“Son…” my father warns.
“Don’t do this to her. It’ll destroy her.”
My father walks past me until he’s right in front of Cesare. More guards gather around, pointing their guns at my friend like he’s the one being unreasonable.
“Please, don’t hurt him,” I mumble, reaching for his shirt. “Don’t?—”
But my father jerks his head to one of the guards behind Cesare, and it’s enough for the man to grab theconsigliere’s wrist, planting his hand on the wall beside him.
The guard takes out a knife, and Cesare watches me with a sad smile, mouthing the words ‘don’t look’. He knows exactly what’s coming, and within seconds, his hand is impaled by the blade, straight through the middle. It twists, and Cesare groans in pain, his tendons snapping and his flesh becoming a mushy mess right before my eyes.
Oh, God.
No, no, no…
I scream, a strained, terrified cry that has me gasping for air.
“Christ,” Mikhail mutters, grabbing my arm and dragging me past my friend before my nausea kicks in. I thrash and kick and scream, but no one stops him from taking me outside.
All I can hope for at this point is that Cesare will be okay.
“You will gowith this man, and you will be his wife.”
I’m alone in the backseat of a Mercedes, my father’s words ringing through my head over and over, cementing the reality—a tomb around my body, dark, lonely, and terrifying.
I tried to tell him back in his office about everything Mikhail put me through—the stalking, feeling crazy for hearing things everywhere I walked. But just like that night at the party, he refused to listen, as if none of it mattered. All the while, Mikhail stood there and watched me beg for my freedom, probably amused at my desperation.
That goddamn bastard! I’ve never felt more humiliated.
And Cesare… He stood up for me and paid the price for his defiance. I pray he’s still alive, that my father will forgive him. I can’t believe he did that for me. The image of his bloody hand pounds through my head, an incessant knocking at my sanity. I fight to rid my mind of it, to keep myself from spiraling into apanic attack, so I scurry over to the window, looking out at the men still talking in the driveway.
Mikhail stands there, bored and impassive, hands in the pockets of a fresh suit. His face bears the marks of all his recent brutalization, though it looks like it’s healing. My father, brushing his ringed knuckles against his wrinkled jaw, says something to him then nods. I can’t hear them.
I wasn’t allowed to pack, didn’t even get to grab my phone. My piano—my beautiful piano—is still in thepalazzo. No one offered to ship it out to wherever I’ll end up.
Once I entered that office, my fate was sealed. I was sold like a piece of land by the man I was raised to love, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. As I sit here, searching for any sympathy in his brown eyes—myeyes—my father seems miles away, like a distant relative who doesn’t even know my birthday.
A shadow whisks away my sun as my new captor approaches the car, taking his seat behind the wheel. Instantly, the energy shifts, and as he starts driving, the place I’ve called home my entire life remains where it’s always been: unmoving.
The menacing glint in Mikhail’s eyes sharpens when I catch his gaze staring back in the rearview mirror. It’s cold,frigid, every bit of amusement gone. The one kindness he offered me in that basement when he helped with my panic attack feels like it never happened. Did he do that just to make me keep visiting?
I dig my fingers into the leather chair, feeling stupid. He wasn’t interested in me at all, but in what marrying me would get him. Of course he was. He orchestrated this whole thing from the start. I don’t know how or why, but every fiber of my being tells me he has.
“You tricked me,” I say, the words leaving my mouth before I can stop them, raw and breathless.
The familiar, contemplative tilt of his head again. “Tricked you? I believe the word you’re looking for is saved. Isavedyou, sweetheart.”
I lean in. “I had a life! You may have thought it pointless, but it wasmylife!”
“And now, it’s mine,” he says, very matter-of-fact.
Rage flickers beneath my skin.
The road winds and curves out of the Ferrara estate, the pavement roaring under the car’s wheels as it leads us onto the highway. Mikhail speeds up, my back pushing into the chair behind me with inertia. My stomach churns, and I swallow, trying not to puke. Not because I care about what he’d think, but because I don’t know when I’m going to eat again. If he tries anything, I’ll need all my strength.
He’s taking me to New York, my father mentioned in his office. But New York is far away, too long a ride for us to undertake alone together. If I could put a mountain between us, I’d do it in a heartbeat.
As if he’s thinking the same about me, Mikhail’s fingers fumble with the touch screen until music fills the small space, shutting down any potential conversation. Instantly, we both wince.
