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With his eyes on me, Marcello sat in the armchair by the window, a black wingtip rested on his knee. We sat in silence, which suited me fine. I had nothing to say to his grumpy ass. Not after he locked me in my bedroom.
After I finished eating, he got up from the chair and moved the tray to the writing desk. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”
“Yes.”
Marcello lifted me in his arms, like I was damn baby, crushing me against his chest.
“I can walk,” I protested. “You don’t have to carry me.”
He acted as if he hadn’t heard me, focused on the door he shoved open with his foot. We entered the ensuite bathroom, and he set my feet down on the cold tiled floor.
“I’m not peeing with you in here,” I mumbled, sleep clouding my rough and scratchy voice. “Get out.”
The room swayed in front of me. A flash of colors and lights blurred my vision as a sharp pain pierced my skull.
I pressed my fingers to my temple. “I don’t feel good.”
My head pounded like a jackhammer drilling into cement.Not a migraine, I thought as Marcello turned his back to give me some privacy. Sometimes the headaches were so bad I threw up for hours. Other times I had fucked up flashbacks and nightmares that made it impossible to tell the difference between fact and fiction.
What happened earlier?
Part of my memory was gone. I remembered being on the balcony with Marcello, falling over the edge, and then nothing.
I slid my panties down and sat on the toilet, humiliated with Marcello standing a few feet away. But with the room slipping out from under me, I didn’t care as much. I wiped, pulled up my panties, and flushed the toilet before a wave of nausea hit me like a ton of bricks.
Clutching the edge of the sink, I stared into the mirror, seeing two of myself. My reflection on the left gave me a devilish grin. The one on the right blew me a kiss.
What the fuck?
My mind played tricks on me. I should have been able to trust myself above anyone else. But when my dissociative episodes spiraled out of control, I was helpless.
Like right now.
Then I thought about the tea and the toast and wondered if Marcello drugged me.
“What did you…”
As I lost my balance, Marcello scooped me into his arms and whispered, “I got you, princess.”
After Marcello drugged me, that bastard left me locked in my bedroom for days. A man with guns strapped to his chest delivered my meals. He looked even scarier than the Salvatores, so I didn’t bother fucking with him.
They dosed every other meal with strong medicine that knocked me on my ass. I felt like I was at the Ritz Carlton version of the Haven Asylum, without the doctors, pill pushing nurses, and group therapy sessions.
While I was sleeping last night, someone left art supplies in my room. If I had to guess, it was Marcello throwing me a bone, so I didn’t lose my mind.
I laid on the floor of my bedroom, my fingers wrapped around a rigger brush. Making slow, sweeping movements, I painted my next piece. My solo show was in one month. A legit exhibition at the Blackwell Gallery in SoHo. Luca thought he could bribe me into marrying him. So far, he wasn’t even a close second.
I painted a man with murderous eyes, his horns sticking up from his thick, dark hair. Smoke and falling ash surrounded his head as if he’d stepped out of Hell. He wore a fitted suit that outlined his strong shoulders, the definition in his arms. It could have been any of the Salvatores.
As the sun was about to set, Marcello unlocked my door. He stood in the entryway with his hands on his hips, pushing his suit jacket to the side to reveal two guns holstered to his chest.
Still mad at him, I turned away and went back to my painting. I saw his shiny black dress shoes before I looked up at all six feet four inches of him. His muscles bulged beneath the fabric stretched across his thick chest. Black messy waves fell onto his forehead. And when he pushed them away from his face, my mouth watered liked I’d been walking in the desert for months, desperate for a drink.
Marcello stared down at the canvas with a rare smile, acting as if he wasn’t treating me like a prisoner. “You’ve been busy.”
“There’s not much for me to do in my cell,warden.”
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and sighed. “Alex, this was for your own good. You needed your meds. I checked with your doctor. You haven’t refilled the prescription in three months.”
