“You’re a dick. Do you know that?” I ask.
He flicks his gaze to the mirror then looks away.
At least I got that out of him. For a split-second, I feel appeased. Then I fall right back into the terror that has become my life.
I try the door handle. It gives this time. I’d already tried it when the car had slowed a few times while making turns, but it was locked.
Stepping out, I trip over my dress and almost fall to my knees. I manage to grab onto the door frame to hold myself up. Once I manage to keep my balance, I reach down with my left arm and gather up the puffy skirt, then slam the car door as hard as I can.
The car eases away slowly, as if the driver is trying to show just how unbothered he is.
I look up at the house, the large trees at the corners giving it a dappled effect as the sun begins to lower along the horizon. A breeze wafts by, the first promise of fall in the air, and I look around. The drive is circular with an expanse of grass beyond it that ends in a straight row of bushes that nestle against the tree line. I can’t see anyone, but I feel eyes on me all the same.
I can either try to walk back down the driveway, sit on the steps and wait, or go into the house. None of those options sound particularly appealing. My heels are already chafing my toes, so walking out of here—already a laughable idea—isn’t going to happen. If I sit here, then what? I wait for my husband—my stomach turns as I think the word.
My husband. I glance down at the bloodstains on my dress that are now turning brown. Mateo Milani is a monster, one who has no qualms killing people in cold blood. At least I know I won’t be next. He won’t kill me. Not when he married me to get a link to the most famous mafia family on the eastern seaboard, maybe even the entire US. He wanted a Fontana, and now he has one. So, no, he won’t kill me. But that doesn’t mean he won’t hurt me. My fingers travel to my chin, feeling along the bruise my mother left. That’ll be nothing compared to what this man does to me. My knees go weak again, my bladder threatening to let loose as I turn to the house and stare up at it.
I have to go in. There’s nowhere else.
The two men standing at the courtyard doors don’t even look at me. Their assault rifles are slung across their backs as they chat quietly. It’s like I’m not here. Maybe I’m a ghost. Maybe my body lies right next to Horatio’s back at the cathedral. Or maybe that would have been preferable to what’s about to happen to me in this house.
Gathering what little courage I have, I hold my dress up and climb the few stairs to the wrought-iron doors. The men, saying nothing, open them for me.
I want to ask them where I am, what’s going to happen, if their master is home—but from the way they avoid my gaze, I know they’ll speak just as much as my driver did. Kicking my chin up despite my fear, I walk past them. One strides beside me and opens one of the wide wooden doors to the house. It’s dark inside. Far darker than it is out here.
Hesitating, I look up at the man. “Is … is he in there?” I ask, my voice sounding small and weak.
He doesn’t answer. My irritation flickers to life again, but quickly dies as I peer into the open door at the dimness beyond.
I can’t turn back. I have no doubt that if I tried to run, one of these assholes would catch me and drag me back. Probably still wouldn’t say anything to me, though.
Taking a deep breath, I walk forward, my toes aching and my ankles threatening to give as I step over the threshold.
The goon closes the door behind me, and I’m left alone, the house still and gloomy.
I open my mouth to call “hello” then close it just as fast. I don’t want to draw attention to myself. Keeping to the wall, I ease around the room, my eyes adjusting to the darkness as I go. It’s a foyer, the floor marble, and the walls a light gray—or perhaps that’s just because they’re mostly in shadow. Nothing special about this room, other than it’s emptiness. No guards. No sound except the click-clack of my heels.
I step out of one, then the other, my feet already feeling better when they touch the cold marble. A small groan of relief comes from me, but I swallow it down lest it carry.