5
Mia
You never know how you’re going to react in these sorts of situations. I always thought that I would be a fighter, someone who would have tried to do their best to survive. Yet when I walked out of the shower to a man pointing his gun at me, my body froze as if all the fighting instincts I imagined myself to have had flew out the window. It’s one thing to be exposed to a stranger, but it is something else entirely when it happens to be the first time your bare skin has been seen by a man in its entirety. I barely remembered to cover myself, I was so shocked at his presence.
What I would never admit to anyone, though, is that I didn’t notice the gun at first. When I opened that shower door to see a dark, dangerous man in the bathroom with me, I wondered first if he had witnessed what I’d been doing in the shower. Not who he was, not why he was there–no, those thoughts came the second afterward. Initially, I only worried that he was watching me while I had my leg up on the little ledge, my hand eagerly caressing myself while my head dropped back in pleasure.
Only once I’d covered myself and noticed the gun in his hand did I realize just how scared I was. Fear took over my body and I hoped that he didn’t notice the tremble in my hands as I grabbed for the towel. When he spoke, his deep voice shook me out of my scared daze and forced me to see the similarities between this stranger in my bathroom and the man I’d just been fantasizing about. Lord knows, the image in my mind was the opposite of Chad–perhaps that was the point–but I’d also chosen the character in my mind based on the erotic novel lying on my bed. All in the short moment we spent together in that bathroom, I noted his sleek, tailored suit, a shirt open at the neck exposing the rigid lines of his chest. His confident stance in holding the gun with one hand, while the other hung loosely at his side. His tanned skin and dark, curly hair. Then, the scar across his eyebrow.
This man was the living version of the villain I’d been dreaming about. When reading my book, I found myself fantasizing more about the cruel, sexy villain than the gentlemanly hero. In the shower, I’d been imagining just that: a tall, dark, and handsome man, taking what he wanted from me, including my virginity.
When I stepped down from the shower, forced to move closer to him, he towered over me. I was scared shitless, trembling in fear mixed with anger about him waltzing into my house and pointing a gun at me. But the more I stared at his face, the more I noticed. He had green eyes that matched his hair perfectly, full lips that turned pink when he slid his tongue across them, and sexy scruff across his angled jawline.
The moment we walked out of that bathroom and down into the living room, I realized how stupid I was being. I realized how much danger I was in. I mean, he and the other men could have killed my father and done God knows what to me, but they didn’t. And now I’m sitting in the back of a blacked-out SUV with three gangsters that just beat my father to a pulp. They’re taking me somewhere and I don’t know what they’re going to do with me. All I know is that my father, my papa, is not Stephano Costa, but rather Gallo.
Sitting next to me is the guy who found me in the shower, his broad shoulders firmly pressed against mine. Antonio Moretti, he had called himself.
Moretti?I think to myself. I’ve heard that name before, but I’m not sure where. How did my father get into this mess?
On my other side is that fat one who keeps looking me up and down as if I’m a piece of steak for him to chew on, and the last guy, who has a demented grin—the one that looks like he’s related to Antonio, a brother, or a cousin, maybe—is driving. I look straight ahead, the headlights showing nothing more than the empty road. Insects zoom past the light like dust dancing in a beam of sun. The whole time, I’m not even sure what to think, what to expect of my situation. I’m hoping one of the guys will say something, anything, to add some clarity of where we’re going, but none of them say a word. We just keep on driving into the night. I grasp my hands together, pinching the inside of my palm to focus on that pain instead of the resentment in my chest. My whole life has been a lie, my father’s lie.
Just as I start to realize the bright lights of, what I assume is, New York City out in the distance, we exit the highway. We go from road to road, past residential streets, until we approach a wide, black security gate. As soon as we pull to a stop in front of it, a man walks out of a small building to our left. A guard who, after glancing at the car and our driver, pushes a button, and the gate opens to a road that spirals up an extravagant garden. We drive past the guardhouse and move onward until we reach a house so large that the only point of reference I have for a place of such magnitude is The Great Gatsby, though instead of glamorous partygoers, we’re met by more intimidating men, all of which seem to be armed.
“Get out,” Antonio Moretti demands, as if I’m a dog, but at least his gun isn’t pointed at me. Once out of the car, he holds me by my upper arm. “I’m going to show our guest here to her room.”
He leads me through the front door, where we’re met by yet more men who look at me with surprised expressions. The entranceway is vast and from somewhere beyond I can hear a woman’s voice shouting out. She’s angry about something or another, but I have no time to decipher the argument. Instead, Antonio pulls me up the left side of the double stairs and marches me down a long hallway. At the end, we stop in front of a door. He opens it, walks me inside, and turns on the light.
Everything so far is unexpected. My mind is still struggling to keep up with the speed at which my circumstances have changed. To that effect, it comes as a shock when suddenly I’m watching Antonio take white sheets off elegant antiques that are scattered around the room, such as a three-drawer-wide dresser that looks like it’s been around since the 1920s. He then directs me toward the four-poster bed in the center of the room.
“This—,” Antonio Moretti tells, his green eyes unapologetic in the way he looks at me. He’s probably used to getting what he wants from a girl. You can see it in the way he holds himself, the way he looks at me. “—is your room.”
“My room?” I ask. “What is this? The Four Seasons?”
He tips his head in amusement.
“How long do you plan to keep me here?” I put a hand on my hip, jutting it out for emphasis. “Am I a prisoner here, in your own home? Indefinitely?”
Now that I’m here, I have questions. Taking me from my father’s house was one thing; I knew I had to go without a fight to save both our lives. But now that he’s dumping me in this room, I need to know what the fucking plan is.
“You’re a prisoner here until your father’s debt is paid.” He leans a shoulder against the wooden paneling, watching me from the doorway. His expression is emotionless, patient even, as he waits for me to accept my fate.
“And what am I supposed to do? Sit here and wait? You know he doesn’t have the money to pay you back.”
His shoulder lifts carelessly.
“For fuck sake, just tell me what you want from me!” I shout out, knowing full well that the whole house can hear me now. I don’t care, they’re all party to keeping me here as a prisoner.
“Everything,” he replies darkly. “I want everything that is owed to me.”
His expression doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t see me as a person, but as an object he can barter with. I can see that clearly; I’m just something that will ensure that my father pays his debts. But, we both still know he can’t.
“You asshole! You can’t ruin people’s lives like this! Your whole fucking organization is just glorified bullying!” Still shouting, I start to realize I’m not going to get through to him when his lips lift to the side, and he starts to chuckle.
“I’ll get someone to bring you food in a while,” he adds, then exits the room. The door locks.
“Urg!” I scream and quickly reach for a vase standing on a nearby table, throwing it at the closed door. It crashes loudly, satisfyingly, and I hope it portrays just how fucking furious I am to be left alone like a dog. Alone…and silent as I hear his footsteps disappear down the hallway.
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