Hopefully the house is large enough that I can avoid him until I figure out an escape plan. Otherwise, one of us will be dead before long.
6
Chiara
It’s been a week, and I haven’t seen Angelo once. Either he’s avoiding me or he’s very careful to stay locked away in his office or bedroom suite.
I’ve spent a lot of time exploring the house. There is a formal living room that doesn’t appear to be used, a family room with a large, comfortable sectional sofa and TV, and many other rooms, some of which remain locked. In the basement, I discovered a gym and a laundry area, plus more locked doors. The gardens are expansive, but so far, I haven’t ventured beyond the terrace.
The outdoor pool steams when the air cools at night. I’d go for a swim, but there isn’t a bikini in the closet, and I have a feeling Angelo would lose his shit if I swam naked.
Tempting, but I’m behaving for now. Lulling him into a false sense of security while I bide my time and come up with a plan.
Sadly, the servants are not sympathetic to my cause. They either ignore me or act like robots. At least Angelo treats them well. Unlike Vivian, who once threw a cup of scalding coffee over a maid for forgetting to turn down her bed.
It’s late, and I can’t sleep.
Again.
I’ve never been a good sleeper. Even as a child I struggled to fall asleep and stay asleep. When I was small, my father would read me a story, check my closet for monsters, and then stay in a chair until I fell asleep.
Once he remarried, Vivian stole all his attention, and he palmed me off on a succession of maids, none of whom cared about me. Some even tried to drug me so they could avoid being disturbed by my night terrors, but I soon got wise to that.
Now, I won’t touch sleeping pills. The thought of being incapacitated leaves me terrified. I’d rather be awake all night than in a drugged stupor.
The book I’m reading falls to the floor as I crawl out of bed. It’s a police procedural thriller I found in the living room. I assume it’s Angelo’s book, but I could be mistaken.
Perhaps he’s brushing up on ways to avoid detection while running a criminal empire. The book’s entertaining, if gruesome. Not enough to capture my attention this evening, however.
I’m bored out of my mind, not used to sitting around with nothing to do. Before my dear husband’s pet enforcer found me, I spent most evenings working behind the bar or fixing Mack’s bookkeeping messes. And if he gave me a night off, I caught up on laundry and other shit.
In this house, there are servants who take care of the laundry. There is literally nothing for me to do, and I hate it. I’ve almost reached the point where I might just cave and agree to push out a baby purely for something to occupy my time.
I pull on a loose cami tee and a pair of shorts before padding out of my room. The house is silent as a morgue.
None of the servants speak unless I ask a direct question. Food appears at set times, and if I don’t show up, I invariably find a covered plate in the refrigerator. A maid makes my bed in themorning, and my laundry disappears at intervals, reappearing clean and ironed.
It’s like living in a luxury hotel for free.
A hotel with armed guards and a sophisticated security system designed to keep me in.
There are cameras everywhere except in my bedroom. Not so far as I can tell anyway. I genuinely wouldn’t put it past Angelo and his fucking asshole enforcer to spy on me.
My lip curls up when I remember how satisfying it felt to break the prick’s nose.
There are a few lights still on downstairs. A lamp in the hallway, another in the living room. I briefly consider watching a movie but decide to hit the kitchen instead. There is some chamomile tea in the pantry, which might help me sleep.
When I open the kitchen door, I’m surprised to find all the lights on and a shirtless dude with his head in the refrigerator. It’s not Angelo, although when he pops up and grins at me, I can see the family resemblance.
The guy shamelessly checks me out while I do the same.Holy fuck. He’s gorgeous. Younger than Angelo by a few years. More my age, in fact.
Dark curls brush the tops of his bare shoulders.
A broad, defined chest, tight abs, and thick thighs suggest a keen athlete, and dimples tell me this guy’s a born flirt. He’s pure catnip to my libido, and I lick my lips at the thought of how much fun he’d be if…if I wasn’t married to his fucking brother.
I’ve seen enough photos of Angelo’s younger half brother to know this is Luka Di Rossi, the product of an affair.
“Need a cab?”
