2. Chapter Two—Carlotta
Chapter Two—Carlotta
Iawake with a jolt, wet between my thighs.
Again.
Turning my cheek to my pillow, I blink open my eyes, expecting to see the contents of room eleven staring back at me.
But it’s not.
Instead, my own bedroom furnishings greet me, the familiar scent of my washing powder tickling my nostrils as I pull the blanket up and over my chin.
I lick my lips, swallowing dryly and vehemently trying to ignore the aching in my core.
This is the second time in the last week that I’ve dreamed of the filthy things Sir did to me.
And his parting words.
“For your bratty comment earlier… no orgasms for a week.”
More than once, I’ve thought about disobeying him.
It would be so easy. He’d never have to know.
Reaching forward, my fingertips grazing my nightstand, I slowly pull open the drawer and retrieve my bullet vibrator.
My pussy clenches involuntarily, slick coating my inner thighs as I weight the vibrator in my hand, the pad of my thumb toying with the on/off button.
I close my eyes at the low buzzing sound level one of my toy elicits, moving to place it against my sensitive nipples.
More core spasms as I slide the vibrator down my stomach, my other hand slipping beneath the waistband of my sleep shorts to pull them off and—
BANG! BANG! BANG!
I jump in surprise, my stomach somersaulting as I leap up. I send my still buzzing vibrator flying across my bedroom while I rip the covers from my legs, hastily making my way through my apartment to my front door.
BANG!
Another knock sounds. If you could even call it that. Unlocking my bolt, I decide whoever is on the other side of my door must be in a desperate hurry—
“Miss Carlotta Bellucci?” asks a bored looking delivery man. He can’t be much older than I.
I raise a brow. “That’s me.”
He thrusts a large box at me, another much smaller box balanced precariously on top.
Without snapping a picture for proof of delivery or asking me to sign anything—I don’t even get a ‘have a nice day’ thrown my way—he turns on his heel and strides back down the corridor.
I watch him go until he’s out of sight before I step back into my apartment, balancing the boxes on one hip so I can lock the door.
Bare feet slapping against my linoleum flooring, I stride into my kitchen, shoving the cardboard boxes onto the scratched countertop. Ripping open a drawer, I retrieve a pair of blunt scissors and begin hacking into the larger of the two first.
It’s the reek from inside that has the hairs on the back of my neck standing to attention first.
Cutting through cardboard, I reveal a bouquet of dead roses—a few of the dried, shriveled up petals that remain have been dyed a color as black as night, while their stems are rotten and thorns soft.
Wrinkling my nose at the smell of decay, I use both of my hands to pull the bouquet out of the box entirely. Old water, the source of the revolting smell, with moldy leaves floating about it, splashes out at me, coating my hands and the edge of my worktops.
I barely swallow back my gag, reaching out to unravel the frayed strand of rope holding the bouquet together.
Breathing in and out through my mouth, I search the rotten foliage for a note, or a piece of card, but I come up short.
Who the fuck has sent me a bouquet of dead black roses?
Furrowing my brow, I make a grab for the second box; this one much smaller than the first. Unease coats my bones, but I slice though the tape holding it closed, regardless.
Inside, I find a jewelry box, larger enough to display a necklace or perhaps a bracelet. It’s much too big and opulent to hold a ring.
Holding it, I search the edges of any trace of engraving or a maker’s mark, but the jewelry box doesn’t give away what it holds inside, nor where it came from.
I give it a hard shake, hoping to hear something rattle inside, but dull silence greets my ears.
Heart galloping against my chest cavity, I pries the heavy box apart with my thumb.
Lain carefully on a bed of white satin stained with dots of blood is a finger.
I stare in horror, cataloguing the dirt and grime sitting in the nail’s cuticle, the hack job of the knuckle; sinew and tissue exposed.
But it’s the gold ring once worn on the pinkie finger that has my stomach turning, bile burning my throat on the way up, vomit spilling from my mouth before I can stop it.
Because I know that ring; the gold slightly tarnished from years of wear as it’s handed down each generation, with its signet sitting proudly in the middle baring the Bellucci coat of arms.
I saw my grandfather wear it.
I saw my father wear it.
And just before I left home for good, I saw my brother remove it from our father’s finger while he laid in his coffin, still slightly warm and place it onto his own.
My scream ricochets off the walls of my apartment, my gut convulsing again.
I run to the toilet, barely making it in time before the entire contents of my stomach upheaves itself.
When I’ve finished, I slump, shaking and wet with sweat, resting the apple of my cheek on the cool porcelain of my toilet.
I don’t know how long I lay there, arms wrapped around my being, shivering before I vaguely register the insistent tone of my phone ringing.
Crawling on my hands and knees, I yank the damned thing from where it had been charging on my vanity and jamb the phone to my ear, simply so it will stop blaring, before even checking the caller ID.
“Carlotta.”
My blood freezes in my veins at the sound of a voice I haven’t heard in years.
“Your brother,” Mother continues, beginning to wail. “He’s dead.”
I just manage to end the call before I vomit again.