***
I need to get the hellout of my gilded prison. Now. The walls, elegantly appointed with vintage paper, are closing in on me. As is the million-dollar view from my balcony. Had I not been trapped here I could live on the balcony, watching the sunset every night, sipping on a glass of red wine, or enjoying my coffee while watching the sunrise.
This isn’t the case, though. Mortified that Stone witnessed my panic attack, I want to crawl under the covers and die. But dying won’t get me back to Mama. I have to believe she is okay, that Stone has taken care of her, or I’ll go insane.
I contemplate calling his bluff. He needs me, that much is obvious by his determination and the way he barks frustrated orders, and by the way I pissed him off when I refused his offer. Stone is a man used to being in control; getting what he wants.
Like my father.
The only ace I have is knowing how much he needs me for whatever plan he has concocted. I don’t even care why. It’s better that I don’t know the history between them. Judging by the wealth I am surrounded by Stone must be a business partner. Or former business partner.
Chills work their way up my arms. Is he part of the sex trafficking? Does he want to off Lorenzo so he’ll have more control of the innocent girls?
A band tightens around my chest and my breathing quickens. No. I can’t have another panic attack. I need to keep my focus, pretend I have myself under control in order to figure out how to handle Stone and whatever connection he has to Lorenzo.
I close my eyes and breathe in the sea breeze, a hint of salt and humidity in the air. I think about Mama and all we’ve been through in these past eight years.
The first year of living on the lam had been the hardest. I was filled with guilt over knowing what my father had done, learning about his sex trafficking yet not going to the authorities. Too many of them are on his payroll. Had I spoken with the wrong one, I’d surely be dead.
Mama had been one day away from death. I went into survival mode and trusted Sonny when he said he could get us away. It was either trust him or lose my mother, and eventually my life, anyway. Even if Lorenzo didn’t kill me, my life would have been over with the forced marriage to Antonio Rossi.
I wouldn’t have made it to our wedding night. I would have killed myself before giving myself to him.
Marrying Stone doesn’t scare me as much as marrying Antonio, which isn’t exactly comforting. I’m not one to fall for devilishly good looks. Well, maybe if he had a personality to go with them. But Stone has been nothing but arrogant, rude, and forceful.
Only, he made me eat a meal when I was obviously starving and dehydrated.
He’s keeping me prisoner, but gives me nothing but the best in accommodations, food, and clothing.
He picked me up off the floor and watched over me while I had a panic attack, then gave me water.
But he also demands I marry him and threatens to turn me over to my father if I don’t. Can he really be that cruel? My options are limited, but I won’t go down without a fight. I haven’t made it this far by quitting at every obstacle I stumble upon.
I take another deep breath, filling my lungs with the clean freshness of the air, which is incongruous to the stifling air I feel inside my room, especially when Stone is nearby.
I love the water. The Atlantic shores of Maine are so different from the Mediterranean. Not that we lived too close to the ocean during our short time in the northeast area of the United States. It was too expensive and more populated. Our little cabin in northern Maine was nestled near a beautiful, peaceful pond.
It was the perfect place to hide out for our first year, but jobs were limited. Fearing Lorenzo would find us if we stayed in the same place for too long, I drove south until I came across a diner in Tennessee that was hiring. Our four years in the south were wonderful as well. Mama had gotten better and had fewer relapses, but missed the ocean and the vineyards, which prompted me to drive west.
We adapted to American life, and I worked hard to drop my Italian accent. All we wanted was to fit in and be safe. To lead a normal, peaceful life.
I lean my elbows on the railing and scan the cliffs below the house. To the left is the edge of a vineyard. I recognize the vines, the heavy branches full of grapes ready to be picked.
Does Stone use his vineyard as a cover for sex trafficking as well? Any serenity I find in the ocean and the vines dissipates. Marching back into my room, I toss clothes around in the closet and drawers until I find another pair of leggings and a tank top. The fabric is too soft to be worn for a workout.
Was it only eight years ago that I wore only the most expensive designers? At the time, I hadn’t thought myself to be materialistic. It was all I knew. Lorenzo never let me venture far without his security detail. The only places I was allowed to shop didn’t have price tags on their clothes and would close to the public when Mama and I visited. It was my norm. What I grew up with.
It wasn’t until I grew up overnight that I realized the importance of a dollar, and how little a name on the label means. All I want right now is a comfortable oversized sweatshirt. All I find are tight-fitting long-sleeved tops.
I tug on a designer top and stomp across the carpet to the bathroom. “Gah!” My reflection nearly gives me a heart attack. I don’t know how some women go to bed with wet hair and wake up not looking like they lived through a tsunami.
As tempted as I am to jump in the shower again, I really don’t care what I look like. I’m not here to impress Stone whatever-his-name-is. I search through the drawers until I find a hair tie and slip it around my wrist, then work at the rat’s nest in my hair.
As soon as I loop my hair into a messy bun, I hear someone enter my room. No, not someone. Stone. I can sense his presence without him speaking a word. I don’t rush out. I don’t even acknowledge I know he is in my room.
I rummage through the drawers again, not looking for anything in particular, partly to stall, partly because I know it will piss him off. I don’t want to make myself look or smell good, but I don’t know what else to do. Picking up the elegant bottle of lotion, I pump some into my palm and massage it into my hands.
Bringing my hands to my face, I inhale the sweet smell of Plumeria and rub the extra on my neck. The next drawer contains a skin care line I don’t recognize. By the looks of the black bottles and fancy gold lettering, I figure it must be some high-end European cosmetics company.