Then I wonder if this is someone else’s bedroom. Does Angelo have a sister? I can’t remember. Too much time has passed, and the details of his family are sketchy. Mostly because I’ve done my best to block it all out in the interest of preserving my delicate mental health.
I try the last door, but it’s locked.
“Let me out!” Nobody comes. I rattle the door some more, kick it a few times, and even use a chair to hammer against it. But still nobody comes.
Hours pass.
My stomach growls at the lack of food, and my headache refuses to go away.
Since there’s nothing else to do, I take a long soak in the tub before pulling on some comfortable cotton pants and a long-sleeved tee. I draw the line at selecting any underwear from the drawers in the closet, in case it belongs to some other woman.
Eventually, I fall asleep again.
The second time I wake snuggled in the luxurious bed, it’s dark outside. The soft click of a door opening rouses me from a disturbing dream of being chased by a nameless monster. No guesses who that might be.
Normally, I’m a light sleeper. Months on the run will do that to a girl, although I never was a deep sleeper, even at home. I blame the drugs in my system for the fuzziness in my head and the nausea that lingers. At least the headache that plagued me earlier has largely gone. Small mercies.
When I roll over and look up, a woman wearing a gray uniform stands in the doorway.
“Mr. Di Rossi requests your presence at dinner in thirty minutes,” she says while studiously staring at the wall above my head.
“Dinner?” My stomach growls loudly.
“Yes, ma’am.” Having passed on the message, she quickly retreats and closes the door behind her.
It looks like my husband wants a catch-up over a bite to eat.How lovely. I debate ignoring the summons but quickly decide it’s pointless. One, I’m starving, and two, I can’t avoid him forever. At least this way, I can figure out his intentions.
A big part of me wants nothing more than to trash my room out of spite, but sensible me locks that shit down. Just becauseAngelo has dragged me back doesn’t mean all hope is lost. Maybe if he realizes I’m unwilling to be a traditional mob wife—seen and never heard—he’ll decide I’m too much trouble and file for divorce.
There’s a chance, no matter how small, that I can persuade him to let me go.
Then I snort to myself.Yeah right. As if that’s going to happen.
A guard stands rigid and alert in the hallway when I open the now unlocked door. I haven’t bothered changing out of the comfy cotton pants and long-sleeve top. With no bra, my breasts wobble when I move, but I honestly don’t care.
The minute I emerge, the guard sets off walking down the hallway, so I follow him. We pass several closed doors, bland paintings that are likely very expensive, and at least two floor vases filled with scented blooms.
So far, so tasteful.
Downstairs, the house decor is equally bland, with a luxury hotel aesthetic. Lots of pale marble, cream walls, and forgettable artwork. If this is Angelo’s home, he clearly has zero personality.
The robot guard leads me into a large open-plan kitchen with a dining area. This room is much more comfortable, with sage-green cabinets and black granite counters. There’s a stone fireplace, a comfortable sofa, and sliding doors that open out onto a wide terrace, which is currently illuminated by string lights and a blazing fire pit.
My husband sits at the table, tapping his fingers on the polished wood and watching me.
It’s been a year since I saw Angelo Di Rossi. I wish I could say time had not been kind to him, but that would be a lie.
He has a few more faint lines, probably stress related, around his eyes, and he looks tired. But none of that diminishes his sex appeal. The man is a literal sex god on legs. Under different circumstances, I might have thanked my stepmother for gifting me such a handsome husband. After all, she could have handed me over to Angelo’s awful father.
I shake my head. While my fate could have been much worse, it’s still not great. I’m married to a man I barely know and my autonomy’s been stripped away.
A man in a white chef’s coat hovers nearby, stirring a large pan on the range cooker. The scents of basil and Parmesan cheese cause my stomach to growl again, and I grit my teeth in annoyance.
“Hungry?” Angelo reaches for a bottle of wine and pours two glasses.
“I’ve not eaten anything for at least thirty-six hours,” I snap. “So yes.”
“Please sit down, Chiara, then we can eat.”
