12. Lucy
Lucy
I almost forget where I am. Unfamiliar light streams through strange windows and sends shadows across a ceiling I’ve never seen before.
Then the dreams come back. A building shaking, women screaming, men shoving me along.
Slowly, I sit up in bed and look around at Adriano’s room.
It all happened. The car bomb, the fire.
Adriano hurrying me out of there like I was the only person in the world that mattered.
Then later, taking a shower, putting on strange clothes that are just a little bit too tight.
Kennedy’s text, saying she’s alright, thanks to Adriano’s men.
Grandmother’s ominous silence. But I’m sure she’s fine too.
I doubt I’m lucky enough for her to have died in that attack.
The bed beside me is cold and untouched.
Adriano slept somewhere else last night.
I get up and use the bathroom. I’m in a pair of tight sweats and a little t-shirt that clings to my breasts. Bianca is a size smaller than me, and her stuff just barely fits.
It occurs to me, almost as an afterthought, that I’m married.
After cleaning up, I step out into the hallway.
The massive house is silent. It’s an old mansion deep in the heart of South Philadelphia, in an area Grandmother would’ve called Italian trash .
From the glimpse I got on the outside, it takes up nearly this whole block and is set back from the sidewalks by a tall fence with modern security features like cameras and electronic gates.
I should be safe here.
But safe from whom?
Not sure what else to do, I go looking for my husband. I make it down the stairs when I almost run right into an older woman carrying a big laundry bag filled with clothes. She lets out a surprised grunt, and I apologize a billion times when she drops it all on the floor.
“No, no, it’s my fault. I’m not watching where I’m going.”
I get down and help her pick things up. I shove men’s clothing back into the bag. “Sorry, I should’ve been louder. I just don’t know where I’m going, honestly.”
The woman stops and stares at me. She’s got dark hair and dark eyes with little smile crinkles around her eyes. “You’re Adriano’s wife.”
“Lucy,” I say, shoving a pair of underwear away.
“My name’s Donatella. I’m Adriano’s father’s aide. My, you really are pretty. Lucky Adriano. And here he was, worried about the whole arrangement. Seems to have worked out nicely for him.”
I blush a little, not sure how to take that. “He was worried?”
“That man worries about everything, not that he’ll ever let you know it. Thank you for helping, dear.” She hefts the bag up.
“Do you know where he is right now?”
“In his office, I’d expect. If you’re hungry, head into the kitchen. I can come by and fix you something if you’d like.”
“No, that’s totally okay. You don’t have to do that.”
“Nonsense. I more or less manage the house these days.” She sighs and looks back over her shoulder. “Not much I can do about poor Salvatore, except keep him company. He sleeps most of the day away.”
“I’ll just go find Adriano.”
“Suit yourself. Come to the kitchen when you like.” She gives me directions to Adriano’s office, shoots me a warm smile, and walks off.
I watch her go, happy that at least one person in this strange house seems nice enough.
I walk down a few more halls, staring at the opulence and the sheer display of wealth around me.
I’m from a well-off family, but even I find this place a little over the top.
Grandmother would be losing her mind. She’d scowl at everything and make these little clucking noises like a judgmental hen.
I can even hear her now: tacky people build tacky things .
Adriano’s office is tucked in the back corner of the house. The door is left slightly ajar, and I can hear a soft voice inside. I knock lightly, then push it open, and I find him sitting behind a large executive desk, a phone glued to the side of his face.
He looks exhausted. His eyes are red-rimmed and bag-lined.
He’s still in the same suit from the wedding, though the jacket’s been discarded and his top two buttons are undone, showing off a splash of black tattoo ink and a muscular chest. I have no idea why, but I find him even more attractive right now.
There’s something about how rumpled he is, how worn down, how vulnerable.
Like he’s an actual man, but one that works hard.
“I’ll call you later,” he says to the phone, staring at me. “She’s awake.”
Then he hangs up.
I hesitate, wondering if this was a good idea.
The office smells like whiskey and cedar.
It’s a pretty typical room with lots of wood, high bookshelves, and filing cabinets.
The furniture is nice, though, and probably antique.
I have a good eye for that kind of thing, and Adriano definitely has good taste.
“Did you stay up all night?” I ask, shutting the door quietly behind me.
“I’ve been busy.” He sits back in his chair and studies me. “Bianca’s clothes suit you.”
“You’re only saying that because they’re tight.”
“Did you sleep alright?”
“Had some bad dreams.” I slump into the chair across from him and pull my knees up to my chest. “Did anyone get hurt?”
“Security guards died in the attack. Some other people were unlucky enough to have been down in the lobby when the bomb went off. But none of our guests.”
“That’s terrible.”
“About whom? The civilians? Or none of the guests were hurt?”
I smile slightly. “I guess it wouldn’t have been the worst thing if at least some of them got a little burned.”
“Sadistic. I like that.” He smiles sadly. “Unfortunately for us, they’re all well, but they’re pissed.”
“Do you know why it happened?”
“I have my guesses.” He checks his watch. It’s a little past eight in the morning. “I’ll know more shortly.”
I want to ask what he means by that, but the look on his face suggests I probably don’t want to know the details. “You should get some sleep.”
“I’ll sleep tomorrow.”
“I’m serious, Adriano.” I get up and go around the desk.
He looks so withered, like he’s running on fumes.
There are empty coffee cups scattered on his desk near his elbow.
“Get a few hours. Set your phone to ring so you don’t miss any important calls.
But get some sleep.” I gesture at the couch against the wall. “Even just a nap over there.”
He studies me curiously. “Why do you care?”
“I’m not sure,” I admit. “Maybe I just don’t want my husband to die of a heart attack brought on by lack of sleep.”
“We both know you wouldn’t mind that one bit.”
“Fair point, but I am too young to be a widow.” I lean down and touch his arm. “Come on.”
He could resist me. Adriano’s twice my size and weight. He’s sin and death with fists that bruise and break bones and a mouth that commands men and breaks hearts. A thrill runs down my spine, remembering the way he kissed me. The way he fucked me.
“Just a nap,” he says and lets me guide him over to the couch. “And only because you’re asking.”
“Whatever gets you through the day.”
He smiles slightly. Even when he looks happy, he still somehow has a dark edge to him. When we reach the couch, he sits down heavily, but he drags me into his lap. I yelp in surprise, his fingers gripping my sides.
“I’m going to find the men that did this to our wedding day, tesoro mio ,” he whispers. “I’m going to make them suffer.”
“Don’t strain yourself.” I press my hands against his chest. “And don’t let me distract you.”
“You’re very much a distraction now.” His jaw tightens. I know what he’s thinking about. My hands behind my back, his cock sliding into my mouth. I struggle against the urge to grind myself against him.
“Get some sleep.” I extract myself from his grip. He releases me. “I ran into Donatella on the way down here. She said she’d make me some breakfast.”
“That’s good.” He slowly unties his shoes and kicks them off. He sighs as he lies back, head on the arm. His heavy-lidded eyes flutter. “She’ll show you around the house. Find Bianca if you need anything else.”
I watch as he relaxes slightly. When his eyes shut, I step back out into the hall, and it’s only then that I realize what he said to me back there.
Tesoro mio .
And if my Italian isn’t too rusty, I’m pretty sure that means, my treasure .
Since when did I become his anything?