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My life became a cycle. Wake, eat, fuck, sleep—not always in that order. My day was dictated by Raniero’s schedule. And his schedule sometimes called for me to be in his bed.
Raniero’s room was the opposite of mine. It had a view that overlooked the lake. While my room was decorated with light-colored blankets and white walls, his room had dimmed lighting and dark furniture. He told me that complete darkness helped him sleep better.
On the nights that he called me to his room, he warned me that the house was alarmed and Sampson’s door was across the hall. “If he hears this door open, he’s been instructed to stop you. If you fail to comply, he’ll shoot you. Non-lethally, of course,” Raniero added with a smile. “I wouldn’t want the prize I worked so hard for to die.”
And by hard he meant that he’d started taking pictures of us and sharing them on social media. “It’s all part of the ruse, baby.” He claimed that the police had stopped looking for my kidnapper when the photos came out. “People said you’re notoriously hard to get ahold of anyway. I’ve had Sampson going to your place every few days and keeping up appearances. He stomps around, plays loud music, and I think he even brought a woman over once to fuck in your bed. But he had to,” Raniero clucked his tongue, “we needed your neighbors to think you were having rowdy sex. Your landlord sent you a warning a few days ago, actually. If you don’t keep it down, you might be evicted.”
For some reason, that angered me. Even though my apartment wasn’t the pinnacle of better living, it was still mine. Raniero could instruct Sampson to bring as much of my stuff as he wanted, but it didn’t make me feel any better.
“Everyone thinks you’re happy now, Calliope. So be happy.” Then he’d strip off my clothes, lick my pussy, and use my screams against me. By the end of the night, I’d be full of his cum and ashamed of myself for being turned on by this crazy, monster of a man.
He was a sweet man sometimes, but like Jekyll and Hyde, he’d flip a switch and become a tyrant. I couldn’t figure out if I was falling in love with him or plotting his death. Raniero Valenti was steadily ruining my life and all I could do about it was spread my legs and let him fuck me one more time.
One day I’d wake up and know what to do next. I just didn’t know when that day would come.
13
RANIERO
Four weeks and three days. That’s all it took for me to get here.
Calliope is curled up beside me, her ass pressed against my raging boner. I try to remain still so as to not wake her. She is breathtaking bathed in the soft morning light.
My brothers were right; I needed to fuck Calliope to break her. Sometimes I see a subversive look in her eyes when she sees an open door or thinks she might be able to escape, but she never runs. I know that she isn’t wholly mine yet, but we’re getting there.
Last night I told her that I loved her. Cock buried in her soaked pussy, I pressed my forehead to hers and whispered the words. She pretended not to hear, but I know she did.
I think I’ll make her breakfast this morning. A chorizo omelet with chipotle adobo salsa. A bowl of freshly picked and washed berries with a drizzle of sugar to bring out the juices. I’ll even hand-squeeze a glass of orange juice for her.
I hate to extract myself from the bed like this, but I think she’ll be much happier when I return with a homemade plate of food. I slip on a pair of boxers and head to the kitchen.
Grace is startled. She’s in the middle of her morning routine when I enter the kitchen whistling. She jumps a foot in the air and comes down with her fists up. She’s ready to throw punches.
“Calm down, Grace,” I hold up my hands apologetically. “It’s just me.”
“Mr. Valenti,” she breathes. Her hands come up to her chest as if she’s trying to soothe her racing heart. “You scared me!”
She chastises me like my mother used to and it brings a smile to my lips. Though I talk to my parents every Sunday night, I can’t deny that I miss them. I visit Italy twice a year—once in the summer and once during the holidays. They visit the states twice a year, usually a couple of months after my visits. The family gets together for a big Valenti family dinner and mother pries into our personal lives. She wants to know how we’re seeing, how serious it is, and if we’ll be getting married soon. Up until now, the five of us have always beat around the marriage bush, but I’ll have something to share at our next family reunion.
“I just want to make breakfast for Calliope. I didn’t mean to scare you, Grace.” But she’s already shaking her head and mumbling under her breath. She’s always a little standoffish when something unexpected happens.
I busy myself with cracking eggs and cooking meat. As everything cooks, I grab some berries from the fridge and toss them into a bowl. It’s all going as planned until Calliope appears in the kitchen door frame wearing one of my shirts as a dress. “Sorry to interrupt,” she raises her voice after a few moments, “I just wasn’t sure where you’d gone.”
Grace whispers a few words in Italian under her breath that sound suspiciously likegood heavens, they’re sleeping together.Then she pulls on a smile before announcing that she needs to go pick some herbs from the garden.
It’s odd to see her race away from an uncomfortable scene, but Grace doesn’t like to get involved in matters that don’t affect her. She’d rather bury herself in work than have to listen to me and the others engage in business talk. The less she knows, the better off she’ll be if the police ever come knocking.
“I’m making you breakfast,” I gesture toward the bowl of fruit. “I thought it would be nice if you woke up and had a hot meal.” My mother used to bring us breakfast in bed on our birthdays. I remember waking up at five in the morning, a year older than I was the day before, and waiting as patiently as I could for my mom to bring my favorite meal. There are some traditions of my youth that I want to continue.
Calliope takes a few tentative steps into the kitchen. “Thank you,” she says with a half-hearted smile. “That’s very nice of you.”
I want to tell her that she hasn’t seen anything yet. When everything settles down and she doesn’t look like she’s going to run the first chance she gets, she’ll see a whole new side of me. “Take a seat. I’m just finishing up the omelet now.”
There’s a small dining table in front of the window that seats no more than four. I used to use it most mornings when I didn’t have time for a format breakfast, but ever since Calliope arrived, we’ve been using the formal dining room. She grabs a seat and runs her hands over the tops of her thighs to smooth out the fabric of the shirt.
“I think you scandalized Grace,” I joke as I start delivering Calliope’s meal in parts. First, her fruit, then, the orange juice. She uses her fingers to pop a strawberry into her mouth as I return to the stove to check on the omelet.
“I wasn’t sure what else to wear,” she says with a blush. “I woke up and you weren’t there. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to go back to my room or what. I probably should have waited for you to return.” Calliope turns toward the window so I can’t see her face anymore. “I’m sorry I didn’t stay in your room.”
