Chapter 2 #3
Without giving him the victory of a scene, I turn on my heel and follow him toward his own row of vehicles.
He stops beside a sleek, blackout Cadillac Escalade and holds the front passenger door open for me.
Of course he drives something like this.
Stinkingly rich bastards who wave their dirty money at everything and have absolute zero respect for women. He is very much like my father.
I climb inside without a word, slamming the door shut myself. Dominic rounds the hood, climbs into the driver's side, fires up the rumbling engine, and drives us off into the dark.
The ride is hot. The silence inside hangs thick, broken only by the low rumble of the engine and the quiet hum of the tires against the asphalt.
Neither of us says a word, but the air practically vibrates with a tense, hostile energy. I keep my face glued to the passenger window, staring out at the passing city lights, hyper-aware of his towering presence beside me.
His scent—cedarwood, leather, and tobacco—fills the cabin, making my pulse race against my will. It infuriates me. I loathe him, yet my body betrays me, buzzing with a dark, dangerous hum I refuse to acknowledge.
He navigates the streets with effortless, cold precision, pulling through the front gates of my father's house twenty minutes later. I don’t ask how he knows his way here, that would be stupid. He doesn't park; he just lets the heavy engine idle in the driveway.
I reach for the door handle, eager to escape the cage of his car, but his deep, raspy voice stops me cold.
"Pack your things tonight," Dominic says, his eyes fixed straight ahead on the road as I alight the car. "I'll be back tomorrow morning to take you to my house."
My breath catches in my throat. I spin toward him, my lips parting to rip into him, to tell him exactly where he can shove his orders.
Before I can squeeze out a single word, Dominic shifts the Escalade into drive, stepping hard on the gas. The powerful engine roars, pulling away from the curb so fast my hands slip off the handle.
He leaves me standing on the cold concrete driveway, choking on his exhaust, shaking violently from a blinding, overwhelming storm of anger.
My father doesn’t arrive back at the house until well past midnight. I am forced to wait another agonizing half hour in the dark before Dani comes knocking softly on my bedroom door.
I stay still under the covers, forcing my breathing to stay slow and even, pretending to be fast asleep until her footsteps fade down the hallway.
After being married to a man who openly abused and tormented me for ten years, I’m no stranger to my sisters’ pitiful glances. But we all thought I was finally free. We thought Luciano's death was the end of it. And now, this? When will I truly be free? When does my life actually belong to me?
Once I’m sure Dani is tucked safely into bed, I swing my legs out of bed and march fully dressed straight up the grand hallway toward my father’s study. I know exactly where the bastard will be.
I don't bother knocking. I throw the heavy double doors open, letting them slam hard against the walls.
Massimo glances up from a stack of paperwork on his mahogany desk, his brow furrowing as his anger instantly intensifies.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he barks, slamming his pen down. "Barging into my office like an animal? You might be twenty-seven, Rosalia, but you are not too old for me to beat some goddamn respect into you."
"Why?" my voice rings out, razor-sharp and trembling with rage. "You sell me off to Dominic Kane without even looking me in the eye, and you expect me to sit quietly? I demand an explanation, Father! You owe me that much!"
Massimo doesn't flinch. He sits back in his leather chair, his face cold, unbothered, and utterly devoid of remorse. He refuses to justify a single thing.
"I owe you nothing," he says, his tone deadpan and ruthless. "You are my daughter, and you will do what is necessary for this family."
Desperation claws at my throat. For a wild, split second, I consider packing a bag, stealing a car, and running away—disappearing so far into the night that neither he nor the DeLorenzos will ever find me.
As if reading the sudden shift in my eyes, Massimo leans forward, resting his heavy forearms on the desk.
"Go ahead. Think about running," he sneers, a sick, knowing smile touching his lips.
"Try it. The moment you cross that gate without Kane, I'll pull Daniela under his roof.
I'm sure Kane will take any of you, he doesn’t really care which one. As long as the alliance holds."
The air completely drains from my lungs. The threat hits me like a physical blow, freezing the blood in my veins. He would do it. He would drag Dani straight into the hell I just escaped without a second thought.
I have no easy escape. I have no escape at all.
I want to scream at him, curse at him, and tell him how much of a horrible father he is. But what’s the point? It’s nothing he doesn’t already know.
Without giving him the satisfaction of seeing the tears burning behind my eyes, I turn on my heel and walk out of his office, shutting the door quietly behind me.
I walk back down the silent corridor, every step feeling like I am dragging lead weights. The moment I step inside my room, the lock clicks into place, and the tight, unbreakable mask I’ve worn all night shatters into a million pieces.
The breakdown hits me fast and violent.
I stumble into the adjoining bathroom, my hands shaking so violently I can barely grasp the zipper of my gown. I yank it down, letting the expensive, heavy silk pool at my feet like a pool of black ink. Standing in my underwear before the full-length mirror, I force myself to look.
Under the sharp, white bathroom lights, my skin tells the true story of the last ten years. Scars crisscross my chest, my stomach, and my back—faded silver lines and raised, jagged pale marks left behind by Luciano’s brutal cruelty.
No one knows these scars exist. I have spent a decade carefully choosing gowns with high necklines, long sleeves, and structured backs to keep his violence hidden from the world.
And no one will ever know. The sheer shame of it eats me alive—the suffocating embarrassment that I was too weak to protect myself, too pathetic to fight back against the monster I was given to.
A choked, ragged sob escapes my throat, and then the floodgates burst. I drop to my knees on the cold tile, wrapping my arms around my middle, weeping until my chest aches and my lungs burn for air.
I cry for the seventeen-year-old girl who was sold, I cry for the free life I almost had, and I cry for the brand-new nightmare standing right outside my door.
Eventually, the tears run dry, leaving behind a hollow, aching numbness.
I force myself up, step into the shower, and turn the water on ice-cold, scrubbing my skin until it turns raw, desperate to wash away the lingering memory of Dominic’s dark eyes and my father’s cruel words.
Exhausted, broken, and completely drained, I pull on a long-sleeved silk pajama set, drag myself over to the bed, and crawl beneath the heavy covers. I pull the pillow over my head, pressing it hard against my ears to drown out the silence, and finally let the darkness swallow me whole.
Dominic arrives far too early the next morning, before the sun has even fully cleared the horizon.
A sharp, impatient knock rattles against my bedroom door. I drag myself out of bed, my eyes swollen and raw, and pull the door open to find my father standing in the hallway. He doesn't look at my face; his eyes are already cold, dismissive, and focused entirely on the transaction.
"Kane is outside in the driveway," Massimo says, his voice flat and unyielding. "He's here to take you to his estate. Get moving."
Panic spikes in my throat, hot and sharp. "I haven't packed," I say, my voice cracking slightly as I gesture toward the empty room behind me. "I need time to gather my things—"
"Nobody cares, Rosalia," he cuts in sharply, waving his hand in the air to dismiss me before I can even finish the sentence. "You're leaving now. I'll have Daniela pack up your wardrobe and send the luggage over later today."
"Father, just give me an hour—"
He doesn't listen. He simply turns his back on me and walks down the corridor, his heavy footsteps echoing against the marble, leaving no room for argument.
With numb, trembling hands, I throw on a simple, long-sleeved dark dress, forcing my spine to lock straight as I put my mask back on. I walk down the grand staircase and step into the foyer, where Dominic is waiting.
He stands by the front entrance like a dark, towering shadow against the morning light, dressed in luxurious linen pants and black tee.
His hard eyes track my movement down the stairs, but neither of us says a single word.
The air between us is thick with the same suffocating, dangerous tension from the night before.
Without waiting for me to speak, he turns, pushes the front heavy mahogany door open, and walks outside.
I follow him down the driveway to his idling Escalade. He opens the front passenger door, holding it open with an unreadable expression on his face. I climb into the leather seat without looking at him, pulling my dress tight around my knees.
He slams the door shut, rounds the hood, and steps into the driver's side. The engine roars to life, and as he pulls out of the Caruso gates, I don't look back once.
The Escalade glides smoothly across town, navigating the winding roads until we reach the secluded, heavily forested outskirts.
We pull up to a pair of massive, black iron gates flanked by high stone walls topped with security cameras and discreet wiring.
Two heavily armed guards in tactical gear step out of a small guardhouse, giving Dominic a crisp, immediate nod before buzzing us through.