CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LILIANA
I’ve always believed myself to be a nice upstanding member of society.
I pay my taxes, I mind my own business and I even feed the homeless sometimes when I have more than enough for myself.
Basically, I’ve lived my life as a wonderful human being with a clear indication of what right and wrong is.
I thought I knew what lines to cross and that my morality was solid.
I thought wrong.
As I sit in the bedroom where my daughter was conceived, I stare at the knife in my hands and consider the possibility of murdering her father with it.
It would be easy. As the last couple days have proven, I actually do have good aim. Rafaelle could walk in here and with a single throw I could end his life. He does have fast reflexes so maybe I’ll only make him angry enough that he disregards whatever is holding him back from killing me.
With a sigh, I fall backwards on to the bed, still staring at the blade in my hand. It’s very pretty, nicer than every piece of jewelry I own. I imagine sinking it into Rafaelle’s neck. I imagine all the blood and it makes me feel sick.
I can’t do that to him. Rafaelle would have never given the knife to me if he thought I could hurt him. And he’s right. I don’t want to hurt him. Not even a little bit.
Doesn’t change the fact that he’s a terrible person though.
I need to get out of here. Rafaelle might not want to hurt me and I may be getting fed and clothed and treated decently, but a gilded cage is still a cage. And out of the four walls of this house, the world is still moving.
This is my fourth day here. I can’t even begin to imagine how my mother must be feeling. What she’s thinking. I just hope she doesn’t come looking for me. The last thing I need is her in this city. Especially because she won’t have a choice but to bring Mila with her.
My mind keeps drifting back to the reason I’m here. The deal with my father. I have no clue what sort of person Ignacio Navarro is. But it seems to me that if he does agree to trade me, I’ll be moving from one lion’s den to another.
There’s no ending to this that benefits me.
I have to figure out a way to escape but I’m out of options.
This house is guarded like a fortress. There are guards at every entrance and cameras in the hallways.
It would be impossible for me to sneak out.
And even if I did, I have no idea how to make it back to the city.
There’s nothing and no one but empty land for miles.
A knock on the door distracts me from my thoughts. For a brief second, hope fills me at the thought of it being Rafaelle but it’s snuffed out almost immediately. He definitely doesn’t knock. I call for whoever it is to come in while I sit up on the bed.
It’s the butler. I think his name is Ira, not that he told me himself. He’s every quiet, poised to do his job and nothing else, all broody with a blank expression.
“Would you like to have dinner in your bedroom, Miss Zaccari?” he questions.
“Sure,” I reply. “Is Rafaelle not back yet?”
I haven’t seen him since yesterday morning at breakfast when he suddenly turned into the Grinch.
He burns hot and cold so often, it’s starting to give me whiplash.
One second, he’s kind and charming and I get to see past all the evil and darkness.
The next he’s cold and dismissive. I don’t know what to do with him.
He shakes his head, “Not yet, ma’am. But I was asked to remind you that you can leave your room and traipse the grounds, so you don’t go crazy from staring at the same four walls.”
I make a face, “Tell him to mind his own business and I’ll do as I wish.”
He inclines his head downward and is about to leave when I suddenly remember something.
“Wait, you said I could go anywhere in the house, right?”
“Of course.”
“Even downstairs?”
I’m talking about the basement. I’ve been wondering what it looks like ever since Rafaelle told me about the sex dungeon hidden down there. Plus, I have a feeling it’s also where he tortures people. Call it morbid curiosity, but I would very much like to see what it looks like.
“No. Only Mr. Vitale can grant access to the basement. No one is allowed down there without his permission.”
“Right, yeah,” I say in understanding.
I’d been expecting that. Ira leaves me alone to my thoughts once again. Only now, Rafaelle is front and center, his face, his actions, everything about him dominating my mind. I really need to stop thinking about him so much. But he’s like a plague, spreading and festering without my permission.
After I eat dinner, I decide to take a breather and leave the room. I grab a sweater from the rack of clothes that were delivered to me yesterday. It’s totally overkill, the clothes are so fancy and there’s enough designer in there that my body itches at the thought of how much it must all cost.
I hum softly at the soft feel of the sweater on my body, buttoning it up quickly before slipping out of the room. No one stops me as I walk through the hallways.
Eventually, I end up outside at the gardens, taking a seat on the bench. It’s so silent here. And peaceful.
The moon hangs high above in the sky, bathing everything in a sliver light while a cool breeze drifts through the trees.
I tilt my head back, staring up at it for a moment and allowing myself to exist. Clearing my mind of all the problems that plague me.
I take in a soft breath and try to bat it all away for a second.
My little baby girl that’s probably wondering where her mother is. Revelations about cartel fathers. Infuriatingly attractive mafia men.
It’s just me and the night. But unfortunately the peace doesn’t last.
Eventually boredom wins and I get to my feet, turning to head back to the house.
It’s so big that I don’t think I’ve seen up to half of it. Endless hallways stretch in every direction, lined with artwork worth more than I would probably earn in my life. Every room I pass is much larger than the entirety of my former apartment in the city.
It’s absurd. Who even needs this much space?
My footsteps echo softly against polished floors as I wandered aimlessly through the lower levels before eventually making my way upstairs. Then higher, and higher, until I find myself on the third floor. It’s more private here, feels different in a sense.
I’m studying the dark wood walls and expensive décor when the sounds of footsteps reaches my ears. I freeze instinctively. And without any real reason, I quickly dart behind one of the decorative columns lining the hallway.
The second I’m hidden, I question my own sanity.
What am I doing?
Ira said I could look around the house. No one said I couldn’t come up here. And yet, my feet remain rooted in place.
The footsteps grow closer. Then a familiar figure rounds the corner. Rafaelle.
My stomach immediately betrays me, a small flutter rising at the sight of him. My first thought is that he looks exhausted. His dark hair is slightly disheveled and his sleeves are rolled up to reveal tattooed forearms. There are shadows beneath his eyes even worse than they had been yesterday.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
A strange ache settles in my chest as I remember he told me eighteen months ago that he doesn’t sleep much. I thought he was just being a creep and exaggerating. But looking at him now, it’s clear he must suffer from some form of insomnia.
Rafaelle reaches a door near the end of the hallway and pauses. I lurch backwards as he turns around, my heart pounding in my chest.
This is ridiculous.
The sound of the door clicking shut behind him echoes through the hallway and then silence returns. I remain hidden for a minute or two before I head back to my bedroom, my thoughts still on the man in the floor above me.
In my bedroom, I keep replaying the brief glimpse of him I’d caught. I know I should stop but curiosity has always been one of my worst qualities and I can’t help but wonder what could be keeping him from sleep.
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing outside his bedroom door. Again.
I stare at the handle. This is a bad idea. A really, really bad one.
If he catches me sneaking into his room, I’ll never hear the end of it. The thought should send me running back downstairs. Instead, I gently push the door open.
The door clicks softly behind me as I slip inside. The curtains of the room are drawn shut, leaving only a small lamplight on the table beside the bed. For a moment I simply look around.
The room is large but strangely sparse. No clutter. No personal touches. Nothing that reveals much about the man who sleeps here. There’s a small book shelf in the corner though. And I notice a dart board with throwing knives on the surface.
A smile lifts my lips, Typical.
My gaze drifts towards the bed and I stop in my tacks at the sight of the man on top of it. My mouth goes dry. Smooth, inked muscle on top of black sheets. He’s not wearing a shirt and the rest of him is under the covers. He looks wrong like this, human, vulnerable.
I move closer until I’m standing beside the king-sized bed. One arm lies thrown across his stomach and his face is relaxed in a way I’ve never seen before. He almost looks innocent until he moves.
His entire body tenses and a muscle jumps in his jaw. The serenity I’d glimpsed disappears. He’s still asleep even as his brow furrows.
“No…”
The word is barely audible. I freeze. Rafaelle shifts again, restless and uncomfortable. Like he’s fighting something in his sleep or someone.
“Tara,” he exhales softly.
The name is rough and he says it with an edge of pain that tugs at my chest. My eyebrows pull together.
Who is Tara?
The question sparks a dozen others within my mind. Is she a sister? An ex? Someone he lost?
The expression on his face makes my chest tight even more. Whatever he’s dreaming about can’t be good. I take a hesitant step closer.
“Rafaelle?”
Nothing. His breathing remains uneven.
The name slips from his lips again, almost desperately, “Tara…”
I hesitate. Should I wake him?