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He nods before slipping back out of the door. This is my fifth date with Nicole Santangelo. Each time we have met at a restaurant and she has been accompanied by a chaperone, who has sat a discreet enough distance away for us to talk in private, but who has kept a watchful eye on his charge the entire time. Her father does not want his innocent young daughter sullied before she becomes a bride. Not that I particularly mind that. I have no desire to sully her in any way. She’s not my type. Sure, she’s pretty. She plays her part well. Impeccable manners. A small polite laugh when the occasion calls for it. She’s a perfectly programmed robot.
Except that I have been reading people’s body language for as long as I could talk. And Nicole Santangelo has a secret. So tonight, I have insisted she have dinner at my home and she won’t be leaving here until I find out what it is.
A few seconds later, she and her bodyguard, Vito, are shown into the room. She smiles politely.
As soon as she is seated, I turn to Vito. “Leave us.”
She gasps and he blinks at me. “I can’t, Mr. Moretti.”
“It’s not a request, Vito. Leave of your own free will or be carried out of here. It’s your choice.”
He looks at Nicole and frowns. From what I understand, the old guy has been her bodyguard since she was a child. He’s worried I’ll take advantage of her.
“Her virtue is safe with me. I can assure you of that,” I tell him.
“It’s okay, Vito,” she says softly.
“You can wait in the kitchen,” I add.
He looks between Nicole and I, weighing up his options and realizing he only has one. “Just holler if you need me, Nicole,” he says before he leaves the room and closes the door behind him.
She looks down at the table setting rather than at me.
“Wine?” I ask.
“Please. Just a small one,” she replies with her practiced, polite smile.
I pour us each a glass and then I watch her. I spend a lot of these dates watching her — studying her. Adding up all of the small things that make up the bigger picture. The occasional wince when she sits or moves too quickly. Her differing appearance. Today she wears make-up. It’s thick and heavy and it hides her flawless skin. I know her skin is flawless because on our second and fourth dates she wore none at all. She wears a high-necked blouse today that would look more fitting on sixty-year old college professor than a nineteen year old woman. It’s a little too big, which tells me it’s not hers.
She is hiding something.
“Take off the clothes, Nicole,” I order.
“W-what?” she stammers.
“I said, take off the clothes.”
Her cheeks turn pink. Her mouth opens and closes before she regains her composure. “No.”
I push myself up from my chair, and she flinches as I tower over her. “Take off the fucking clothes before I take them off for you. And you can holler all you want for old Vito to come rescue you, but I can assure you nobody will walk through that door.”
“B-but you said… you don’t even like me,” she stammers, confused and fearful.
“I’m not going to fuck you,” I assure her.
“S-so, why?”
“Just do it. I won’t ask you again.”
Tears fill her eyes. She pushes herself back from the table and stands. With trembling hands, she pulls the blouse from her jeans and starts to tug it off over her head.
As I expected, her torso is covered in bruises. Some fresh purple ones on her right side and some faint yellow ones on her left. There’s a large bite on her left breast, peeking out from her bra. She keeps her eyes downcast as she unbuttons her jeans and pushes them over her hips.
“Just to your knees is fine,” I tell her.
She nods almost imperceptibly as she follows my instruction. The tops of her thighs are covered with fingertip bruises and similar bite marks to the one on her breast.
Her chest heaves with the effort and the humiliation as she stands there allowing me to inspect her abused body.
