanging on the wall just because and a freak mirror over the bed are all I need to see.
The man who lives here is likely a pretentious dick, loaded out the ass, who gets off on torture. Let him play with a therapist.
“You’d have to kidnap me. Tuh!“ A shudder scrapes up my back at the hazy memory of a man following me to my apartment.
The menacing look in his eyes.
The prick to my neck as my fingertips brush it.
A scream curdling in my throat erupts.
“He kidnapped me for housesitting?!”
Did they steal my organs, Jesus?
“For house-sitting?” My voice cracks.
Did Bane toss me into a suitcase and ship me off to the highest bidder?
Whose room am I in?
Who the fuck kidnaps people for housesitting?!
I wiggle my toes to test my strength and stand. “I know damn well this is a UN violation. It’s on sight when I see your big ass.”
My stomach belches to remind me it’s still on E. Had I just kept my hungry ass in the house, I’d be back in my apartment. Naked and unafraid.
I was supposed to get laid tonight, but that’s out the window now. A window I can’t fucking access anyway, because there are none in this luxurious-ass lair!
“This has to be a joke.” I grip my pajama shirt and keel over to stop myself from hyperventilating. I don’t know where I am or how long I’ve been here.
Fear boils over into rage as the lock on the bedroom door unfastens. The adrenaline pumping through my veins demands blood and an ass-whooping on principle.
“Who doesn’t have a lamp on the nightstand?” I whisper-yell.
The vase of roses it is.
I grab the black pitcher off a small table to test its weight. Then I’ll hurl it at whoever enters the room. I could pretend to be asleep, but what if they strangle me in bed?
My grip tightens over the hammered grooves. “I’m finding the nearest embassy once I get out of here,” I say next to a black panel. On the other side is a sitting room and the suite’s entrance.
Do I drop the vase on their head or crack their jaw with it like a baseball bat?
What if I knock an elder unconscious, or worse?
Shouldn’t have been working for a kidnapper. Swing away.
I raise the vase over my head to strike, but I miscalculate the fatigue in my muscles from being drugged for however long. My biceps tremble before I’m showered with long-stemmed roses and water.
Shit!
A short man holding a silver tray takes one look at me and shakes his head. The language he’s speaking flows like Italian, but I don’t understand it. The vowels are elongated, stretching his words laced with boredom and disgust.
The rapid fury of forceful hand gestures and a scolding tone at the water dripping from my clothes onto the floor need no interpretation.
I wring my shirt out. “Parla Italiano?”
His face flames his russet brown shade, agitating the frown knitting between his brows. “I said, please refrain from touching the decor,” he says in clipped Italian. His mouth twists at my bare feet over a pool of water.
Billy Dee has an attitude with me? The nerve of him to look offended when I’m the one kidnapped and taken to wherever the hell I am. He and his slicked-back waves can kindly fuck off.
After he tells me where I am.
My glare mirrors the one stretching the fibers of his manicured mustache. “Where am I?”
“The specific location is irrelevant. You’re in Sir Bennici’s Catania manor. This is for you.”
I set the vase on the ground to take the glass of water that disappears in four gulps. “Catania?”
He sighs. “Sicily.”
“Sicily?”
Another scowl.
“Yes, the desired location for your engagement with Sir Bennici. I’m Alfonso and will be at your service for the rest of your stay.”
A laugh slips at his bow. It turns over like a car engine until I’m doubled over, hands on my knees, hollering at this man in a linen suit.
Surely, I’ve entered the Land of Oz that requires feed-in braids and red bottoms to click three times to go home. Because I know, in this year of our Lord, a bowing butler in a fake manor acting like I wasn’t snatched and drugged to speak with Sir Bennici isn’t real life.
Are there knights and baronets in Sicily, or are they snorting their delusions with high tea? I bet Sir Bennici has an undiagnosed Napoleon complex too.
I scratch the lining of my bonnet, slicked with water, sweat, and frustration. “Alfred.”
“Alfonso.”
“I was taken from my apartment, drugged, and put into a stranger’s bed.” I motion toward the fancy black lair they’d tossed me in. “I have rights!”
What those rights are in Italy, I don’t know. This has to violate the Geneva Conventions.
If Mama Vee hadn’t taught me to respect my elders, I’d knock Alfred out of his shoes. He’s too calm and looks at me like I’m the one with the comprehension issue.
“I apologize for any discomfort prior to your arrival.” Minimal concern laces Alfred’s tone. “Sir Bennici is aware and will add ten thousand euros to your fee.”
Say what now?
Thick brows drizzled in gray knit at my baffled gaze as I struggle to reboot. “You’ll receive the agreed-upon rate, thirty thousand euros for the weekend. Plus an extra ten for any grievances. All expenses and your flight are covered, regardless of the duration of your stay.”
I lift a hand and shake my bonnet. “Wait, wait, wait. Your boss”—I point to Alfred—“sent for me”—I point to myself—”and will pay forty thousand euros for me to spend the weekend, plus an additional forty for my pain and suffering?”
“Correct. You’re a day early, but if you and Sir Bennici determine your pairing is agreeable after tonight, the stay will extend.”
“And if it’s not agreeable?” I ask.
“You amicably part ways,” he mentions with a dignified eye roll.
“Sex. You’re talking about sex.” Pussy must be implied, because who snatches someone just for conversation?
Wait.
“Are you looking for Diana Peretti by any chance? A woman who lives in Naples?”
It would explain why Bane wanted to tase me or why I’d gotten drugged. Maybe the apartment owner is into some freaky shit.
“Ms. Bianca, I keep Sir Bennici’s schedule, not a report on his proclivities. I’m unaware of a Diana Peretti. You are on my schedule.”
I blink, my eyes stuck on stupid. “Me, Bianca?”
“Is there another Bianca here asking questions she should know the answers to?” Oop! “Dinner will be ready in ten. I’ll have the kitchen staff bring your plate as you might want to”—he grimaces at my pajamas—“freshen up. Your personal facility is down the hall. May I assist you with anything else?”
An idea forms that starts with playing along and ends with my freedom.
“Actually, Alfred.”
“Alfonso,” he seethes.
“I’d like an upfront deposit in cash.” I clear my throat and keep my face neutral. “Part of my business practice.”
If Alfonso thinks I’m full of shit, he doesn’t show it. He considers me but doesn’t argue at my smile. Nothing in my body language gives away my plans to take the money and my Black ass far away from this delusional manor.
“I’ll have it brought up with your meal.” Alfred’s nod is curt before he leaves.
The door to the suite closes with a soft click, taking my breath with it.
“Am I really about to play Pretty Woman in somebody’s mansion?”
There’s playing with fire, then there’s scorching your ass for no reason. I still don’t know how I got here or why I woke up in a man’s bed who could be Count Dracula or a murderer. One of those wealthy men who squeezes his nuts for fun while hunting his victims for shits and giggles.
What if he looks like the Penguin in Batman Returns? Hammer toes, fins for hands, and jagged teeth to bite all of my major arteries?
Eeyuck!
“Okay, bitch. Take a shower, change your clothes, grab the cash, and run.”
The door to the room opens. My stomach does a Winnie the Pooh jiggle at the aroma wafting from a cart covered in a white cloth.
“Your meal,” a gray-haired woman says in Italian. Her orthopedic shoes book it out of the room before I get out, “Thank you.”
I’ll eat before I go. Mama Vee taught me never to waste food.
“Whoever is in the kitchen knows their way around the stove,” I say through a bite of pasta. I’d lick stale gum under a phone booth before I munch on sardines, but the little salty fish work with this meal.
The same woman returns to retrieve my dishes and the cart. No words or eye contact. All business and those fast-ass shoes. Does she feed every woman who comes in here, or does only Bianca get special treatment?
Bianca.