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I neared him with cautious steps and squatted in front of him. He ran his hand through my hair, and I could see a darkness in his eyes that showed he hated my new hair. But I loved it. It felt like I’d begun my journey of cutting off my papa when Andrei chopped off half my hair. To him, he was punishing me, but to me, he’d given me a gift.
Papa’s dark eyes lingered on my hair for a while before he grabbed my chin, gently at first, like he always did to reward me when I obeyed his order like the good, obedient bitch he’d trained me to be. Then his grasp tightened, his rough arm digging into my skin. “Figlia mia.” My child. “You disobeyed me.”
My chest squeezed instantly, pressing my heart together as my blood ceased to pump. “It is not like that, Papa.” I hadn’t thought of an excuse, I hadn’t thought of anything, but then it wouldn’t matter what I told him, his ego would dominate any explanation I could muster to give him.
“Of course, it isn’t.” There was venom edging in his tone as he spoke, as if he was cursing me somewhere in his mind for not being a son who would inherit his bloody throne after him. Sometimes when Papa looked at me like that, I too felt regret for not being a son, but other times, I was glad I wouldn’t end up becoming the same monster he was. Because I was not a son, I was a daughter.
A daughter who will put an end to this bloody underworld of ours.
He removed his hand from my hair, grabbed his glass of whiskey, and stood up. “Entra.” Come in. The back door opened and servants rushed in with bowls and a kettle with steam pouring out of its stout. I flew to my feet, wanting to let the anger in my heart pour out as tears, but holding it back because I couldn’t afford to show any weakness.
My papa had an odd satisfaction whenever he was causing pain to someone else—I couldn’t give him that satisfaction, so I stiffly watched as the servants filled the bowls with water. I didn’t wait for him to tell me to step inside, I’d stopped waiting for him to ask when I was twelve.
Hotness raged against my feet as they met the water. A scream stalled in my throat and tears clouded my vision. Pain, there was pain in my feet, but somehow, it was nothing compared to the one in my heart. I clenched my fists, closed my eyes, and absorbed it all.
The water started to cool after ten minutes. I stepped out as per my papa’s instructions and waited for the servants to refill the bowl with another kettle of boiling water before stepping back in again.
The cycle continued for an hour before he decided I’d had enough punishment for the night. I glanced at the white clock hanging above the hearth. It was thirty minutes past eleven, almost midnight. I stepped out of the water with my feet sore and soft, as if they would peel off if I stepped on them with too much pressure, or maybe just melt like a candle. I remember that the first time he made me step into hot water, I’d cried so much and been in so much pain that I crawled up to my room afterward, and I could barely walk for weeks.
I was still in so much pain, but I’d grown tough enough that I could hide my pain inside and walk away without a single tear dropping.
“Adrienne,” he called out to me when I reached the staircase. I swiveled to face him, careful not to cause further damage to my cooked feet.
Remorse was an even worse enemy that never had a place in my father’s heart as only darkness gloomed in his eyes. “I signed a contract today.” He sipped his liquor. “You’re getting married.”
The world stilled and my pulse halted as I repeated my papa’s words in my head. You’re getting married.
Chapter 4 - Adrienne
The laughter from the foyer was poison to my ears. My papa had told me he’d signed me off like I was one of his properties, but what he’d not told me was who my soon-to-be husband would be.
I glanced at the ice bucket, arranged with bottles of unopened whiskey across from where I was seated on the table of our gold and black dining room, swallowing my saliva and trying to keep myself from stretching my hand, grabbing a bottle, and gulping the whole thing down. I was curious, almost desperate to meet my—I hate to say it—new owner. That was the only knot in my stomach that I wish would unknot itself. Knowing my papa, I’d actually be surprised if my future groom was a marriage prospect, but the deep old voice that came from the foyer said other otherwise.
A whirlwind swept my thoughts to the only place it had no business being, Andrei. Not that I liked him or anything serious, just that he was forty-two, which was almost twice my age. Yet he looked nothing like his age with dark, gelled hair that was brushed to the back, toned muscles that were visible beneath his suit—
My God, what was I thinking about?
Spiders crept up my spine—I had arachnophobia—as the voices in the foyer drew closer and closer till they filled the room. My jaw dropped to the ground as Mario Luigi stepped into the dining with my papa. He was my papa’s underboss, older than him by about six years. He has a son who was my senior by ten years. Maybe that was a good thing, maybe it was his son he wanted me to marry and not him. The chances of that were slim, but I was determined to hold onto the last thread of hope I could.
“Adrienne.”
I stood to welcome our guest, or my future husband, as my papa called my name. I put on my most polite-yet-pretentious smile with my hands threaded together and my stomach churning with anxiety.
Mario walked over to the table, took my hand, and placed the most disgusting kiss on it. “You’re just as beautiful as you’ve always been, my dear Adrienne.” He was still holding my hand and brushing it with his thumb as if he was trying to send a signal to the rest of my body.
I am going to puke. “Welcome to our home, Mario.” My facial muscles were tense. I feared my smile would break into a dragon-frown if I didn’t stay conscious of it.
“This home will not be your home very soon, cara mia.” His eyes rested on my cleavage. I was dressed in a green designer turtleneck and knit dress, nothing provocative, so I wondered why he was displaying such animalistic behavior. “Your home will be with me, in my mansion,” he boasted with a smile as if he’d achieved something huge. I guessed buying a prisoner was something huge to him, just like it was to every other man in our dark underworld.
Then his sentence became clearer than it was the first minute I heard it. “Your home will be with me, in my mansion.” I pulled my hand away from Mario and took two paces away from him. I glanced at my papa; his face was bright with a beaming smile.
“You’re to marry Mario in a month, ragazzina,” my papa said. “A date has been fixed.”
I moved back several paces again until my back hit the gold drape covering the white concrete walls of the old Paolo manor. “I won’t marry him.” The protest was out of my mouth before I could stop it.
“Yes you will, Adrienne,” my papa said firmly. “Now enough with the drama, let’s eat.”
“I will not marry him,” I repeated. It was louder and more violent that my first protest. My eyes began to sting and blood raced to my head, making me want to scream. “I will not marry this old fuck, Papa.”
