Chapter 18
Elowen
My eyes open, I find myself in a bed. It takes me a full minute to remember: I fell asleep in his bed. Now I’m here, covered in black sheets. He and Bruno are gone.
I roll onto my back and smile at the ceiling.
It’s my eighth day here. My family still hasn’t found me, and I hope they don’t. Not for a little while longer.
“God, tell my mom and dad I’m okay,” I mutter to the ceiling. “Tell them not to worry.”
I can only imagine how worried they must be. If I could speak to them, I’d tell them I’m fine, and there’s no need to rush to find me.
When they find me, I’ll ask my dad to forgive my captor. He’ll agree. I know my father too well. A few tears, and it will all be taken care of.
After that, I’ll tell the grumpy tyrant that I want him.
I don’t fully understand what I feel for him. But I know it’s not just attraction. And I’m sure he feels something for me too.
My smile fades. That feeling isn’t his priority, though. Revenge is. Revenge against my uncle.
The sound of the door opening pulls me out of my daydream. The man I’ve been thinking about steps inside, into the room where I’m lying in his bed.
I sit up. He’s watching me from the doorway.
“You can come in. Feel free to think of this as your room.” I grin.
My joke earns me a smile, and a flash of that dimple in his cheek. I watch him, entranced.
I think this is love. I think I’m in love with him. The butterflies in my stomach agree immediately. I don’t know where it will take me. But I’m willing to go anywhere—from heaven to hell.
He comes into the room, toward me, removing his jacket and placing it on the bed. Not a single decent thought crosses my mind.
He’s wearing a gun harness strapped across his chest, over a gray shirt that matches his eyes. The harness clings to his muscles, highlighting the width of his shoulders, the narrowness of his waist. The man is a piece of art.
And I’m getting wet watching him armed. I don’t even like violence, so why does this look feel so hot?
He comes to my side of the bed and stops in front of the nightstand.
“Where’s Bruno?” I ask, drinking in the sight of his face and body so close to me.
The scent of cedarwood—in the sheets, in the room, most dominantly in this man—fills me completely.
“Eating in his room.”
He places his gun on the nightstand.
“You took him for a walk just now?”
It feels domestic. Like we’re a married couple discussing ordinary mornings.
“Yes.”
He pulls out another gun and sets it down beside the first.
I chuckle. “Don’t you think it’s dangerous to lay out weapons in front of your captive? I might kill you.”
His eyes meet mine. “No one can save me if you want to kill me.”
My heart gallops at his words. I choose to see them as romantic, said with full knowledge of how I’d take them. And I’d also like to add: he definitely feels something for me. This isn’t one-sided.
I tilt my head, watching him work the harness free. Does a person need a whole tactical setup just to walk a dog? Or was he out there doing something else?
No. No, he wasn’t doing anything bad. My delusional brain has already decided: he just wears guns around to feel fancy.
I lean back against the headboard.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.” He gives me his full attention.
I lick my lips, pulse quickening at the thought of what I’m about to ask.
“What would you have done if I weren’t your enemy’s daughter?”
He doesn’t answer. But his eyes darken, a storm rising in them. I feel it in my chest, in the beat of my own pulse.
He lifts his hand to my face, tucking a few strands of hair behind my ear. My breath stops. Altogether.
And then, just as tenderly, he cradles my face in his gloved hand.
“You don’t want to hear the answer, Princess.” His voice is strained.
I lean into his touch.
“Why not?” I whisper.
His eyes darken further. He’s resisting. I don’t want him to, even though I’m afraid. Afraid of what will come once I give myself to this man whose name I don’t even know.
His thumb brushes the corner of my mouth.
“Some things should remain unsaid.” He speaks like he’s forcing himself.
Slowly, his hand leaves my face. The loss hits me deep in my gut, tightening it. But the tremor in his fingers gives me hope—something to hold onto. He wants this. Something stands in his way.
He moves away from the bed, toward his closet. I slide off the bed. The ache between my thighs is almost unbearable. If this keeps up, I’ll throw myself at him within two days. Which I don’t want to do. After that kiss attempt, I learned that much.
I sigh and walk out of his room.
There’s no option but to endure this frustrating sexual tension.
I reach the dining room before him and shamelessly study him as he enters—the way his body moves, the sway of his hands, the precise distance between each step.
I make a show of it—propping my chin on my palm, elbow resting on the table. For this, I’ve taken Antonio’s chair since it faces the door. He can have mine today.
After feasting on the rest of him, I settle my eyes on his. The heat in his gaze finds its target—my already aching center.
He settles into his chair like a king. Straight back. Shoulders wide, taut with confidence. And the king’s eyes are fixed on me.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I purr, teasing. “I’ll start thinking you’re interested.”
He looks away. “Don’t flirt, Princess.”
I grin. “Why not?”
“Your father wouldn’t like his daughter flirting with the man who is planning to kill him.”
I purse my lips and glare, but he’s not looking.
“Monster,” I scoff.
I shoot him dirty looks for the rest of breakfast. He ignores every single one.
After breakfast, I go to Bruno’s room and resume the only thing there is to do here: read. I’ve finished five books so far. Today I’ll start the new one I stole—no, borrowed—yesterday. You don’t steal, Wen. You’re a good girl. You just borrow things without permission.
After two wasted hours on the book, I decide I’m not enjoying it. The book isn’t bad. I’m just not in it, because a gray-eyed, cold, grumpy man has taken up residence in my head.
I get up from the couch and call for Bruno. He’s on the floor, belly-down, all four legs sprawled out like a dropped puppet.
“Bruno, my beautiful boy. Let’s go for a walk.”
He’s up in an instant, padding over to me. We leave our sanctuary and roam the first floor.
There must be fifty rooms in this mansion—an obscene number—and not one of them is fun. Well, I’d be stunned to find a theater. Or a disco. Or even a proper sitting room in this man’s house.
The only interesting things here are the piano and the rose garden upstairs.
“This is one hell of a boring house.” I glance down at Bruno. “Right, Bruno?”
He looks up, mouth open, tongue lolling, lips stretched into a doggy grin.
I pat his head. “My sweet baby.”
We reach upstairs. The light in the garden mimics bright daylight—even though there’s no sun. I guess this artificial sunlight must be for the plants’ photosynthesis.
I settle onto the piano bench. No one’s closed the piano since I opened it. I don’t think anyone ever comes here. I’ve never seen anyone so much as glance toward the stairs. Yet the place looks clean, and the plants are regularly watered. Maybe my captor takes care of it all.
I lift my hands and press the keys at random. Soon enough, a melody begins forming itself. It’s bittersweet, rising from my bittersweet heart. The giddy joy of falling in love, tangled with the ache of falling for the wrong one.
I close my eyes and let the music pour out of me.
When I finish and open my eyes, I find myself under the gaze of eyes that look like ash in daylight.
“Do you like piano music?”
“Only when you play.” He walks closer as he says it.
“This is a textbook case of mixed signals, Mr. Tyrant,” I tell him, trying to sound unaffected. But I know he can see just how affected I am—from the heat in my flushed cheeks.
He doesn’t respond.
I slide over, making room on the small bench.
“Would you like to play with me?”
After a heartbeat of hesitation, he settles beside me, his left side pressing against my right. My heart races. A tremor runs through my whole body. Even through our clothes, the heat of his skin sears into mine.
“Do you know any piece?” I attempt to speak, but only a fragile whisper comes out, lost beneath the pounding of my own heart.
“A few.” His voice is husky.
“Start it. I’ll join you.”
He presses the keys—hesitant at first, with long pauses between notes, like he’s reaching back through years to remember.
After a few minutes, I recognize it: I Need You. I join in as the secondo, taking the bass line, the rhythm, building the harmony beneath his melody. We fall into sync. Perfect, wordless sync.
He misses a few beats, but I fill in, and together we create something beautiful. It might not be perfect to anyone else, but to me, it is. Our hands brush, our hearts connected by a single thread of melody. It’s our composition. His and mine.
As we reach verse three, I start singing, letting my voice merge with our piano piece.
“I don’t need the heavens opening wide,
Or angels singing from the other side.
I just need your heart beating close to mine,
Your hand reaching for mine in the dark.”
As the music winds down, I carry us through the final chorus.
“I don’t need the sky to bend for me,
Or fate rewriting destiny.
I just need your arms around my fears,
Your whisper drying all my tears.
If I have your love to hold,
I need nothing else at all.”
His hands stop. I turn to him, our eyes locking as my fingers continue, carrying the piece to its end.
“I need nothing else at all,” he whispers, his lips almost still, yet the words reach me.
I don’t give him—or myself—a single breath to think. I lean in and press my lips to his.
For one eternal second, we both freeze.
Then he pulls away, rising in a jerky movement, and leaves. My heart sinks into my stomach. Another rejection. Worse than the first.
My throat tightens, my gut knots. The breath that had held still leaves me in a trembling exhale.
This is your reminder, Wen: get over this foolish, one-sided love, or you’ll end up crying.
Salvario
My body won’t stop shaking. I make it downstairs without falling. I’m awake, but it feels like a dream—I can see everything, yet can’t process it.
I enter my room. Lock the door with trembling hands.
My head burns. I drop to the floor, holding it. Even with my eyes open, I can’t see anything. She’s taken me over.
Even now, away from her, all I see is her. Her eyes. Her face as she leaned in. The flush on her cheeks. The soft pink of her lips.
All I feel is her. The press of her lips—cool, soft—against mine.
And my head burns hotter. Like it might ignite.
I dig my fingertips into my scalp, eyes squeezed shut. My breathing won’t return to normal. My chest aches from the sheer effort it takes just to breathe—just to keep my heart beating.
She kissed me. She wanted to kiss me.
I could have done everything I’ve wanted so desperately.
I could have gripped her neck and devoured her mouth.
Merged us: lip and tongue and breath. Pulled her into me until nothing remained between us.
Not air. Not space. Not sense. I could have shown her how much I need her.
How much I want her. How completely she has possessed me.
But I didn’t.
I pushed her away.
Because I can’t have her.
I can’t even kiss the woman I want so fiercely.
Not even once.
I close my eyes.
“Please let me live with her,” I implore to the boy watching from inside my head.
He answers by forcing me into the memory.
I try to fight. Open my eyes. Keep them open. But the moment I blink, the memory swallows me. I force my eyes open again.
I don’t want to see those memories.
I groan. My eyes burn from staying open, but the fragments still play behind my lids whether I want them or not.
I fight him, forcing thoughts of Avira into my mind. But I still lose. He wins again. Throws me into another nightmare.
I stop fighting. My body goes slack against the door.
She’s thrashing on the floor. Vinci pins her down—her hands above her head—and forces himself between her legs. She begs him to stop. Begs and begs.
My father’s second-in-command, Alberto, holds me down beside her. He yanks my pants off and presses my face to the floor. My head feels like it’s splitting open under his force.
He pushes inside me. I cry out in blinding pain. He doesn’t stop. Pulls back. Drives in again. I beg him to stop. He just laughs and keeps going.
My cries stop when he finally pulls out. But then he moves to my mother.
Vinci lets her go. Alberto slaps her. I rise from the floor, legs shaking, moving toward him. Rage burns through me. I want to kill them all.
But before I can reach him, a hand grabs my arm and hurls me back down. I look up to see Tommaso behind me, pulling down his pants, a filthy grin stretching across his face. I scramble backward on the floor, watching in horror as he prepares to repeat what Alberto did.
He grabs my ankle and pins me beneath him.
“I can still see that anger in you.” His fists hit me, pushing me down, subjecting me to the same torment again.
Justin, Vinci, Alberto, Tommaso, and three other Camorra capos—all seven men—laugh at the cries of my mother and me. They take turns torturing us.
After the third man, we stop fighting. We just lie there—broken, bleeding. My uncles didn’t touch me, but all seven of them tortured her. Again. And again. And again.
When they finally leave hours later, I crawl to her and cover her with her torn clothes. She lies in her own blood. Her eyes are empty.
“Mama,” I sob. She doesn’t answer.
I hold her face in my small hands.
She remains still, blinking slowly, the only sign she’s alive.
The memory dissolves into darkness. Only the boy stays, staring. His eyes are lifeless.
I open my eyes. Tears are streaming down my face.
Salvario De Falco died twenty-five years ago. The dead don’t get to live. No matter how desperately they want to.