I’m also in no immediate danger that I’m aware of. But the question I’m dying to ask, the one he keeps putting off answering, is who the hell is my dad and why is it such a secret?
I make a resolution to go along with the situation as long as I don’t feel like I’m going to be shot. When I look up after smoothing my pretty dress down around my legs, I catch Dante’s ocean blue eyes and give him a small smile as a reward for letting me out of the hotel. Or is it just because he’s looking happier than normal? No matter. It feels like a temporary truce.
He relaxes after a few glasses of rich Italian Syrah, and I have to admit more than I would like that the robust red wines he likes are agreeing with me. I can’t fault him for loving his lifestyle of luxury.
He orders everything after asking me a few questions about what I like to eat and what’s my favorite seafood. When the calamari arrives at the table, it’s the freshest I’ve ever had.
Flavio and Riccardo converse in low tones while I sit at Dante’s left.
“So, are you ever going to tell me who my dad is?” I blurt out abruptly.
He leans his sculpted torso towards me as his jacket strains against it and whispers, “We’ll talk on the plane tomorrow.”
I’m not happy with the answer, but instead of sulking, I rely on the wine to even out my emotions. I decide not to piss him off by pressing the issue. It would only ruin the evening for both of us.
Italian wines are notorious for sneaking up on a person and this one is no different. I go over a silent Hail Mary in my head that the food arrives before I get too tipsy.
I don’t know why I care what Dante thinks of me, but I’m smart enough to know that I don’t want to throw up or fall asleep and look a juvenile who can’t hold her alcohol. Also, I need to be able to walk out of here on these stilts.
I lean forward, pluck another roll off the round plates, then rip it apart between my fingertips before dipping it in the olive oil. I nibble on the wet bread, and after it passes my lips, I gently suck the oil out of it, savoring the flavor in my mouth and letting it coat my tongue.
It’s divine, and when I cast a look in Dante’s direction as he talks in a low voice to Riccardo, I remember what his lips tasted like.
The vision of his perfectly sculptured, kissable lips reminds me that I sketched his face subconsciously a few days ago.
How many days has it been now? I’m losing track, but as long as I’m a hostage, it’s important to remember. I return to looking at the ornate walls and the rounded arches that lead from one room to another when I suddenly get the feeling I’m being watched.
I look up to discover warmth, not coldness, in Dante’s eyes as he observes me like a sleek cat ready to pounce on its prey. He makes me feel like I’m the only person in the room, and for one brief moment, I’m infatuated with him when our eyes lock . . . until it hits me that he’s not the least bit remorseful for plucking me from my life.
Our food arrives, carried in by two handsome waiters dressed in black tuxes and starched white shirts, who swirl around the table like a pair of silk scarves, flawless with their delivery and effortless with their movement. They move around us like perfectly choreographed dancers doing a pas de deux as they hand us our plates.
Soft Italian music is playing in the background as I take in the sight of my seafood dinner in front of me. It looks picture perfect on the white china plate. It’s way too much for one person, especially after all the bread and wine I consumed.
By now, I can read Dante’s mood from the color of his eyes and I can tell by how dark they have turned that he’s sending me a silent challenge to eat all of my dinner. He twists his pasta on his fork using a spoon to complete the perfect action before placing the first bite in his mouth and his eyes briefly close as he enjoys the chef’s signature dish.
I’m getting used to it, but I still marvel at the way that everywhere we go, the red carpet is rolled out for him. I wonder again if he owns this restaurant like he does the hotel.
A heavy man in his thirties walks to our table, getting a few handshakes from customers sitting at tables as he makes his way across the room. He’s eager to talk to guests and he stops to chat with Dante. He calls him Signor Micheli and he expresses his hope that he is pleased with the food.
Dante reassures him that the food is the most incredible seafood he’s had in a long time and that he couldn’t be happier.
The man seems pleased with this and with a slight bow, he says, “Ciao,” before departing back to the kitchen.
The remainder of dinner passes without incident and it’s home to the penthouse where I’m called over to Flavio to make a return text to Ava, who apparently has been asking how my family is doing and when I’ll be back.
I draft the reply and show it to Flavio for his approval, and when he nods, I send it before handing the phone back to him. I tell her that I’d say I missed my art supplies, but I’ve been so busy the entire time, I haven’t had time to sketch anyway. I hope that sounds authentic.
Dante’s eyes are steely when I bid everyone a good night and excuse myself for bed. I peel off my fancy clothes and discover that I’m wet between my legs. The man out there is driving me crazy, but I can’t be the one to make the first move. My observations have taught me that their world operates like a wolf pack—they stick together, and everyone is an alpha until they are outranked by a superior in the group.
And Dante is the alpha of all alphas, the don, and the one who I’m thinking of as I slide my fingers between my lower lips and rub my clit, caressing my breasts as I build to a crescendo and muffle my orgasm as I silently scream his name.
***
When I wake in the morning, I momentarily forget where I am. Then it comes back to me—I’m the princess locked away in the tower. I dress casually in a Milano silk blouse and designer jeans and those cute sneakers before making my way into the sitting room.
Everyone is quiet when I walk in. I look at my captors and I can’t read anything on their stoic and impassive faces, but I get the sense that something is going on.
We eat with little conversation. I sip my espresso, and then Dante tells me to pack as Flavio brings a large designer suitcase into my room.