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Rarely do I ever let myself think about Giovanni and our relationship. Doing so only takes me down a nostalgic road of the good times and puts thoughts in my head about how much I miss him. My heart starts aching, and next thing I know, I’m considering going back to him. I’m still in love with him, even now.
It would be so easy…
Luckily, the bad memories tend to follow, and I remind myself why I left in the first place. I can’t go back if I want to live. I won’t make it. Giovanni hasn’t changed who he is and what he wants. I can’t stand the control, and I won’t ever be able to give him the heir for his throne. We would have the same problems all over again. Probably worse, as I don’t see him letting me escape his clutches again.
He’d probably put a tracking device on me next.
These are the things I tell myself to keep my resolve. I used to appreciate the lengths Giovanni would go to in order to make me his. Now that I’ve experienced the true reality of what that entails, I can’t return to feeling used, controlled, and suffocated. This is for the best.
After I put away the groceries, I spend the rest of the evening sitting near the window with a book I’ve read twice in the last month. The book is mostly a distraction to keep myself from peeking too much out the window. I limit myself to one every thirty minutes.
When night falls, I make a quick and light stir fry for dinner and then return to my post. My eyes grow itchy by midnight. Silence has fallen over the narrow, deserted street outside. I peel the curtain back one last time before lights out.
Nothing unusual.
It takes me a long time to make it to bed. I have a checklist of things to do, like check the locks on the door and every window. I strategically place my traps for any potential intruders and drag my baseball bat and a kitchen knife with me to my bedroom.
For once, I drift off within minutes of my head touching the pillow. Sleep is dreamless these days, just a blank space in the timeline of my memory. The next time I open my eyes, I spring up in bed under the immediate assumption that my body naturally woke me up.
I’m wrong.
One of the locks in my front door clicks and then the door itself creaks open. Cold sweat slicks over my skin within a split second of hearing the ominous sound. I sit still for a moment longer and listen to heavy footsteps pad into my flat. Whoever it is misses the mousetrap by the door, because it doesn’t go off and snap.
Shit!Someone has broken into my flat.
I force a shaky breath into my lungs and push myself to move. I’ve already wasted too much time. The footsteps continue down the hall, tripping over the tin cans I’ve set up around the corner. The crash is loud enough to trip him up for a few seconds and serves as a failsafe to alert me to the presence of someone else had I still been sleeping.
I grab the knife under my pillow and slide out of bed. The door opens and the light from the hall filters into the room.
My intruder lingers in the open doorway. He wears all black and a ski mask obscuring his face. His bulky and muscly build is that of a gym rat, and he stands at what seems only five or six inches taller than me.
Whothe hell is this?
Could this be one of Giovanni’s enemies? It’s occurred to me somebody like that would potentially hunt me down. Giovanni’s in no short supply of them. He’s only made more during his time as Don of the Sorrentino family. As his wife, I’m obviously a huge target.
The man peers into my shadowy room, trying to locate me. I’m under the bed, holding my breath, waiting for the right moment.
His boots thud against my wooden floorboards as he steps deeper into the room. My hand shakes holding the knife, but I will it to stop. I can’t back down now. I’m going to have to fight my way through this. I go into survival mode like I’ve readied myself for over the past few weeks.
The instant he’s within reach, I snap forward and stab the knife into his ankle. His howl fills my silent flat. He stumbles in pain as I rush from under the bed and toward the door, fast like a small squirrel.
The stab wound doesn’t take the mystery man down as long as I’d hoped. He beats me to the door. His palms slam it shut before he whirls around to face me. As he lunges for me, I dive out of the way. He advances again and I slash at him, slicing the air, but demonstrating I will stab him the second he’s within reach.
After a dangerously close call with the blunt end of my bloodied blade, he hesitates a second. I take the opening as a chance to strike. It’s a mistake on my part. He grabs hold of my arm as I swipe at him and then uses brute strength to swing me off my feet. He does so with relative ease. My body is airborne for a second before I collide with the ground. The knife flies out of my grasp and disappears under my bed.
I’m almost taken out by the harsh collision with the floor. I groan as my body throbs, but I can’t afford to wallow in pain. I have to keep going. He hobbles forward to seize me by my legs. I elude him and kick as hard as I can at his groin area.
“BITCH!” he yells.
I’m up on my feet and running. I’ve memorized the layout of my flat in total darkness. Traps included. I jump over the scattered tin cans and spin around the corner of my short hallway. His heavy footsteps thunder after me, ankle wound and dick pain and all.
My scalp prickles in pain as he tangles his fist in my curls and yanks me backward. I grab hold of the only thing within reach—an aerosol spray can of cherry blossom air freshener that I keep on a nearby console table. He’s tightened his hold on me when I twist around and empty the can in his face. The ski mask can’t protect him. His eyes are uncovered. He screams in pure agony as the chemical particles burn his eyes.
I bash him in the face with the can for good measure once it’s empty. Then I take off and run like hell. I reach the door after avoiding the mousetrap and start on the many locks. I should have this down quicker. My heart pounds inside my ribcage as nerves spasm inside my stomach and I fumble with the latch.
The damn thing jams in the slider and I have to jerk it hard to get it unstuck.
It’s my undoing. His fingers dig into my curls a second time and I’m spun around. He strikes me in the face. It’s a barbaric hit designed for a man. The hardest I’ve ever been hit in my life. That includes the times Enzo put his hands on me.
