I’m talking about the basement. I’ve been wondering what it looks like ever since Rafaelle told me about the sex dungeon hidden down there. Plus, I have a feeling it’s also where he tortures people. Call it morbid curiosity, but I would very much like to see what it looks like.
“No. Only Mr. Vitale can grant access to the basement. No one is allowed down there without his permission.”
“Right, yeah,” I say in understanding.
I’d been expecting that. Ira leaves me alone to my thoughts once again. Only now, Rafaelle is front and center, his face, hisactions, everything about him dominating my mind. I really need to stop thinking about him so much. But he’s like a plague, spreading and festering without my permission.
After I eat dinner, I decide to take a breather and leave the room. I grab a sweater from the rack of clothes that were delivered to me yesterday. It’s totally overkill, the clothes are so fancy and there’s enough designer in there that my body itches at the thought of how much it must all cost.
I hum softly at the soft feel of the sweater on my body, buttoning it up quickly before slipping out of the room. No one stops me as I walk through the hallways.
Eventually, I end up outside at the gardens, taking a seat on the bench. It’s so silent here. And peaceful.
The moon hangs high above in the sky, bathing everything in a sliver light while a cool breeze drifts through the trees. I tilt my head back, staring up at it for a moment and allowing myself to exist. Clearing my mind of all the problems that plague me. I take in a soft breath and try to bat it all away for a second.
My little baby girl that’s probably wondering where her mother is. Revelations about cartel fathers. Infuriatingly attractive mafia men.
It’s just me and the night. But unfortunately the peace doesn’t last.
Eventually boredom wins and I get to my feet, turning to head back to the house.
It’s so big that I don’t think I’ve seen up to half of it. Endless hallways stretch in every direction, lined with artwork worth more than I would probably earn in my life. Every room I pass is much larger than the entirety of my former apartment in the city.
It’s absurd. Who even needs this much space?
My footsteps echo softly against polished floors as I wandered aimlessly through the lower levels before eventually making my way upstairs. Then higher, and higher, until I find myself on the third floor. It’s more private here, feels different in a sense.
I’m studying the dark wood walls and expensive décor when the sounds of footsteps reaches my ears. I freeze instinctively. And without any real reason, I quickly dart behind one of the decorative columns lining the hallway.
The second I’m hidden, I question my own sanity.
What am I doing?
Ira said I could look around the house. No one said I couldn’t come up here. And yet, my feet remain rooted in place.
The footsteps grow closer. Then a familiar figure rounds the corner. Rafaelle.
My stomach immediately betrays me, a small flutter rising at the sight of him. My first thought is that he looks exhausted. His dark hair is slightly disheveled and his sleeves are rolled up to reveal tattooed forearms. There are shadows beneath his eyes even worse than they had been yesterday.
He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.
A strange ache settles in my chest as I remember he told me eighteen months ago that he doesn’t sleep much. I thought he was just being a creep and exaggerating. But looking at him now, it’s clear he must suffer from some form of insomnia.
Rafaelle reaches a door near the end of the hallway and pauses. I lurch backwards as he turns around, my heart pounding in my chest.
This is ridiculous.
The sound of the door clicking shut behind him echoes through the hallway and then silence returns. I remain hidden for a minute or two before I head back to my bedroom, my thoughts still on the man in the floor above me.
In my bedroom, I keep replaying the brief glimpse of him I’d caught. I know I should stop but curiosity has always been one of my worst qualities and I can’t help but wonder what could be keeping him from sleep.
Thirty minutes later, I’m standing outside his bedroom door. Again.
I stare at the handle. This is a bad idea. A really, really bad one.
If he catches me sneaking into his room, I’ll never hear the end of it. The thought should send me running back downstairs. Instead, I gently push the door open.
The door clicks softly behind me as I slip inside. The curtains of the room are drawn shut, leaving only a small lamplight on the table beside the bed. For a moment I simply look around.
