Below the eyes, a perfect nose perches atop luscious, soft lips. They tremble ever so slightly beneath my gaze. Her smooth, tanned skin glows beneath the sun, almost hiding the freckles that daub her cheeks and nose.
Still, while beautiful, she seems just as fragile as eight years ago. I know she’s not a porcelain doll, considering I’m dragging her by the wrists, but still, the impression is there. Maybe it’s because of how skinny she is. I could easily wrap my hands around her small wrists, maybe even her biceps. Her collarbones poke up so prominently, she could hold coin rolls in them. And her thighs are so thin they never touch above the knees. It’s a little disturbing to be honest, and I make a mental note to feed her better than her father.
Then again, what do I care if she eats well or not? I remind myself that she’s simply an instrument of revenge. A tool that will greatly enrich myself and my brothers. She’ll be my toy while she’s here, and when she’s gone I’ll find others.
I look away from her, returning my attention to the beach ahead, and direct her onto the path leading to the chateau. I ignore the dogs that continue to prance around us.
When I reach the main entrance, Luciano takes charge of Lupo and Luna and leads them to the kennel. Meanwhile I bring Angela inside.
I lead her through the main hallway, which is lined to the brim with expensive works of art. I glance at her, but she doesn’t seem impressed. Not that I expected her to be. Her own house has similar works, if memory serves.
Art is simply another means of money laundering: we buy pieces of considerable worth then auction them off again to ourselves via proxy buyers months or years later. We have accomplices who bid up the works to the desired prices, and viola, after the purchases our money is now clean. We’ve expanded into crypto art in recent years, where the concept is similar—but that’s Luciano’s domain.
Yes, like Angela, these beautiful works on the wall are not meant to be loved or admired, and serve only to enrich us.
I lead her upstairs to her room and toss her onto the bed. I produce a knife and she flinches away from me. I glare at her, and she only cowers beneath my gaze all the more.
She’s so fucking weak. I don’t know what I ever saw in her.
I bring the knife forward and then she suddenly bats her hands at me, catching me off guard. She hits my arms, steering the knife to the side.
Furious, I step back and stare at her with my most shriveling gaze. She whimpers. She doesn’t understand, I’m not angry at her, but myself—for underestimating her.
I lean forward and quickly grab her by the arm before she can slip away or swat me again. I slit the cable tie with my blade, freeing her wrists in one smooth motion. Then I step back.
She tentatively flexes her arms, seeming surprised that I freed her. She rubs her wrists where the tie has carved deep indentations into her skin.
All I can do is stare at her as she lies there before me. I like that she fought back. She’s not so weak as I thought. And as I run my gaze from head to toe and back again, up and down that perfectly shaped body, all I can think about is how much I want to fuck her. I don’t like it. She’s my ticket to revenge. When I do finally fuck her, I intend to feel nothing, just like with all the other girls I’ve had since her. Just another part of my revenge.
Even so, as I stare at her pink, innocent lips, I can’t help but wonder if her pussy is the same color, and just as innocent. Yes, I can already tell she’s a virgin. She hasn’t slept with a man since we last met. Hell, she probably hasn’t even kissed anyone else.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asks. “After you receive the ransom?”
“Only your father,” I tell her.
Her face grows very pale.
“And maybe your brothers and sister,” I add. “We’ll see.”
She’s trembling again, and I think she’s going to cry.
As usual, seeing this weakness in her angers me, and I can’t help the fury building inside. I try to put myself in her place. If I were a young woman, kidnapped, I’d be feeling the same way. Still, it disgusts me.
But then she surprises me by straightening her back and saying: “I won’t let you. I’ll find a way to stop you. I’m going to escape.”
“Yeah, about that,” I tell her. “If you want your brothers and sisters to live, you’re going to do exactly as I say. That means you don’t eventryto escape. Because every time I have to sic the dogs on you, that’s one more family member you’re going to lose.”
“You’re a sick man,” she says.
“Maybe,” I tell her. “But no sicker than your father.”
She stares at me. “My father is a good man.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “Oh really? You can’t tell me you’ve been living in the dark all these years? Not with all those guards you have. You’ve realized by now he’s a mafia don at least, haven’t you?”
She shifts uncomfortably. “Well, yes. But he’s still a good man.”
“The terms mafia don and good man are mutually exclusive,” I tell her coldly. “Just as I’ll never be a good man.”
