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His gaze drops to my exposed body, then abruptly he turns and leaves.
Well, so much for using sex to sell my message.
I flop back against the pillows, fighting the urge to scream my frustration out loud. Once again, I’ve been left to face the dawning of yet another day as Rio’s wife. Alone.
And with no solution as to how to escape this crazy and intolerable situation.
17
“In the truest sense, freedom cannot be bestowed; it must be achieved.”
Franklin D. Roosevelt
Bianca
Later that morning,when Francine arrives with a pot of coffee and a blueberry muffin—I had mentioned to Rio one night that I love blueberries—there’s a surprise waiting on the breakfast serving tray alongside the coffeepot and food.
A folded newspaper.
My first communication—of sorts—with the world outside this isolated compound.
I snatch it up before noting the date is from a week or so ago. My heart sinks. Old news it is, then. Though even that is better than nothing.
Francine must see my disappointment because she suddenly speaks up. “He thought you might like to see this edition in particular. Page five.”
I dutifully open the paper to the page she indicates and can’t help the gasp that escapes. There’s a massive photo of Rio and me at our wedding. It looks to have been taken after the ceremony just as we exited the chapel. My arm is draped through the crook of his elbow, my hand resting on his forearm, and his other hand covers mine. He is staring down at me with the faintest hint of a quizzical smile on his lips.
Heat fills my cheeks as I study the besotted look I’m giving him in return. Even then, my desire for him must have been obvious to everyone around us. My desire, and a sort of fiery passion that could be interpreted a number of different ways by people who don’t know me.
Anger. Impatience. Desperation to get through the festivities and take my new husband to bed. Any one of them could apply, even thoughIknow it was rage at the circumstances that fueled my system that day.
God, I don’t even look likemein this photo. I glance at my reflection in the mirror above the fireplace in the sitting area.
I don’t look like the old me at all anymore.
I look like a Mafia wife. Polished and elegant and with an almost hidden passion burning just below the surface, darkening my eyes and lifting my chin in defiance.
Dismay kicks me in the gut as I realize everyone from my old life will likely have seen this photo and read the accompanying article that takes up most of the page. The journalist must have been primed by Rio’s people. Of course he would have been. That’s how it works in this world.
The article talks about my discovery of my true heritage, and hints that Rio kindly helped me navigate the path to becoming Bianca Carlotti. It states that we instantly fell in love and into a whirlwind courtship that ended in our marriage. It concluded that the uniting of two great Boston-area families can only mean great things for this city and the region.
Fuck. Me.
I throw the newspaper into the fireplace, anger seething within me as I watch the paper burn.
No mention of the truth. Of the fact that he kidnapped me at gunpoint. That his goonsshotmy friends. That they hit me in the face, stuffed me in the trunk of a car, and that heforcedme to marry him by threatening to hurt people I care about.
Has he forgotten all of that? Is he simply a psychopath who rewrites reality to suit his own warped version of the truth?
Ihaven’t forgotten. And I never will.
Francine grunts and shakes her head as we both watch the newspaper burn. There is censure in her gaze when I turn away from the flames.
Too fucking bad. She’s as awful as he is. I raise my chin and glare at her, daring her to say something about the article.
Instead, she says, “He wants you ready for a meeting at eleven. You have papers to sign, I believe. And then tonight, you will attend the gala on his arm. I argued against the latter, of course, but he insists.”
“He’s letting me out to the gala?” I gape at her, my mind spinning with the unexpected news. Then the other part of what she said penetrates. “Wait. Papers to sign? You mean…”
