I groan, partly in annoyance, partly because I want more. Her desperate breaths still echo in my mind as the heat between her legs drove my fingers there. It seemed to calm her down, but, fuck me, it had the opposite effect on my body—left me wired like a goddamn Christmas tree in Times Square. I’m restless, craving back my freedom like I’m the one suffocating now.
I need sleep. And pussy. And loud music. And that fucking cigarette she promised me.
I didn’t expect the trembling little thing to be on my mind so much, but I’ve been locked in here with no entertainment. How could Inotthink about her all the damn time?
Outside, polished shoes approach the two guards stationed in the garden—probably Cesare’s. I can’t see any faces from this angle. The men follow him back to the house a moment later, and I quirk a brow, wondering if it means anything.
Not too long ago, I used to spy on our guards with my brother, back when we were still two kids looking for comfort in each other’s presence. I don’t let myself think about him often. It never ends well. There are debts you can repay with money, others with power. And then there are the ones that rot inside you, no matter how many years pass.
Everything I do now traces back to Wolfgang. Every compromise, every fucking sacrifice. If this sham of a marriage buys me even a fraction of absolution—if it shuts his mouth about what I did back then—then it’s worth whatever comes next.
My jaw tenses at the memory, at knowing how profound his hate for me has grown over the years. I caused it willingly, andI deserve every ounce of it. After all we went through, it was the only way to move forward.
A door slams open upstairs, and heavy footsteps descend into the basement.
Fucking finally.
Adrenaline spikes my blood, my brain delighting in the haze encompassing me. Like a game of Russian roulette, the axis of my life spins in somebody else’s hand, and the only way to know if I’ll live or die is to wait until they pull the trigger. Both options sound equally appealing. What’s the point of living when you’re trapped by guilt your entire fucking life?
Silhouettes come into view, heading for my cell. A guard works the lock on my door while others wait behind him. Cesare is here too, looking a regal way of pissed off. I cock my head, waiting to see what they’ll do, until the asshole finally talks.
“Get him out,” Cesare mutters, not sparing me a glance. His next words bring a slight upturn to one side of my mouth. “Don Ferrara needs him upstairs.”
Cecilia
Warm water drips down my body as I step out of the shower, wrapping a towel around my breasts. I tuck my wet hair behind my ears, walking barefoot toward my closet, avoiding my reflection in the mirror as best I can. I refuse to look at last night’s version of myself.
Slipping on a random dress, I plug in my blow dryer and begin fluffing out my hair. It’s Wednesday morning, and I’m supposed to be sitting at the piano in ten minutes—not that anyone will be coming to my practice. It’s just the schedule Ms. Donatello ingrained in me years ago: one hour and a halfafter breakfast and another session of the same length before dinnertime.
Not once have I skipped this routine, not even when I was feverish with chickenpox or curled over from a UTI. It’s the only thing I still have control over in my life. If he wants me to stop, my father will have to pry it out of my cold, dead hands.
When I do show up in my study, my piano waits for me in the corner. I roll my shoulders, forcing them to relax, and trudge to the black leather chair. My hands look steady. They feel steady, but something deep inside me isn’t. I refuse to think about it now, knowing exactly what it is that tries to steal my focus.
Before I begin warming up, I look out the window, the ocean’s waves crashing into the rocks in the distance. Seagulls fly above the wild beach, occasionally landing on the sand. It’s peaceful. Familiar. Exactly what I need right now to feel sane again.
I start with a set of scales and arpeggios, allowing my hand muscles to get used to the motions. The sound flows through the room, and my attention feels steady, like I can do this with no problem—until it doesn’t.
My fingers slip, tangling the melody as if it’s my first time doing these exercises. I part my lips in surprise before I take in a heap of air and start from the beginning.
G, E minor, to C, to G, to?—
Clunk!
My fingers slip again, heat flashing through me as the memory of Mikhail’s hand around my throat returns, slamming into my mind.
Don’t think about him. Just play.
G, E minor, to C, to?—
Clunk!
I jolt from the piano, turning to the window, my hands on my flushed face. My fingers still tingle. My lungs struggle to expand. This is bad. This is so, so bad. What am I if I can’t play?
I let him touch me in ways no one else has, and even if I refuse to turn that thought on its head, I know damn well I enjoyed it. How can someone scare and intrigue me so much at the same time?
Something’s seriously wrong with me. It’s the kind of thing I should be talking about in therapy, if my shrink wasn’t giving my father detailed summaries of everything we discuss. He questioned me about something he wasn’t supposed to know once, and that’s how I found out.
And the marriage…themarriage. It’s coming, whether I like it or not.
