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He’d only kicked me once. The wall took the brunt of his remaining anger. Again like my father, he’d used the tactic to terrify me, making me wonder whether the next strike would hit it or me.
When I took another step back on the cold, concrete floor, my legs came in contact with the bed. I folded my arms over my hardened nipples caused by the chill of the room. It was kept at a maximum of fifteen degrees Celsius, and theonlything I was permitted to wear—regardless of whether it was day or night—was a skimpy strapless silk sleeping gown.
My gaze shifted to the doorless lavatory where Moretti spent exactly two minutes each evening methodically washing his hands. The amount of time was integral to my plan.
Once the camera’s red light dimmed, Moretti would walk in behind the person delivering our food. After she left, he would use the remote in his pocket to lock the door, then he’d step into the lavatory. I’d stand—or kneel if he demanded me to—facing his direction.
While he used the toilet—the only time his back would be turned—I’d slip the contents of the syringe into the soup that was always served as our first course. Then, before he returned to the bedroom, I’d drop the empty vial onto the floor and use my foot to scoot it under the bed far enough that he wouldn’t spot it.
When he returned to the room, his eyes would trail up and down my body. He’d smirk and call me a whore, reminding me of the way I used to come on to him.
Shortly after we first arrived in Milan, he’d made suggestive remarks, leading me to think I was desirable, but he didn’t once lay a hand on me in the way I’d hoped he would.
I was disgusted thinking back on how I’d done everything I could to entice him into bed. It had become a game, one I didn’t realize the ramifications of until it was far too late.
I’d played right into his hands, hands he’d eventually use to punch me. Again, he was smart enough not to leave a mark where it could be seen, and adept at making it hurt so bad I’d cower rather than do anything to raise his ire.
Moretti also belittled me, saying he’d been mistaken when he promised to get me on the runway during fashion week. I wasn’t ready, he’d said. I was clumsy, fat, and unsophisticated. He was too embarrassed to make the introductions he’d promised to. Instead, he said he’d train me. See if he could get me ready for the next season. If he couldn’t, I’d be sent home.
The first time he called me a whore, I discovered his threat to return me to Shere was idle. When I told him I was leaving, he’d grabbed me by the hair, spat in my face, and laughed, saying I got exactly what I’d wanted. I’d never see my home or family again. It was the first night I’d spent shackled to a bed. The first night I realized I was a prisoner. And while I was a woman to be trained, it wasn’t to be a fashion model. It was for something far more sinister.
My breath caught,and I was jarred from the memory when the red light turned off and the door swung open. Moretti stalked into the room and over to where I waited once the table containing our food was wheeled in.
When he grabbed my hair by the scruff of my neck since he’d routinely chopped off its length, I feared my plan wasn’t going to work. Instead of washing his hands, maybe he intended to beat me. In which case, the syringe I was clutching between my thighs would fall to the floor, and he’d be on to me.
“This will be gone in the morning,puttana,” he sneered, gripping my hair tighter. I pressed my thighs together, praying the syringe wouldn’t fall.
And then, he released me. “On your knees, whore,” he said, not bothering to wait to see if I followed his instruction. He knew I would. He’d trained me to.
I lowered myself as gracefully as I could, this time releasing my hold on the syringe. When it fell to the floor between my legs, I reached behind me and, while he relieved himself in the toilet, used those few seconds to empty its contents into one of the two cups of soup.
I tossed the empty vial under the bed and lowered my gaze to the floor. I heard his movement and pictured him turning from the toilet to the sink, but I didn’t hear the faucet.
Had he somehow seen what I’d done? Was it the trap I’d feared it might be? Again, if he intended to punish me, I only hoped it would be enough to kill me.
I exhaled a sigh of relief when the flow of water met my ears, and waited for his return to the table.
“Get off the fucking floor,stronza,” he barked, like he did every night, calling me the Italian equivalent of an asshole even though he’d been the one to order me to my knees. Once in my chair, though, he expected me to forget every vile thing he’d said since he walked into the room, then to behave like the perfect dining companion, albeit one who did not sip her drink or take a bite of her food until he nodded, indicating I was permitted to. Nor could I speak until he asked a direct question.
When he reached for the soup closest to me rather than the one nearer to him, I inwardly breathed a second sigh of relief. Had he not, my plan would’ve failed. However, I’d been prepared to feign illness to cover the fact I’d soon be unable to keep my eyes open. Yes, I would’ve been beaten for it, but the idea that, in under an hour, I might be able to escape the confines of this room made it worth it.
Time dragged as I mindlessly watched Moretti dip the spoon into the bowl, slowly stirring it to release the soup’s heat. He leisurely brought it to his lips, then returned the spoon to the saucer under the bowl in the same way I was expected to. Part of my training had been to lower my dining utensils between every bite and never finish all the food I was served. Otherwise, I’d look exactly like ascrofa, as he called me—a pig.
Thankfully, Moretti was quiet as he consumed his first course. I doubted I could’ve made conversation while waiting for the exact moment when he realized what I’d done and knew that, within seconds, he would be rendered unconscious, falling into the same deep sleep I did every night.
It was imperative I acted swiftly when it happened. While a loud crash wouldn’t send someone running, given it would likely mean Moretti had struck me for some infraction, I still needed to make use of every second to get out.
I’d expected him to realize what was happening once the drug affected him. Instead, I watched it hit him so suddenly it was almost as if he’d fainted.
I jumped from my chair as his body hit the floor, pulled the remote from his pocket, and unlocked the door. I eased it open to peek outside. Had someone been posted in the hallway, I would’ve cried for help, saying something had happened to Mr. Moretti.
However, I didn’t see a single soul as I raised the thin floor-length silk gown I was forced to wear to my knees and raced out of the room. I knew from looking out the barred windows that I was on the second floor.
There was a door at the end of the hallway. I ran toward it and put my hand on the knob, praying it would turn. It did and opened to a stairwell. I ran down the steps, cool on my bare feet. When I reached the bottom, I could hear voices. They sounded far enough away I chanced easing open another door. I nearly wept when I saw it led outside.
I gasped when the oppressive humidity and warm air hit my lungs at the same time I stepped on something sharp and stumbled to the ground. I picked myself up and glanced behind me, relieved to see that, so far, no one was in pursuit.
Once on my feet, I raced in the direction of a wooded area. I ran into the trees and saw a wall a few steps in front of me too high to scale. I crept as fast as I could along the brick edifice, ignoring the pain of the cuts and scrapes on my feet from the heavy brush beneath them and praying I’d come to a gate or some other kind of opening. I’d gotten a little farther when what I heard filled me with terror—the shouts of angry male voices and the growl of barking dogs. I’d been discovered.
