Eat? As much as I want to fill my belly with good food, I need an outlet for my rage more.
I walk over, my stomach busy cannibalizing itself at the delicious smells coming from the stove. Angelo watches me. He’s the hawk, and I’m the scared little mouse. Or so he thinks.
When I reach him, I spit in his face.
Time freezes as a thick glob of saliva slides down his perfect, stupidly handsome face.
His eyes are colder than ice chips. Blank.
The chef, or whatever he pretends to be, stands motionless, a spatula paused over the pan. Nobody says a word.
My body is stuck in the fight part of a fight-or-flight reaction. I know Angelo’s dangerous. Hell, he could murder me with his pinky. But since escape is currently off the menu, I refuse to take his bullshit lying down.
Maybe if I prove to be an especially troublesome prisoner, he’ll let me go.
Or kill me.
Anything’s better than being raped and forced to bear a child against my will.
“Are you quite done?” he asks before grabbing a napkin and wiping his face.
“I will never stop fighting,” I tell him, enunciating each word slowly so he understands the depth of my fury.
My body tenses as it waits for the punishment that’s sure to come. A slap. A punch. Or worse.
A few months back, a video of him punching a man in the face for daring to bump into him at a restaurant circulated before disappearing.
Angelo sighs. “Sit down, Chiara. You need to eat something before you fall over.” He frowns as he takes in my hollow cheeks.Like he fucking cares. I seethe some more, but he’s right; I need to eat. Passing out on the kitchen floor is not the brave, determined woman I’m doing my best to channel.
I pull out a chair at the far end of the table. Angelo passes me a glass of wine, but I ignore it. The guy in charge of the food finally unfreezes and places a steaming bowl of pasta in front of me. I immediately dive in, not bothering to wait for Angelo to be served. A plate of fresh bread appears shortly after, and I snatch up a soft roll.
The pasta is delicious. Easily as good as anything a high-end restaurant might serve. The chef deserves a pay rise, which I tell him when he brings me a second helping of pasta.
Angelo seems faintly amused as I demolish my food and shovel two more bread rolls down my neck. I’ve spent too long on the run, not knowing where my next meal was coming from, to be shy about eating food when it’s available.
When I can’t fit another morsel in my mouth, I sit back and wait for whatever bullshit is going to fall out of Angelo’s mouth. He has all the power, and we both know it, but I refuse to accept my fate without a fight.
5
Chiara
Angelo says nothing. Instead he continues to sip his wine while glancing at his phone every few seconds. Honestly, it’s irritating. I expected him to yell at me, threaten me with violence for daring to run away after our wedding. But he’s acting like we’ve been married for years and this is just a regular Tuesday.
Have I misjudged him?
Maybe he’s not like his father.
When the tension grows so thick I could tear it apart with my hands and the chef has disappeared, I speak.
“I want a divorce.”
He looks up and smiles. “No.”
My temper explodes. The headache I woke with hasn’t fully gone, and I’m not in the mood for bullshit. Sure, I hold no power here, but I can make his life fucking difficult.
He watches with cold amusement as I pick up my now empty plate and throw it at the wall. It shatters, sending jagged shards flying all over the stone floor. A man in a black Henley and tactical pants rushes in, his gun cocked and ready.
“Sir?”
