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I learned my lesson after that and made sure I never, even accidentally, touched my bodyguards when Rocco or his cameras were in the vicinity. It didn’t matter, eventually. The other two ended up dead because my husband concluded they were looking at me inappropriately.
“Remove your hand,” I choke out, staring at Rocco as panic rises from the pit of my stomach.
Nothing happens.
“Right the fuck now, Alessandro.”
The hand vanishes from my waist. As I watch, Rocco leaves his drink on the nearest waiter’s tray and heads in our direction. Oh my God. He’s going to kill Alessandro, too. Rocco wouldn’t do anything to Pietro because he’s part of the don’s inner circle.Iwill be the one paying for that encounter. But my husband won’t hesitate to execute a bodyguard as soon as we’re back home. I can’t live with another innocent man’s death on my conscience. I can’t.
“Leave,” I whisper. “Please. Leave.”
I don’t think Alessandro hears me, because I can still feel him at my back when Rocco halts in front of me. He’s still wearing a sinister smile.
“Next time, when a man approaches my wife,” Rocco says looking over my head, “you’ll remove him from her sight. With force, if necessary. Is that clear?”
I don’t hear an answer, but I assume Alessandro nods. Rocco places his hand on the small of my back and ushers me into the hallway. We’re leaving, thank God.
***
The bedroom door closes with a soft click behind me. I leave my clutch on the vanity table on my right and turn around. Rocco’s palm connects with my cheek before I’m fully facing him.
“Pietro? Really?” he hisses as he pushes me toward the wall. “You need a cock? I’ll give you a cock, you slut.”
My chest collides with the hard surface. Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and press my palms to the wall. Rocco grabs the hem of my dress, pulling it up, then tears at my panties. I can hear him undoing his belt, and I plaster myself to the wall, making sure to move as little as possible. It excites him more when I fight. A moment later I feel his flaccid dick pressing to my backside. He grinds against me a few times, his breathing fast.
“Fuck! Where are my pills?”
I hear him walking away, probably to get the Viagra he makes me keep in the drawer of my nightstand. A minute passes. I don’t move from my spot. His hand comes to my ass, squeezing. I shut my eyes tighter.
Grunting. Rapid breaths as he pumps his cock behind me.
“You fucking slut.” Rocco lets go of my ass and grabs my hair instead. “I can’t get my cock up for you even with the fucking Viagra.”
I almost stumble as he pushes me toward the bed and throws me down.
“You are not allowed to leave your room until morning. Do you hear me?”
“Yes, Rocco,” I choke out.
The bedroom door slams shut but I keep lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and return to calculating how much money I need to get myself out of this horror show. Mulling over the details has become a coping mechanism. Whenever Rocco manhandles me, I detach myself from the situation by planning my escape.
My mind unintentionally drifts to the big silent man who’s going to become my ever-present shadow. Will my husband do something to him? Maybe Rocco was too focused on Pietro and didn’t notice as Alessandro touched me at the theater. If he had, there would have been another death tonight. I move my hand to my hip and brush the spot where Alessandro’s hand briefly landed on me.
I’ll have to be very careful around him, at least until I get to know him better. Hopefully, he’s not an overly attentive person. Maybe I should put my . . . extracurricular activities on hold for a few days. No, I can’t afford that. Every second I spend in this house with Rocco is a living hell. The situation started badly and has only become exponentially worse. I guess the bloodshed that happened on our wedding day was just a precursor of things to come. A foreshadowing of the nightmare that pulls me deeper daily. Drenching me in misery and drowning me in hurt.
I knew from the start that my husband is a troubled man. No sane person would obtain a wife as a payment for a gambling debt. At the time, I didn’t understand why he needed to resort to such measures. Rocco has always been popular and well respected, and since he was a capo, he was even feared. Many women would have jumped with excitement at the possibility of marrying him, but Rocco stayed single. I couldn’t understand why he suddenly felt the need to get married, to me nonetheless—a daughter of a lowly Cosa Nostra soldier. That question was answered quickly, on our wedding night.
Rocco Pisano is impotent. And he is ready to slaughter anyone who may dare to reveal his secret. The only person who knows is the doctor Rocco visits covertly. And now me. I’m not sure if his problem is congenital or a recent development, but I have a feeling he’s been dealing with it for quite some time. His impotency is most likely the reason he stayed away from marrying a woman from a higher-ranking family. He probably feared that she would tell her parents or siblings, and, soon after, everyone would know. But Rocco would never allow his secret to be exposed. And he couldn’t risk raising his hand against such a woman to keep her quiet. If her family were ever to find out, so would the don.
Maybe if my father was still alive, my life would’ve been different. Or maybe it wouldn’t have. Marriage has always been considered sacred by my family. For years, I heard my father say how a woman should invariably respect her husband, no matter what. She should be docile and know her place, never contradict her man. It was so ingrained in me that the first time Rocco hit me, I was convinced it was my fault. After it started happening on a regular basis, I wanted to tell someone, ask for help, but I couldn’t bring myself to defy him.
When we are in public, Rocco always acts as a doting, loving husband. No one would believe me. And Rocco has made it very clear what will happen to my mother and brother if I ever say a word. So, I keep my mouth shut and endure it until I can stash enough money for all three of us to get as far away as possible.
Soon.
Chapter 3
I click on the gray icon in the corner of my laptop screen. A box reading “Connecting . . .” pops up. Ten seconds later, the computer desktop fills with a mosaic of a dozen small windows, each one showing a different camera feed from the Pisano mansion.
