Chapter Five
Raya
LOUD RUSTLING YANKS ME from sleep.
I blink awake to find someone hunched over the bed Luca crashed on last night, sifting through the spilled contents of my backpack.
“Hey,” I mumble. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure you didn’t sneak in anything untoward.” She throws a glance my way. “I’m Tazi. House Manager. Welcome to the Pink House.”
Tazi is built like a Baobab tree—tall, strapping, like she could bench press a semi-truck.
Dark pixie-cut hair, fine-line tattoos scattered across her tanned arms, dressed for battle in black cargo pants, steel-toe boots, and a wife-beater.
A silver cross pendant at her throat. All while having the voice of a blonde playboy bunny.
Soft, breathy, sexy. An odd contrast on every level.
From what I know, she’s a distant relative who left Sicily two decades ago to serve the Castellos, and has been loyal to the bone ever since.
“Find anything?” I ask.
She shoots me a look that says she thinks I’m a smart-ass. “Get up. Come with me.”
“Can I at least wash my mouth first?”
“You won’t be talking. You’ll be listening.”
Got it. A power-tripper. Likes control, expects obedience.
Good. She’ll be easy to handle. All I have to do is shut up and let her bask in her leashed power.
As she thuds out of the room, I flip back the sheets and follow along.
She launches into an unnecessary tour, and I yawn, my attention drifting in and out. It’s a house, not a damn castle.
The tour feels more for her than for me. Like she had a hand in designing this place and enjoys showing it off. Something tells me that beneath that tough exterior, her real personality matches her girl-next-door voice.
“There are twelve other girls here. All asleep now since they work nights,” she’s saying now. “Every room has an en suite bathroom, so you only share with your roommate…”
My mind dips out again, and I stifle another yawn against the back of my hand.
“…and the rules of The Pink House are simple. You want our protection, you follow the rules. If at any point you feel ‘it’s a prison’ or you’re ‘being controlled’, you’re free to leave. Just know, once you go, there’s no coming back.”
I shuffle behind her into a gourmet style kitchen.
“This, obviously, is the kitchen,” she says.
“But it’s rarely ever used. The villa has a staff of cooks and servers.
Breakfast, lunch, and dinner are prepared daily.
You can eat here, or at Diner Hall. Just call ahead to let the kitchen know.
But the pantry is always stocked of you need anything else. ”
She continues along, and I tune her out again. Until we stop in front of a set of French doors beneath a glowing neon sign: The Pink Closet.
Tazi pushes them open and waves me in. “This is the house boutique.”
The room is massive, drowning in varying shades of pink. Racks overflow with designer clothes, shelves stacked with shoes, handbags, and purses. A vanity section gleams with makeup, perfumes, and wigs. Everything a girl could need to play dress up.
If only I was that kind of girl, life would be more fun.
“Everything in here is communal,” Tazi says. “Nothing belongs to anyone. With the exception of undergarments, anything borrowed should be sent to the Laundry House after use. They will be cleaned, steamed, and returned here.”
I cover my mouth to mask my morning breath. “Is there anything less...fashion-y? I’m more of a jeans and T-shirt kind of girl.”
Tazi gives me a once-over. “Depending on where you’re assigned to work, that might change.”
Tour over, she leads me through the back doors to an annex. Her office.
Inside, a pretty blonde types away at her computer.
“This is Eleni,” Tazi says. “My wife. She handles property maintenance.”
Eleni barely glances up.
Tazi settles behind her desk. “Take a seat.”
When I do, she slides a stack of papers across the surface.
“That’s the contract agreement for living here. Everything’s in layman’s terms. Read and sign.”
“I’m guessing none of it is negotiable?”
“You guessed right.”
I don’t care about the contract, but I lean back and pretend to peruse. It’s pointless. Vivienne already went over the rules and made sure we agreed before presenting us to the Castellos.
In short summary:
To live with the Castellos is to belong to the Castellos.
Food, shelter, and medical care are provided.
You cannot leave the villa without permission.
When allowed off the premises, you will be chaperoned.
Visitors of any kind are prohibited.
You work wherever assigned, without a salary.
A stipend is deposited into your savings each month.
You will respect and submit to the house manager’s authority.
The list goes on, but I make a mental snapshot and scrawl my signature. “Can I go brush my teeth now?”
“Just a minute.”
She checks my signature against a photocopy of my ID, then sets it aside. Straightening, she crosses to a tall cabinet, pulls out a black-and-gold monogrammed gift bag, and hands it to me.
“In here, you’ll find your new phone, preloaded with all relevant contacts. An informational booklet on the villa, your house keys, and a security card for restricted areas.”
Her desk phone rings. She holds up a finger and answers. Thirty seconds later, she hangs up. “Luca will be here to collect you in fifteen minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes? Oof, tight squeeze. Let’s hope I don’t get lost in this castle. Can’t have me earning a ‘breath smells like ass’ reputation on my first day, now can I?”
Eleni snickers.
Tazi is not amused.
“One more thing,” she says as I start for the door. “If you decide to fuck any of the men here, keep it drama-free. Just like the outfits in The Pink Closet, they’re communal. No one belongs to anyone.”
I let my gaze trail slowly up and down her body. “What about the women?”
Tazi falters, lips parting, then pressing shut.
“She’s taken,” Eleni snaps, shoving up from her seat and planting herself possessively at her wife’s side.
Right where I want them.
I toss them a wink, pull open the door, and walk out.
~
SHOWERED AND DRESSED in jeans and tee, I make it downstairs just as Luca steps through the front door.
He gives me a quick once-over. “Slept well?”
“Well enough. You?”
His perfunctory grunt says he wasn’t looking for small talk. “Let’s go.”
Outside, we hop into the golf cart parked at the bottom of the steps. Luca steers west, toward the sleek, six-bedroom contemporary where Stefano, Lorenzo, and their uncle Gio live. Aptly named “Lions House.”
He pulls up as close as the cart allows. “Go on in.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Nah.” He gets out a cigarette, lights it up. “Need a smoke.”
I slip out of the cart and amble up the sloped path to the house. A golden cross glints above the front door. I knock and wait.
When a full minute passes, I test the handle. It’s open.
As I step inside, a sharp chime sounds overhead. The suddenness of it makes me wince.
The door clicks shut behind me just as a stout, middle-aged woman emerges from the left, drying her hands in a dishtowel.
She speaks in Italian. “Good morning. You must be Raya?”
“That’s me, yes,” I reply in her language.
“Ah.” She smiles warmly and beckons me to follow. “I’m Cora. Come, come.”
Despite the house’s sleek, modern exterior, the interior is warm and cozy, Mediterranean style.
Cora leads me down a long hall lined with ancient Roman paintings, stopping in front of a dark-wood door.
She presses her thumb to the security lock. It beeps green. “Wait here.”
She goes in, door clicking shut behind her. Half a minute later, she’s back. “Have you had breakfast? Can I get you anything?”
“Just coffee, if possible. Thanks.”
“Black or…?”
“Black’s fine.”
She nods. “Okay. Go on in.”
I walk into what looks like a gamer’s den. Bathed in RGB light, a long red desk bolted to the wall, four massive, curved monitors glowing.
“Come,” Lorenzo says, attention fixed on one of the screens. He gestures vaguely. “Sit.”
The only other chair is a white version of his high-back red gaming chair, stationed between him and the wall. He doesn’t even bother to swivel, forcing me to squeeze past. Something tells me he enjoys making people uncomfortable on purpose.
“Good morning.”
“Goes without saying, whatever happens in this room stays in this room,” he replies, still focused on the screen. “Confidentiality infidelity is punishable by a bullet to the head.”
“That’s fair.”
Only then does he finally look at me, as if he expected a different response. “You’ve seen some shit, haven’t you?”
“You could say that.”
He snorts and turns back to the monitor. “Some people can speak a different language but get lost when natives talk to them. That you? Can you speak it but not understand it?”
“No. I learned through immersion. I understand just as well as I speak.”
“Good.” He nods at the monitor in front of me. “We just did an arms deal with the Russians. They’re new, so we don’t trust them. We bugged the meet spot, set up surveillance. Showed up late on purpose to give them time to talk out of turn. Test them.”
“But you don’t speak Russian.”
“Exactly.” He grabs a headset, fits it over my head, and gestures to the monitor. “Listen. Tell me what was said.”
On the monitor is an old, abandoned warehouse, rife with corrosion, scattered car parts, and rusted oil barrels.
Four men stand outside a silver pickup parked just inside.
One keeps glancing around, restless. Another keeps checking his watch.
The other two lounge against the truck, chatting it up about their night at the strip club.
After a while, the restless ones start throwing out questions: Are we at the right place? What if this is a setup? Should we leave?
Their paranoia climbs.
Then, two black Lincoln Navigators roll up.
Stefano Castello steps out. Impeccable in his suit. Cocksure confidence in his stride. Fearlessness in his gait. A stark contrast to the bloodied, disheveled, burn-the-world-down version of him from last night.