Chapter 9
NINE
Caelian
Nevaeh trembles as I undo the binds. My ballerina has been left in the cold cell for far too long.
Her soft skin and delicate frame feel like ice as she slumps into me.
With the binds no longer holding her up, she can’t manage on her own.
I scoop her into my arms and carry her from the room.
Her eyes slip closed as if recognizing she’s free to rest.
I bring her up to the bedroom I originally held her in when I first bought her out of her contract.
Pushing open the door to the ensuite bathroom, I set her down on the edge of the tub.
It’s an antique, clawfoot bathtub that came with the ancient house.
I’ve lived here for almost a decade and yet I’ve never renovated; I never even put Christmas decorations up before Nevi…
“Stay still,” I say, twisting on the faucets. I pour bath salts into the water ’til its warm and frothy. “Get in.”
Nevaeh cautiously lifts a leg into the tub, my hand grabbing hers to help her along. The gentle, almost drowsy expression on her face makes my heart twitch.
She’s so fucking beautiful, so fucking graceful even after the hell she’s been through this evening. The punishment I inflicted on her.
“Are you sore?” I ask.
She nods. “My arms.”
“They were in the restraints for too long.” I’m as delicate as I can be with hands as large as mine.
There’s no time where our size difference is more glaring than when I take her aching arms in the palms of my hands.
My thumbs press into the inside of her forearms and rub comforting circles into her skin.
I make my way up the length of them, massaging and kneading.
The same is done to her neck and shoulders and back.
Nevaeh sighs into my firm but gentle touch, sinking even lower in the tub.
Her long dark hair shrinks once wet by the water. Straight strands tighten into tiny curls. I marvel at how sexy she looks reclining in the sudsy water in her most natural state. Pure relaxation has softened her expression.
Her eyes close as she enjoys the soothing warmth.
I grab one of the loofah sponges and begin bathing her. The water trickles and splashes, providing the only sound in the room. Tension hovers in the air, our complicated feelings making for a loud silence.
I’m still furious with Nevaeh.
I haven’t begun processing her betrayal and what it means.
From the moment I found out she was gone, I’ve driven myself crazy analyzing it, and still I’m nowhere near done. I’m not even sure I’m done punishing her.
Even as I’m slow and gentle running the sponge along her body, I’m poisoned with thoughts about how I want to make good on my promise.
Make my naughty ballerina whine through a plug being inserted in her ass.
Kiss the tears off her cheeks.
Punish her in even more ways.
All of it would be deserved after what she’s pulled.
Deep down she knows it as she yawns and her bleary eyes open. Sadness inks the dark pools that are her eyes, an apology without words.
She’s aware she’s fucked up big time.
Her silence further illustrates she understands I’m pissed. That I don’t want to hear from her right now.
But as time passes and I finish running the sponge over her, she makes an attempt. Voice quiet, words a murmur, she says, “Cael… I love you.”
“You should worry more about what you’ve done than the love you say you have for me. Get up. Your bath is over.”
She’s frowning as she rises and waits for me to wrap a towel around her shoulders. I lead her into the bedroom for the pajamas Ms. Poitier laid out for her.
“Cael…” she says once she spots the garments on the bed and realizes I’m headed for the door. “Will I be coming to your room tonight?”
“You’ll be staying here where I’m leaving you. If I wanted you in my room, Nevaeh, you would be there.”
“But—“
“Stop talking and learn to obey!” I snarl despite my prior cool demeanor. Heat prickles to life in my glare, and I bare my teeth at her. “You had your chance at freedom—at being my wife—and you fucking threw it away.”
I storm from the room and let my superhuman strength out on the door. It slams shut and practically rattles the surrounding foundation. It certainly must’ve made Nevaeh jump. She doesn’t like when I’m brutish around her.
But everything Nevaeh thinks and likes or dislikes is out the window. None of it matters anymore.
I have to reprogram my brain to stop caring how she feels. I have to remember she’ll be my prisoner if she won’t be my wife, and for her betrayal, it’s deserved.
The next night we attempt a civilized dinner.
Umberto sits Nevaeh at the long dinner table we’ve dined at dozens of times before.
In more recent days we’d forgone the space between us.
Nevaeh sat in the chair directly on my right, and we leaned in so close our knees often touched.
We ate off each other’s plates, and Nevaeh kissed crème off my lips.
It couldn’t be more different now.
She’s on the far end. I’m seven seats down on the opposite side. The cutlery and silverware clink and clang as Umberto serves us various platters of food. I fill my plate up easily while Nevaeh barely has any food on hers.
Her expression’s small and downturned. Her eyes dimmed to match.
She gives off sad puppy vibes. She’s beautiful in a maroon dinner dress that looks perfect against her mahogany skin.
Yet I couldn’t give less of a damn. I don’t even bother lecturing her to eat. If she wants to throw a silent tantrum and starve herself, then she’s permitted to do so.
I’m done treating mia bella ballerina special.
My indifference lasts for the first half hour of the meal.
It begins to fade the longer Nevaeh keeps up her sad puppy act.
Soon indifference becomes irritation as I grit my teeth and think about how she’s trying so hard.
She wants my forgiveness so badly, yet she ran away from me. She broke her vows.
How can she possibly expect forgiveness? The mere idea makes me rumble on the inside. Hot anger takes over me, and I become so disgusted, I can’t be in her presence.
Even seeing her is a reminder of what she’s done. Her big betrayal.
“Clear this,” I snap at Umberto. I stride for the door, clenching and unclenching my fists. “Have Ms. Poitier bring her back up to her room.”
“Are you headed out, sir?” he asks.
“Yes. I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
Nevaeh cries out my name, but she goes ignored. I don’t even spare her a look over my shoulder, further cementing how little I care.
…how low my view of her has fallen.
I drive into the city. By the time I’m reaching the seedy downtown area it’s long after dark. It’s the after hours, where the criminals crawl through the city and have their fun.
On a night like tonight the air itself feels like it’s frozen into icy mist. I pull up outside the Orchid Lounge and survey the area. My father’s town car is up against the curb outside the exotic club. In his mid-fifties, he more often than not falls asleep over his cigar and drink after dinner.
But every so often—once in a blue moon type of often—he comes out for a night at the Orchid Lounge.
It’s been days now that I’ve tried reaching out to my father. I’ve been demanding a sit down to discuss what I’ve not-so-subtly begun calling family matters.
Topics like why the fuck would Carmelo ever betray me and where the fuck has he been as I’ve battled Nero and his men alone?
My father doesn’t realize it’s telling that he’s been avoiding me this long. The Ziccardis have double-crossed each other before, but I’d expect more out of a father. The same man who’s had me acting as his representation when conducting affairs.
None of it makes any fucking sense.
Either my father aligned with Carmelo and his betrayal or he’s a coward standing back while his son fights his battles.
I’m not sure which one is worse. Somehow, the second option seems more insulting. I’d almost respect my father’s betrayal if he was finally waking up out of his stupor and being ruthless and cutthroat again. At least that would show some strength in a brutal world like the Cosa Nostra.
It doesn’t help that I’m already angry. I’m still furious with Nevaeh for all that’s happened and need another outlet for that anger. Confronting my father and his men seems like the perfect alternative.
I get out of the car and head inside.
The Orchid Lounge is an X-rated club that’s draped in velvet and lit by lavender neon lights.
Orchids bloom in darkness from every corner.
Their scent perfumes the air, something sweet mixed with something smoky.
The club opens up to a maze of a stage and ample seating around the room.
Chrome stripper poles are everywhere to be found, stretching from the floor to the high-vaulted ceiling.
Girls swing off them in the most complicated tricks.
There’s no shortage of audience. They’re seated at sleek onyx tables and sipping on alcoholic drinks that glow in the dark club. Business deals are being cut and white-collar crime plotted. All standard for a gentleman’s club run by the mafia.
I head toward the private rooms where my father’s office is located.
I ignore the bouncers and shoulder my way to the back. I’m broader and stronger than both of them. Even as brawny as they are, they’re no match for me.
No one really is.
I bust the door to Pa’s office open with a hard ram from my shoulder. The door bounces open and reveals the vacant inside. The room’s still and empty… except for the back door swinging open and shut in the wind.
Somebody’s just made a very hasty exit.
My teeth clench together for a nasty grin. “So, Pa, we’re playing hide-and-go-seek now? Just wait ’til I find you.”
I dart through the back door he just rushed through seconds before. I’m in the nick of time to witness Pa’s car bustling down the street, tires screeching. He’s run away rather than face me like the fucking coward he is.
“Codardo,” I rumble under my breath.
I never see them coming, the men who ambush me from behind. All I know is I’m struck hard over the head by an object as hard as steel. I drop to the wet and grimy alleyway asphalt and immediately attempt to push myself up.
Whatever’s happened, whoever’s struck me, is a threat, and laying on the ground with your back to the danger is a grave mistake.
But I never get a chance to get up. The men bring a hail of kicks and punches down on me. Blows reach every part of my hulking body, robbing my lungs of air and making my heart lurch in my chest. I sputter and snarl at them, trying again to rise up onto my knees.
I’m knocked down again. This time by one of the aluminum trashcans in the alley. Garbage tumbles out as the rest of me vibrates from the force of the hit.
I’m kicked in the face. Punched in the chest. Beat over the head.
By the time the group of men—numbers ranging from ten to twelve—are done with me, I’m half conscious and leaking blood. My left eye swells shut, and I listen to the pounding footsteps of their retreating forms.
Codardos.
It looks like my father wasn’t the only coward of the night.