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“Yeah, what’s up with that? Why won’t he let me go to my own house? We’re not married yet,” I say angrily.
Topher’s expression is thoughtful as he stares at me. “You want my honest opinion?” I nod and he continues. “I’m pretty sure you just got grounded.”
My mouth falls open “What?”
“I’m guessing it’s your punishment for the stunt today. Christian’s good at underhanded plays. I once saw him cheat a guy out of a hundred bucks and the man didn’t realize it until he walked away.”
“Wait, so I can’t leave?”
“I guarantee if you tried to walk out of this house, one of the capos would be there to stop you. Sorry,cognata, but you’re stuck here. I believe the right word is confinement.”
“He told me he sent all the guards away,” I say through gritted teeth.
“He probably did,” Topher muses. “But I’m sure there’s a one or two at the gate. He wouldn’t leave unless he was sure you were under protection. He’s probably had a few men following you around the past two months, as well. The minute Christian found out he was going to marry you, you became someone he had to protect.”
“You mean his property,” I spit out.
“Take it however you want to take it. But you don’t have any choice in this matter. Christian never breaks. If he wants to keep you here, he’ll do it. Don’t worry, I’ll keep you company,” Topher says with a wink.
“This is insane,” I say, blood thumping in my chest.
“Welcome to the family.”
* * *
“Two weeks, Mother!”I grit out. “I’ve been stuck in this place for two weeks!”
Two fucking weeks since I’ve seen the bastard that locked me up in here. He hasn’t returned to see me, not once. It took me exactly one day to realize Topher was right. I was bored out of my mind and tried to leave the house, but one of the guards was at the gate, barring my way. Despite my attempts to persuade him with promises that I would return and even a subtle bribe, he refused to let me pass. Boss’s orders.
I returned to the house with my arms crossed and a desire to find their fucking boss and dig my nails into his eyes. No one has ever evoked such violent thoughts from me, before but Christian does and I’ve only met him once.
A part of me will grudgingly admit that he’s good at this whole punishment thing. After two weeks, I’m ready to kneel at his feet, begging for escape. I’m going crazy in here and my plight isn’t helped by the fact that I don’t have any of my art stuff with me. I haven’t done any painting in two weeks, and that more than anything is driving me insane.
“I know, sweetheart. We understand how infuriating it must be,” my mom says softly. Her incredibly calm voice grates on my nerves.
“Are you and Dad doing anything to get me out of this situation?”
“There’s no getting out of it, Daniella. I just wish you hadn’t tried to run from the Don. It put your father in a difficult position.”
The laugh that bubbles out of me is dry and bitter. “He’sin a difficult position? I’m the one that’s locked up in a murderer’s home!”
“Don’t raise your voice at me, young lady.”
I roll my eyes at her tone. Sometimes, I swear she thinks I’m five and not twenty-two.
“Mom, I can’t take this anymore,” I say, my voice coming out desperate.
“We’re doing the best we can, my darling. Your father’s meeting with him to convince him to at least let you come home and pick up your art materials and paintings. I’m sure he’ll understand that they’re necessities.”
They could always send them to me, but I’m fussy about people touching my art. My parents never really enter my studio and that suits me just fine.
“Okay,” I say, taking a deep breath. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, honey. And Daniella,” she adds. “It would save us all a lot of heartache if you stopped thinking of your husband-to-be as a murderer.”
I almost laugh. A murderer is a murderer, what the hell else am I supposed to think of him as? Before I can say that, though, my mom hangs up. I get to my feet, brushing off some imaginary dust from my conservative blue dress, with long sleeves and a turtleneck. According to the housekeeper, Christian picked out all the clothes made available to me. At least I have a few of my clothes so I don’t have to conform to his horrible taste all the time.
I press down on a small button beside the door of my room and a few seconds later, one of the maids is pushing her way in, ready to cater to my needs. This is my life now—being waited on and prevented from lifting a finger. I wasn’t even allowed to cook. I tried to and was immediately shut down. Apparently, the wife of the Don doesn’t spend any time in the kitchen. I thought Italians liked home-cooked meals made by their family, but I guess I was wrong. The cook makes all the meals. While I’m relegated to the duty of smiling and looking pretty on my husband’s arm.
