I tug my cell from my crossbody bag, swiping away two further purposefully missed calls before re-reading today’s latest furious text message from my Lord and master.
Nico: You’ll pay dearly for disobeying me, mia piccola puttana.
One of the few Italian phrases I’d been allowed to learn over the years.
My little whore.
And that’s exactly what I’d become in the four years since I’d been pretty much sold to the mob to cover the misdemeanors of my family. My father had never again broached the subject with me, and even on the two separate occasions I’d bumped into Evan, he’d just ignored me entirely.
If it hadn’t been for Skye, I’d have no family at all.
It cemented the fact that they meant nothing to me, and I meant less to them.
Life with Nico had started out okay, I guess. I got out of South Brook and away from my parents. Away from the life I’d been stifled by.
An elaborate penthouse in the city. All my classes were paid for. My wardrobe was filled with only high-end haute couturefashion. I was at one event or another with Nico every night of the week.
And the sex was liberating. In a way that I’d never thought possible.
Until I realized that it wasn’t.
Because I’d exchanged one jailor for another far worse one.
I don’t even allow myself to recall the full extent of what happened the first time I did something Nico didn’t explicitly approve of. I only remember waking up in the hospital.
My reason for being there is…hazy.
My heart rate kicks up when I press my cell onto the paving beneath me, closing my eyes tight as I mentally slam a lid onto the Pandora’s Box deep inside my head where memories Ican’trelive dwell.
When I’d tried visiting a therapist to work through the trauma, she’d told me that my mind had locked that entire weekend away, almost like an ingrained safety mechanism. She’d been more than willing to help me work through it, but I’d not returned to my next session.
Even though I give off the impression of strength, it’s all a façade. The simple truth is, I don’t know if I’ll ever be strong enough to go there.
The physical scars are enough of a reminder that I don’t need the mental ones to match.
“Mi scusi, signorina?”
A man’s voice interrupts my recollections, and I swallow heavily before lifting my eyes.
“Sei seduto al mio posto, signorina.”
With an apologetic shrug, I rattle off the only Italian I have. “Non parlo Italiano.”
The elderly man scrunches his brow, stepping closer into my personal space and making me scoot back along the seafront.
“Sei seduto al mio posto. Moviti!”
“I’m sorry.” I press my hands together in a pleading motion, sensing the man’s agitation rising. “I don’t speak Italian.”
Shaking my head helplessly, I raise my voice to enunciate each word as though he’s hard of hearing.
“Non parlo Italiano.”
I glance over my shoulder, seeking aid as the man begins to spew more Italian at me, looming over me with red, angry splotches on his cheeks as his hands gesticulate wildly.
Another man joins him, and I move to stand but can’t, realizing they’ve boxed me in, and the only place for me to go is down into the waters of the lake.
As panic fills my chest, a tall, imposing shadow blocks the sun, and a voice like warm molasses washes over me. I don’t understand a word that the newcomer utters in his lilting Italian, but shortly, both men are chuckling before moving off in the direction they’d come.
