Chapter 17
Seventeen
The LXR hotel sits with a majestic view overlooking the Seattle waterfront. Its exterior is a beautiful juxtaposition of old-world charm and modern grandeur, a landscape of towering obsidian glass and petrified mahogany wood. The facades are adorned with intricate gold filigree that glitter under the Pacific winter sun, creating an ever-changing display of shadows and shapes.
Vitali slides out of the car and turns back, holding his hand out for me to take. Not wanting to risk falling flat on my face after spending the last few hours asleep in various positions, I graciously accept and shimmy out the open door.
Brushing out the wrinkles in my shirt and adjusting my pants, my eyes widen when I take in the ultimate grandeur that stands before me. Vitali doesn’t waste any time in pulling me along behind him toward the entrance, muttering about finally getting some rest.
It is impossible not to marvel at the architectural wet dream that stands before us. The men pay little attention to how unique the structure is, but I revel in its refined beauty. Italy is filled to the brim with the old world. Buildings that have managed to stand erect for hundreds of generations, but as beautiful as they are, they are still just a remnant of the past.
LXR’s imposing doors of flawless teak frame the grand entrance, which is marked by an immense marble arch, is a monument of the future. Lush green ferns and manicured hedges flank both sides of the entranceway, giving off a floral freshness-–a blissful contrast to the usual city odors. Above them, ornate wrought-iron balconies offset polished windows that stretch from floor to ceiling on all floors giving near panoramic views of the city.
The uniformed men at the front, clad in colors of burgundy and gold, nod their heads respectively as we make our way through the automatic doors. The air smells like jasmine and spice. It is quiet in the lobby. Only the sounds of our footsteps and the muted cascade of a water falling reach my ears. Looking around, I notice that there isn’t a location for check-in or any kind of desk at all, in fact.
Instead, there are sections of plush sofas and oversized chairs facing roaring fireplaces topped with enormous flat screens. There is a large bar area in the back and a few signs pointing toward restaurants further into the hotel.
“Welcome back, sirs,” a voice purrs. Sliding my gaze from the scenery, I take in the woman who is approaching us. She isn’t wearing the uniform of a traditional concierge. The burgundy dress she is wearing clings to her like a second skin, the neckline dipping down between her breasts. Jesus, one wrong move and she’s going to be flashing everyone her nipples.
Maybe that is the point.
“Marissa,” Vitali greets her warmly. Fuck, why can’t he ever use that voice with me? Although he hasn’t made good on his threats about taking my body when he sees fit, I might be inclined to him doing that if he spoke to me in the velvety chocolate tone he’s using with her. “I trust everything is prepared?”
“Of course, Don Vitali.” She refers to him by his title. Her gaze snaps to mine for a moment, her smile souring, before she pastes on another and directs her attention back to the man at my side. “Even the alterations you’ve arranged.”
“ Grazie, bellisima .”
Something in me nearly explodes when he calls beautiful. A sensation I have no right to since I am nothing more than his captive and he is nothing more than my jailer. A jailer who will imprison me to him with his ring on my finger. If Vitali De Luca thinks he can force me to marry him and then parade women like this cagna around, he has another thing coming.
“We’ll meet you back here in the morning,” Kenzo tells him. Vitali nods and watches as the two men walk toward a bank of elevators at the other end of the lobby.
Taking my elbow, Vitali drags me in the opposite direction, Dario trailing behind us. We stop in front of a set of golden elevator doors, and Vitali’s sottocapo presses his finger to an unsuspecting fingerprint detector that blends in with the wallpaper. This must be Vitali’s private elevator.
I’m proven right when the doors open and we step inside. There are no buttons. Just like Kenzo’s penthouse, all Dario has to do is place his fingerprint on another pad and the doors close. The elevator hums as it begins its ascent, the ride one of the smoothest I’ve ever taken. Most elevators, even ones this nice, tend to jerk and groan with the weight placed on the loading cables.
Not this one .
“Do you own the hotel?” I ask curiously.
Vitali nods. “This one and several others here.”
This isn’t his territory though. As far as I know, Vitali doesn’t have any power in this part of the country, so it is curious that he owns hotels. Most mafia factions don’t take kindly to having outside factions on their turf, even if it is a legitimate business.
“I thought this was Dashkov territory?”
Vitali gazes down at me in silence, his eyes thoughtful and unreadable, clearly weighing whether it’s worth his time to respond to my question. His expression is a mask, much like the stoic faces I’ve seen countless times before. I won’t be surprised if he chooses the same route my father often took, dismissing me with a casual disregard, or like Elio, who frequently opts for the same, leaving my questions unanswered and my curiosity unquenched.
“It is,” he confirms, stepping off the elevator once the doors open. “But we are all allies, and I often do business with him and the other families in the city. The hotels are mainly for my upper echelon clients, and we give Dashkov a percentage of the profit for doing business here.”
Interesting. My father wouldn’t dare allow another mafia family, ally or not, into his city so casually, even if they were to pay for doing business. I’ve always heard him say that if you feed one stray dog, another will follow.
When he sees that I am not going to ask any more questions, he nods his head to Dario and the two make their way deeper into the penthouse, whispering amongst themselves. And here I am, forgotten—again. I’m beginning to wonder why Vitali wants to make me his wife if he simply ignores me ninety percent of the time.
Then again, being ignored by my husband is better than the alternative my father had in mind. Sighing, I follow silently after them, taking in the grandeur of the suite around me.
My Jimmy Choo’s click against immaculate onyx black marble that glows under the gentle touch of the natural light that flows in through the floor-to-ceiling glass windows offering a stirring panorama of the busy waterfront below.
A flicker of refracted light catches my attention. Tilting my head toward the ceiling, I let out a small gasp at the chandelier dangling overhead. It is graced with countless Swarovski crystals that refract the sunlight into myriads of diamond-like rainbows. Below its glittering gaze is a spacious living area where the walls are swathed in exquisite silk wallpapers in soft academic tones. The furniture–plush velvet sofas crimson as cherries, their wooden fittings burnished and glossy–is arranged meticulously around a colossal fireplace of cut-stone. Nearby sits an age-old grand piano in lustrous black lacquer whose keys look as if they have never been played a day in their life.
Moving further into the space, I notice mahogany bookshelves line one wall full of an assortment of classic works and first editions – Hemingway, Fitzgerald, Eliot – while priceless pieces of art decorated every other inch available. Renoirs smile demurely from above fireplaces, Picassos look on quizzically from shadowy alcoves, and Warhols boldly claim entire walls.
At one end is an open-plan kitchen gleaming under slick stainless-steel appliances and granite countertops. My stomach takes that moment to announce its discomfort. Glancing around, and not spotting Vitali or Dario, I decide to help myself.
The kitchen is bursting with groceries from a well-stocked refrigerator to the overflowing wine cooler. Unsure if my captor planned on ordering dinner, I make the decision to whip something up for the three of us. It isn’t hard. My father does like to say that women belong in the kitchen.
Misogynistic pig.
Even so, there’s a certain pleasure in cooking of my own volition, free from the pressure of impressing potential suitors with my culinary prowess for my father’s benefit. With a sense of anticipation, I gather the necessary ingredients and arrange them neatly on the countertop, preparing to make Lemon Chicken Piccata. The task is straightforward, and I find myself immersed in the process, finding a soothing rhythm in the precise slicing of lemons, the crisp chopping of herbs, and the gentle sizzle of chicken searing in the pan. The kitchen fills with the bright, tangy aroma of citrus mingling with the savory notes of garlic and butter, enveloping me in a comforting embrace as I cook.
An hour later, the dining room table is laden with a full dinner spread of the Chicken Piccata, an array of roasted vegetables, and delicate angel hair pasta. Poking through the wine cooler, I snatch a bottle of Pinot Grigio knowing that the acidity of the dry white wine will enhance the flavors of the sauce.
“What is all this, little deer?” Vitali’s velvet smooth voice causes me to startle.
Placing a hand over my thudding heart, I turn away from the table to face the unfairly gorgeous Italian man behind me. Dario whistles when he comes around the corner, catching sight of the spread of food I’ve lain out.
“Damn.” The younger Italian rubs his hands together and licks his lips, eyeing the food hungrily. “This looks good.”
Swallowing hard, I clasp my hands together in front of me, my fingers twisting nervously. My teeth worry at my bottom lip anxiously.
“I made dinner,” I finally say, breaking the heavy silence when Vitali refuses to budge, his eyes fixed on me, waiting for some clarification. “It’s Lemon Chicken Piccata with roasted vegetables and angel hair pasta,” I add, my voice uncertain at seeing his unreadable expression.
“I see that.” Vitali nods, his face still a stoic mask. “Why?”
Why? He is asking me why I made a meal?
“I don’t know, Vitali,” I exclaim, throwing my hands up with a sigh of exasperation. “To eat. Do you not need food to sustain you, or do you just feed off other people’s misery to keep you full?” My voice echoes in the dimly lit kitchen.
Somewhere in the background, Dario lets out a loud, barking laugh. The clinking of cutlery against plates suggests he’s already digging into the meal, while I’m left here, standing with a wine opener in my hand, trying to understand why the neanderthal in front of me is suspicious about my simple act of making dinner.
“It isn’t poisoned, boss,” Dario affirms, his voice muffled and distorted by what is no doubt, a mouthful of food. The asshole’s mouth lifts in a smug smirk when I turn my head to level him with a baleful glare.
“Good to know.” Vitali shakes his head with a sigh, steps around me, and gently pries the wine opener from my grip. His movements are swift and practiced as he inserts the corkscrew into the bottle’s cork, twisting it with precision. The sound of the cork popping echoes softly in the room. He expertly pours the white wine into three glasses before taking his seat at the head of the table.
“Are you joining us, Gia?”
I blink a few times, trying to dispel the unexpected warmth the domestic scene has irrationally stirred inside of me. If I ever decide to visit a therapist, that strange sensation will definitely be one of the top what the fuck topics I discuss. With a slight shake of my head, I manage to regain my focus and slide into the chair on Vitali’s left, smoothing the fabric of my shirt as I settle in.
Before I can protest, Vitali takes my plate and heaps it with food, placing it back in front of me once it’s piled high.
“I can’t eat all this, Vitali,” I try to object. His stern gaze silences me and like a petulant child having been reprimanded by a parent, I start to dig in. Lifting my fork, I spear a slice of the golden chicken. Lifting it to my lips, I savor the zing of fresh citrus and capers mellowed by the buttery sauce, the tartness dancing on my palate before giving way to the mild, roasted undertones of the succulent chicken.
It tastes like home.
A heavy ache coils around my heart when I think of Italy. My father’s house has never been a home for me, but Rome is and always will be. I miss everything about it. The grandeur of the Colosseum, the tranquil Tiber River, and quiet nights on Piazza Navona filled with lighthearted laughter and clinking wine glasses alike.
Part of me yearns for those dusky evenings under pink skies where passionate street musicians played melodic symphonies that echo through St Peter’s Square, a sight I’ve always loved to take in while sitting quietly at its steps. Those are the moments I always cherish, the ones in between the cracks of reality when I managed to escape the prison Faro Nardoni calls a home.
“This is delicious, piccola cerva ,” Vitali praises me with a small smile. “I’ve had five-star chefs make food that is of less quality than this.”
His praise causes a warm flush to spread over my neck, turning it a noticeable shade of crimson. I try to play it cool, offering a casual shrug of one shoulder, as if to brush off the compliment I secretly savor. No one but my Florence, our family chef, has ever complimented my cooking before. When your one duty is to become the perfect Italian housewife, being a good cook isn’t something that is complimented. It is expected.
“It’s nothing.” I spear a brussels sprout, popping it into my mouth to avoid having to talk about it any further. A tactic that doesn’t work when it comes to Vitali De Luca.
“It isn’t nothing, Gia,” Vitali assures me, a confidence in his voice that has my chest swelling. “Where did you learn to cook like this?”
“Our family chef, Florence,” I tell him, licking my lower lip anxiously. “It was expected I learn to cook, but she always taught me more than the expected. Said she’s never trained someone who had a knack for cooking like me before.”
Vitali hummed as if he agreed. “Your mother is a chef,” he says, smiling as if he is recalling a fond memory. “Isn’t she? Owns her own restaurant, if I remember correctly.”
Surprised by his knowledge about my mother, and I swivel to face him, my heart skipping a beat as I search his face for answers.
“You knew her?” The words come out barely above a whisper.
Something passes quietly between Vitali and Dario—surprise? I haven’t seen the great Vitali De Luca taken off guard, but something about my question has shocked him.
“Knew her?” he questions, setting his cutlery across his plate, giving me his full attention. “Why do you speak of her in the past tense?”
The past tense ?
Holy shit. He doesn’t know what happened to her all those years ago. The night his father was brutally murdered.
“She’s dead.” The lump in my throat is hard to swallow. I try to bite back the tears, but a few manage to escape, creating small rivers down my cheeks.
Vitali frowns. “What do you mean she’s dead?”
The muscles in my jaw clench.
“She died in the bombing that took out your father’s men,” I grit out. “My father sent her to serve them drinks before your father’s arrival.”
A darker look passes between the two men.
“Your mother was never supposed to be there, Gia.” Vitali shakes his head slowly. His shoulders slump, and a deep sigh escapes his lips, resonating from deep within his chest. He drags a weary hand down his face, his palm brushing against the stubble on his chin, lines of exhaustion creasing his forehead.
“What?” Disbelief colors my confusion. “Your father asked for her.”
“No, little deer,” he protests gently, his eyes softening as he takes in my tears.
I’m barely holding it together right now. It’s been years since I’ve been allowed to speak to anyone about the mother I barely remember. The one whose picture I have hidden away so that my father doesn’t find it. He’s never allowed me to ask questions about her to anyone, not even the staff, constantly stating that he refuses to be reminded of her. That is why he removed everything of hers from the house.
Pain in remembering.
Or so I’ve always believed.
“Yes, she was,” I protest, a sob pressing through me. “Otherwise, my father wouldn’t have sent her.”
His eyes soften further as he moves his chair toward me. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his knees. “Gia,” he murmurs, my name slipping from his lips on a reluctant sigh. His eyes, heavy with concern, fix on mine. Tension sparks between us, the air thick with unspoken words, as if he knows the revelation he is about to deliver will shatter my world.
“Don’t.” A sob catching in my throat, causing the word to come out as a choke.
“My network of spies is extensive,” he keeps going, but I just want him to stop. To quit talking. “That day?—”
“Stop!”
“The bombing?—”
“Please.” My voice trembles, cracking with desperation. My hands press tightly against my chest as if trying to shield my heart from breaking. My head shakes side to side, refusing to accept the inevitable truth that looms ahead. The horror of the situation hangs heavy in the air, a vile act looming like a storm cloud. The mere thought twists my insides, making my stomach lurch with dread.
“It was your father who planted it, Gia.” Vitali delivers the final blow, unknowingly shattering the thin glass covering what is left of my sanity. “He’s the one who killed your mother.”
Turning my head to the side, I do what any reasonable person would do in this situation.
I vomit.