“So tell me about this family,” I say, looking around the table. “What exactly do you all do for a living?”
Another uncomfortable silence.
“We’re in import and export,” Steve says carefully.
“What kind of imports?”
“Various…commodities.”
I laugh, the sound sharp in the elegant room. “You mean guns and drugs and whatever else makes money.”
“Kasimira.” Alaric’s voice carries a warning.
“What? We’re all family now, aren’t we?” I take a large gulp of wine. “Shouldn’t we be honest with each other?”
The main course is a fish dish. I eat it with my hands, ignoring the horrified looks from around the table. The sauce runs down my fingers, and I lick them clean instead of using my napkin.
“You know,” I say, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, “this is the best meal I’ve had in months. Amazing what a little freedom can do for your appetite.”
Candy looks like she might faint. Steve’s wife has stopped eating entirely. Even Benedetto seems amused by my performance.
“Perhaps we should discuss business,” the old man suggests weakly.
“Oh yes, let’s,” I say, leaning forward with interest. “I’d love to know more about my new…inheritance.”
By the time dessert arrives, I’ve managed to appall everyone except Benedetto, who seems to find my behavior entertaining. I eat the chocolate cake with my fingers too, making little moaning sounds of pleasure that make Alaric’s knuckles go white on his wine glass.
“Well,” Steve says when the meal finally ends, “this has been…memorable.”
“Thank you for coming,” Alaric replies stiffly. “Benedetto will see you out.”
The guests file out, Candy whispering urgently to her elderly boyfriend about “standards” and “proper breeding.” Steve claps Alaric on the shoulder and murmurs something about “good luck.”
When the room clears except for the guards, I stand and stretch like a cat.
“That was fun,” I announce. “Lionel, I’m going upstairs to take a long-ass nap.”
Lionel glances at Alaric, who nods curtly.
“Of course, Mrs. Moretti.”
Mrs. Moretti. What a joke.
In my room, I peel off the black dress and let it pool on the floor. The hot shower washes away the evening’s performance, and by the time I crawl into bed, exhaustion hits me like a truck.
I sleep hard and dreamless.
When I wake, the room is dark except for the digital clock glowing at 9:15 PM. My stomach growls. All that theatrical eating at dinner, and I’m still hungry.
“Lionel?” I call through the door.
“Ma’am. Still here.”
I pad to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face. In the mirror, my hair is a mess from sleep. I reach for the brush, then stop myself.
What am I doing? Primping for my captor husband?
I adjust the white nightgown I threw on before bed. It’s shorter than I remembered, barely covering my thighs, with thin straps that keep sliding off my shoulders. The soft fabric clings to my body in ways that leave little to the imagination.
