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The kitchen door squeaks again as it swings closed. Everything is already on the table. The kippers. The tea. The bacon. The eggs. The toast in its ancient rack. Cook shouldn’t be back until it is time to clean up, and my father is only halfway through his breakfast.
He should know something is wrong. I know something is wrong.
Three men walk into the room. They are all wearing full face balaclavas and simple black suits. Two of them do nothing. One of them walks up behind my father and…
I was eating toast one moment. Now I am looking at brain material.
My father pitches forward, crashing onto a teacup which had been in our family since Queen Victoria.
The linen is ruined. His head is ruined. He’s gone, instantly, little flecks of him spread over the table setting. The toast falls from my hand.
The man who just killed my father looks down the length of the table, his eyes locking with mine.
“Your husband will be here soon. Go wait in your room.”
I get up from the table and fold my napkin the same way I have folded it for as long as I have been able, and I depart for my room. What I have just seen doesn’t feel real. It’s like my life was put on hold for a moment, suspended for some bizarre play.
There are two things I know:
My father is alive.
I’m not married.
And apparently, neither of them are true anymore.
Chapter 3
Tilly
I left my father’s body lying half on the breakfast table and I went and sat at the end of my bed, my hands folded in my lap. I haven’t moved since then. Was it an hour ago? A day ago? I don’t know. Time has stopped for me, and that single image is playing on my head on repeat.
“He’s here.”
I don’t know if that’s a thought, or if someone says that to me. What I do know is that I am no longer alone. A man is strolling into my room with the agile gait of a wildcat. He is older than I expected him to be. Late forties? Early fifties? There is salt in the pepper of his hair, a refined touch which makes him look dependable, though I am sure he is anything but.
He is handsome in a hard way. He looks as though he could have been a model in the 1970’s. That’s a very specific reference but it makes sense to my mind, because he’s too powerful a man to be a modern model. He has a refined brutality and a beautiful sense of style, but he’s old fashioned. I can tell that immediately.
“Hello, Matilda.”
When he speaks there is a slight accent to his voice, a touch of Sicily. It should warm his tone, but instead it adds to the many layers of menace which are wrapped around his elegantly dressed form.
“Tilly,” I say, automatically correcting him.
“Tilly,” he repeats. “Yes. It suits you better. I’ve come to take you home.”
I look up at him and I find myself bereft of all the questions a young woman should have when encountering her husband. I don’t know this man. I don’t know his name. I don’t know where he comes from, or where he is taking me. But I know there is a ruthlessness to his gaze, a darkness in his eyes which speaks to a man destroyed. Whatever lives inside him now is not civilized. It is all the wild parts of the human animal, and it has come to play with me.
I am in danger.
I am also far too scared to fight him.
So I sit there and I nod. I nod as if it is perfectly reasonable for a much older man to come and take me away from everything I have ever known. The men who killed my father told me that my husband was coming.
Is this my husband?
I don’t know what he wants with me. I don’t know what he’s going to do with me. I do know that I have no say or choice in any of it.
“I beat my boys when they are out of line. I will beat you too, if you deserve it.”
I swallow. “You have children?”
He lets out a laugh. “No,” he says. “I do not.”
Who are his boys? Then again, why should I care? That is the least of my concerns right now.
He reaches down and cups my chin, turning my gaze up to his intense brown stare. He’s really very handsome. The kind of handsome that only gets better and more imposing with age. He rubs his thumb over the skin of my cheek lightly.
“But you will behave yourself, won’t you? You’ll be a good girl for me.”
I will try my best to be whatever Angelo considers to be good. He terrifies me.
* * *
Angelo
There is something doll-like about her. Her wide blue eyes, her porcelain skin, the blonde curls ever so perfectly placed. But it is more than mere appearance. It is her stillness. She barely moves when she looks at me. Her eyes widen with fear, but she does not recoil. She sits perfectly, prettily still. Like a frightened rabbit, but one with a spine of steel.
