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“Seventy-one,” I continue. “Sixty-nine. Sixty-seven. Sixty . . .”
***
The click of the lock alerts me to the opening door. I look up and squint at Rocco. The light spilling from the bedroom outlines his shape, making him look even more menacing. For a frightening moment, I feel as if I’m at the gates of hell, with Cerberus barring the exit.
“Get dressed,” he snaps. “I’m having dinner with an associate and I’m taking you with me.”
I watch him as he leaves, and when I hear the bedroom door shut, I rise from my spot in the bathroom corner. Thousands of needles pierce my legs as I drag myself toward the dresser by the bed where I keep my delicates. A white ornate clock is atop it, showing it’s two o’clock in the afternoon. He kept me in the bathroom for what felt like days, but it was only six hours.
I put on my bra and underwear and look at my reflection in the mirror. I should sneak a screwdriver or another tool into the bathroom and closet, and hide them somewhere so that next time Rocco locks me inside I can try to dismantle the lock. That idea never popped into my thoughts before today. All this time, it’s as if Rocco managed to not only beat down my body and mind but my sense of worth, as well. I stopped fighting him and let him shape me into his obedient dog. With one last look in the mirror, I turn around and head into the walk-in closet.
When I get downstairs, Rocco throws a disgusted look at my black blouse which has a modest neckline, but his lips widen into a smile when he notices the short red skirt that barely covers my ass.
“We’re going to be late.” He grabs my hand and drags me toward the front door.
We exit the house, and I blink in confusion. Four vehicles are parked on the driveway, with the chief of the first security shift standing next to the one in front. A rental car is next in line—it must have arrived while I was locked away—and two other vehicles are bringing up the rear. Rocco rarely takes bodyguards with him when he attends his meetings. Most of them are with people who are not involved in illegal activities. The only constant security detail has been assigned to me, and it had nothing to do with his concern for my well-being.
My eyes wander to the SUV at the back and the man sitting behind the wheel. My heart beats faster, as it does each time, when I spot Alessandro. He has aviator sunglasses on and seems to be looking straight ahead, but I can feel his gaze on me.
“Get in,” Rocco snaps and ushers me into the passenger seat of his rental car.
The vehicle in front of us purrs to life, and it heads toward the gate. Rocco starts the car and follows. I look in the side mirror and notice the last two cars driving behind us. The whole situation is like a scene from a movie—a presidential convoy when he departs the residence.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Someone is trying to kill me, that’s what’s going on,” Rocco barks.
I take my sunglasses from my purse and slip them on my face, secretly observing Rocco as I do. At first glance, he seems angry. His jaw is clenched and a scowl mars his face. But I look harder, and there are tells that don’t escape my notice. The way his eyes dart to the rearview mirror and to the sides every so often. Beads of sweat gathered along his hairline. And finally, his breaths, coming faster than normal.
A smile threatens to pull at my lips, and I’m narrowly able to hide it. Rocco Pisano, the man who proclaims to have the biggest balls in the world, is scared shitless.
***
The hum of several dozen people talking at once. Laughter. The clang of the cutlery on the plates.
Each sound drills a small hole into my temples. I lift the fork to my mouth, but I don’t feel like eating. My throat feels sore and, even though the room is well-heated, I’m cold.
“Are you all right, Ravenna?”
I look up and offer a faux smile to the woman sitting on my left. Rocco introduced me to her and her husband when we arrived at the restaurant, but I can’t remember her name.
“I think I’m coming down with something,” I say.
“Oh, I’m so sorry, sweetie.” She looks toward Rocco who is engaged in a deep discussion with her husband about real estate. “Rocco, Ravenna is not feeling well. Maybe you should take her home.”
“Oh?” Rocco tilts his head and pins me with his gaze. “Are you sick, bellissima?”
“No.” I quickly shake my head. “I’m okay.”
“Sure? Maybe you should head home and get some rest.” He leans to the side until his lips are just next to my ear and whispers, “I have a big game tonight. Make sure you’re ready when I get home in the morning.”
A shudder runs down my spine.
Rocco is a frequent poker player. He usually plays at Luigi’s with the other Cosa Nostra men, but he doesn’t find those games challenging enough. They simply sustain his addiction. Every three months, however, there is a poker tournament held at an undisclosed location outside of the city, and Rocco has been obsessed with it.
The game is an invitation-only event, and the attending players are concealed. Their identities and presence are kept secret, even from their competitors, but Rocco still loves to brag about it, especially in front of the other capos. The previous tournament was just after our wedding. Rocco won and, when he came home—high on adrenaline and full of himself—he woke me up in the dead of night and demanded I beg him to fuck me. I spat in his face when he told me to remove my clothes and kneel on the floor. He hit me with such force that I ended up there anyway. The following morning, I woke up to a message on my phone. It was a close-up photo of my sleeping mother, a gun pointed at her head. It was a threat of what will happen if I dare to disobey him again.
“Okay.” I rise, ready to leave the table.
