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I sit up properly and study the tray. At least the sandwich snack is light—given the hour, I don’t want to try and force a big meal. I’m a morning person. I’m usually up and eating breakfast only a few hours from now.
Whatisnormal anymore? A little voice in my head pipes up—the one that always leads me down the wrong garden path when I listen to it.
What if he’s actually telling the truth?
Surely not.
I mean, I’ve heard of the Carlotti family, of course, and what happened to them. I think there may even have been a television miniseries made at one point. Anyone who grew up in this city knows at least something of the crime lord families who run things from the shadows.
But there’s nothing in my history to hint that I’m the one who got away. The baby who, it was rumored, was either thrown into the river and drowned, or spirited away by the nanny before the rest of the family was murdered at a dinner party. It all depended on who was telling the story as to what was said.
I always liked the idea of the baby being rescued. That version speaks to my own start in life.
So, it’s possible, the inner voice goads.
I was six months old when I was handed in to a church-run adoption agency in South Boston.
Sickness fills my gut, yet again, but this time I ignore it and shove pieces of peanut butter sandwich into my mouth, feeling wilful enough to glare at the older woman while I do so.
She rolls her eyes and her mouth thins, but at least she remains quiet until I finish.
I don’t want to admit that I feel less nauseous once I’ve eaten. Instead, I just grab the mug of tea off the tray and cup my hands around its welcome warmth, turning away to stare toward the fake flames in the fireplace so I don’t have to see her judgmental face anymore.
A few minutes later, she departs, and I release a sigh of relief.
If only the rest of this situation was so easily resolved.
Problem is, with Rio and the people he surrounds himself with, my death may be the only way out of this completely fucked-up scenario.
* * *
Rio
I almost manageto convince myself that I’m checking in on Bianca because she is valuable merchandise.
But there’s no need for me to do this. I have staff for menial jobs, and a check-in on Bianca should be menial.
There is something about her that draws me in though. Something I don’t wish to name.
She has changed into the pajama set that was left out for her while we were down in the club. An ivory-colored nightgown that finishes just above the knees, with some kind of over jacket that does nothing to hide the jut of her nipples beneath the satin fabric.
I rake my gaze over her body, and I’m not sure she even realizes that her protective gesture of folding her arms across her middle actually highlights rather than disguises her delicate curves.
She’s very slim, nothing like the generously curvaceous women I enjoy in my bed. There is nothing in her to warrant the curl of lust that runs through me; nothing to ignite interest to the point that I can’t seem to keep away.
I force myself to consider her with an impartial view. At least she ate the snack I sent up. The housekeeper informed me of that a half hour ago.
But that seems to be the extent of her cooperation. Right now, her eyes breathe fire, and her whole body shakes as she faces me.
“I want to make it clear, Rio. I will never agree to marry you. Not for any reason. You’re a monster.” She sucks in a breath on that last word, as if afraid she has just gone too far.
With anyone else, it would have been.
I step in close, making sure she reads the truth in my expression. “Iama monster. You should never forget that.”
I reach out to touch her cheek, tracing the delicate bone structure and wondering if she will ever be strong enough to live this life I have mapped out for her. She feels so warm and soft. I drop my hand from her fragile features and turn away. If I don’t, I’m not sure what I may do.
“You will marry me.”
