Chapter 33

THIRTY-THREE

Sabella

The thought of Angelo killing me has crossed my mind. Many times. I of all people know what he's capable of. He never wanted me for me. He only needed my family name. Now that he has that, he's going to make the best use of it he can. He won't waste a minute in securing business ties. He may not kill me soon, but that doesn't mean he won't do it one day. Or that he won't do it in a fit of temper. I have to tread lightly around him. I can't lower my guard. Not for a second.

Wariness weighs me down as I walk down the long hallway toward the kitchen. I can't help but glance over my shoulder as a shiver runs down my spine. The house is voluminous and basked in soft light, but the ambiance is dark. Despite the tasteful furniture and decorations, it feels empty and hollow, as if something is missing.

I quicken my steps, the echo of my soles chasing after me until I burst into the brightly lit kitchen where Heidi is loading the dishwasher. The housekeeper can't protect me, not against the master of the house, but I do feel better for another human being's presence, especially one who's friendly and kind.

"They don't want coffee," I say, trying to keep my voice normal and not let her hear how scared I am. I can't afford to let anyone suspect that I'm anything less than confident and strong.

She straightens with a smile. "Well, then." After drying her hands on a kitchen towel, she drops it on the counter. "Why don't I show you to your room?"

"I'll help you tidy up first."

"Nonsense." She marches out ahead of me, her blond braid swinging between her shoulder blades. "You had an eventful time with the wedding, not to mention a long day of traveling." She glances over her shoulder. "Of course, it's your house, and you're free to do whatever you like. I'm sure you have lots of instructions for me. We can talk about that tomorrow when you're rested." In the stillness of the house, our steps sound loud on the polished yellow stone floor. "We can start with the menu for the week if you like, unless you prefer to do your own cooking like the late Mrs. Russo." We go up a staircase with a red carpet runner. "You don't have to worry. I'm a fast learner." She stops on the landing. "I'm good at mastering new recipes."

I admit a little sheepishly, "I haven't done much cooking, to be honest. My parents—" I quickly rectify, "My mom has a housekeeper who's also a wonderful cook, and I mostly lived on ready-made meals when I moved out."

"That's what I'm here for," she says, patting my arm. "Don't worry about a thing. We'll sort it out together."

I offer her a grateful smile.

She waves a hand toward the left. "The west wing is where Mr. Russo's parents resided." She crosses herself. "Bless their souls. Mrs. Russo didn't like to be on the ocean side because of the breeze coming from the sea. She preferred the rooms looking out over the vineyard."

Guilt tightens my stomach at the mention of Angelo's late mother.

"You and Mr. Russo are in the east wing," Heidi continues.

She walks briskly down a broad hallway. I follow behind, taking in the paintings that depict wild cliffs and tranquil beaches or dense forests and snow-capped mountains.

I point at one of the paintings. "Are these scenes from around here?"

"They're all landscapes from the property. They're beautiful, aren't they?"

The house is stunning, but I had no idea the surroundings are so diverse and gorgeous. "How big is it?"

"The property?" She pauses in front of the second-last door on the right. "I don't know exactly over how many hectares it stretches, but it's vast. The farthest border must be about twenty kilometers away." She opens the door. "This is your bedroom."

I enter the large space that's furnished with a king size bed and a small sitting area arranged around a fireplace. Sliding doors give access to a balcony. The night beyond the doors is dark, but I can make out the long line of lights running down to the beach and the water in the distance.

While Heidi fluffs out the pillows and turns the bedcovers down, I take in the rest of my new domain. The room is decorated in neutral colors. A writing desk and an antique armoire stand against the wall opposite the sliding doors. I stop dead as my gaze lands on the dress that hangs against the armoire, its hem sweeping the floor.

A wedding dress.

The classical cut with thin shoulder straps, a plunging V-neckline, and a narrow skirt is striking in its simplicity. The glittery, pure-white fabric adds texture and richness to the design. It's without a doubt the most beautiful dress I've seen.

"It's lovely, isn't it?" Heidi asks in a wistful voice behind me.

Startled, I look over my shoulder to catch her studying the dress with a sad light in her eyes.

"I couldn't get it over my heart to put it away," she says, sounding far-off. "Mrs. Russo had it made for you."

"She did?" I ask, simultaneously surprised and moved.

"For the big day. Adeline was so excited about it. The dress, I mean. The wedding also, but I still remember how she ran downstairs to tell Mr. Russo—Angelo—how perfect the gown was." She smiles, focusing on a spot on the wall with a non-seeing gaze. "Mrs. Russo warned her not to spoil the surprise for her brother. He wasn't supposed to know what the dress looked like. It was right before…" She trails off, getting lost in her own thoughts, and then shakes her head as if trying to dislodge the memory. "Never mind."

The dress draws my gaze again. I can't look away from it. I can't stop thinking about Angelo's mother and sister, about their fates.

"It's terrible what happened," Heidi says, more sadness spilling into her tone. "Such a tragedy."

In my mind's eye, I see Angelo's mother telling her daughter it's bad luck for the groom to see the dress before the wedding. It's something my mom would say, something she did say when I got ready to marry Colin. It already feels so long ago.

Tearing my gaze away from the stunning creation, I turn to look at Heidi. I can't help myself from asking, "Did Angelo see it?"

"The dress?" Heidi shakes her head again. "After what happened, he just locked everything up, left their rooms exactly like that. He couldn't go in there. Wouldn't let me. The dress was in Mrs. Russo's workroom. I just thought you deserved to see it."

Not sure what to say to that, I remain quiet.

"Anyway," she says, wiggling her shoulders. "I aired your room and put sheets on the bed." She points at a door in the corner. "Your suitcase is in the dressing room." Motioning at another door on the side of the bed, she continues, "That one gives access to Mr. Russo's room."

I only nod.

"I took the liberty of stocking your bathroom with toiletries." Heidi brushes down her skirt. "Just shout if you need anything. I can always send a driver to Bastia to pick up supplies."

I clutch my hands together in front of me, accepting the hospitality I don't deserve. "Thank you."

If she knows why Angelo's sister and mother are dead, she'll want to throw me over the balcony herself.

"I'm sure you'd like to get some rest." She walks to the door. "I sleep in the apartment next to the kitchen. If you want anything, you can use the phone on the nightstand to dial me. My extension is marked as housekeeper on the phone. If I don't answer, try the kitchen."

I follow her to the door. "Thanks again for the delicious dinner."

"You're welcome, dear," she says before slipping into the hallway.

I close the door and stand there for a moment, not sure what to do. When the door opens again, I assume it's Heidi who forgot to tell me something, but a gasp escapes my lips when Angelo enters.

He opens his mouth and freezes when his gaze falls on the dress. A spectrum of emotions washes over his features before settling on something disturbingly dark. The anger that tightens his eyes and hardens the line of his jaw scares me, because this anger is fueled by grief, and I'm the person responsible for that grief. My family. We're to blame.

Not taking his eyes off me, he puts his head around the doorframe and calls in a thunderous voice, "Heidi."

Hurried footsteps fall in the corridor.

The housekeeper appears on the threshold. "Yes, Mr. Russo?"

He points at the dress, all the while staring daggers at me. "What's the fucking meaning of this?"

Her cheeks pale. "I just thought?—"

"Do not think," he grits out. "That's not what I pay you for. Take it away."

"Yes, sir," she says, scurrying across the floor and plucking the hanger with the dress from the armoire.

Angelo and I face each other like war opponents as she runs from the room and softly closes the door.

"She wanted to give you the wedding of the year," he says, hatred pouring into the words. "A beautiful wedding."

"I'm sorry," I whisper, backtracking to the bed, because there's nothing I can do but apologize. I can't change what happened. I can only run from my husband as he chooses the monster inside him instead of the man.

He comes after me. Furious. Hard.

"Angelo," I whisper, not knowing how to stop this. Him.

"That's right. You better get used to my name on your lips. You belong to me, and nothing will be given to you without my permission, so you can practice saying my name when you go down on your knees and beg me."

"Beg you for what?" I ask, my throat closing up.

The smile he gives me as he stalks closer is the cruel one. The statement he delivers is a vicious blow. "For everything."

Understanding blooms. He doesn't only want to make me kneel. He wants to make me crawl. This is how he wants me to pay. He wants to punish me for the dress I never wore, for the wedding that never happened, and for everything else that was outside of my control.

I stand my ground even as he unbuckles his belt and pulls it from his waistband.

"You'll beg me for the food you eat and the air you breathe." He unbuttons his shirt, revealing the black ink that decorates his chest. "For the bed you sleep in." Finishing the task of undressing, he drops his clothes on the floor. "For my cock." He closes the distance between us and stops flush against me. Stark naked. "Beg for it, bella, and maybe I'll let you come."

The dress and what transpired with his uncles triggered something inside him. I'm not insensitive to his pain. I know how much unexpected reminders can hurt. However, I already begged for my family. I begged him to marry me, but I won't beg him for a single thing more. Especially not to fuck me.

His smile grows sinister. "Fine. Have it your way, wife."

"It's been a long day."

"Exactly. So, let's not drag this out."

I square my shoulders. "I need a shower and sleep."

"You will have both when you beg me."

Clenching my hands into balls at my sides, I can only stare at him with hatred seeping from my heart.

"Beg, Sabella, on your knees, and you can have a shower and your bed. After you fuck me."

"No, thanks," I say, my nostrils flaring. "I'd rather stay dirty and sleep on the floor."

Calculation tightens his features. "If that's what you want, that's what you'll get."

I'm trembling with anger. I should've taken a knife in the kitchen, preferably a blunt one. I could've stabbed it into his cold, sadistic heart.

"Strip," he says. "Or do you prefer that I undress you? I can promise you it won't be romantic."

I spit the words at him. "Go to hell."

"We're consummating our marriage in my family home tonight. Cooperate, and it'll be over sooner."

"You're such a jerk."

"Strip, Sabella. You're not shy, are you? I've already seen every part of you."

Biting back an ugly retort, I tear out of my clothes. He follows my actions with his gaze, not giving me a reprieve from his invasive stare.

When I'm naked, he says, "Get onto the bed on your hands and knees."

I'm not getting out of this. He won't let it go. I may as well just give him what I signed up for and, like he said, get it over with.

My lip curls as I get on the bed and look back at him. "Are you going to spank me again? Is that what you need to get hard? What does that make you, Angelo? A fucking sadist?"

The jab I aimed at his character is useless. He laughs it off, stepping up to the edge of the bed and tracing my opening with a finger.

The touch jolts me. My body jerks.

"Play with yourself," he commands.

"Why?" I ask, infusing my tone with more snideness. "Does the show get you off?"

"I don't want to milk my cock with a dry cunt."

The crude words turn me cold inside even as heat pushes up in my neck. "Is it fun being an asshole?"

"Only to you." He grabs his cock in his fist and pumps twice. "Get yourself wet, wife. It'll be nicer for my dick, but you're the one who'll benefit most."

I want to slap him so hard I have to fist my hands in the covers to prevent myself from attacking him again. He makes it difficult to hold on to my dignity.

"There's a woman at the pleasure house," he says when I don't react. "She's called in to prepare new brides for their wedding nights. Shall I call her? I'm sure she won't mind coming out, despite the hour. I can watch while she gets your body ready. She'll ask me which method I prefer. A lubricant will be quick. She'll make sure to get it deep inside you. But watching her get you wet with a vibrator may be more fun."

Tears burn behind my eyes. I face forward lest he notices. He's trying to humiliate me, and he's succeeding. I shouldn't let him get to me. I simply shouldn't think about it.

"Make your choice, Sabella."

There is no choice. Slipping a hand between my legs, I touch myself with trembling fingers.

"Spread your legs," he says. "Let me see if you're getting the job done."

He can fuck right off. Cringing inwardly, I set my knees apart and put myself on display like he wants. I give him the show he demands by rubbing my clit with two fingers pressed together.

As always, a spark of pleasure ignites at the touch. A glance over my shoulder almost stills me. He's pumping into his fist while fondling his sac in his free hand. Lust burns hot in his black eyes as he watches my hand between my legs. Every perfectly cut muscle in his powerful body is taut, drawing a striking picture of masculinity. The wolves on his chest come alive, snarling viciously when those muscles bunch. Beneath his broad shoulders and hard pecs his washboard stomach is flat. The V of his groin runs deep. The cursive letters inked above his hipline sum him up in a single word. Resilience. Strong legs with big calves are well proportioned. The dark hair that covers his legs grows denser around his groin. His cock juts out proudly, the head already slick with pre-cum.

I don't want the image to arouse me, but the heat spreading through my belly is an involuntary reaction. Finally, it's not the ministrations of my own hand that turns me wet. It's how my body responds to the visual sight of him getting himself ready. It's simple nature, one body reacting to the arousal of another, and he's not unaffected. He likes what he sees. I test the theory by sinking a finger inside, studying him from over my shoulder. His jaw bunches as he pumps faster into his fist. When I pull my finger out and slowly push deeper, he utters a growl.

His voice is guttural, rough like an animal's. "You've gotten yourself so wet it's dripping down your thighs." He steps up and traces my crease with the head of his cock. "Such a dirty girl." He fastens a hand on my hip. "Spread your legs wider and push out your ass. Show me what a good job you can do of presenting yourself for my cock."

When I don't move, he plants his hands on my inner thighs and pushes them apart as far as they can go. His cock brushes against my glute as he puts a palm between my shoulders and applies pressure. I have to pull my hand from between my legs to catch myself when he continues to press down until my upper body is flattened on the mattress.

"There," he says. "Just like that. Fuck, Sabella. You're a sight for sore eyes."

Pinching my eyes shut, I press my cheek against the covers. I tense when he buries his fingers in the flesh of my hips. Anticipation ripples through me as he parts my folds with the broad head of his cock. Knowing what's to come doesn't prepare me for the pleasure as he slides all the way in. Holding me in place, he rubs his groin against my ass and keeps still. My body welcomes the intrusion, my inner muscles already clenching around him.

"That's right, dirty girl," he says with a groan. "Milk my cock. You're so hot when you beg without words."

I tune him out, trying not to listen to his wicked praise, because he's moving, and it's all I can focus on. I can only hold on, clawing at the bedsheets as he pulls almost all the way out before slamming back again. He pumps his hips with a leisurely pace, dragging his cock over sensitive nerve endings and punctuating each thrust with a slap on the fleshy part of my right ass cheek. The sting doesn't hurt as much as it heats my skin, and strangely, it makes me hotter. Needier.

Taking what I need, I push back when he thrusts. The fall of his palm on my ass is rhythmic, matching the pace of his pumping. Intense need throbs between my legs. I can't get enough. He swaps hands, gripping my right hip to tan my left globe while timing the rhythm. I'm burning up on the inside and the outside, but he doesn't allow me to go faster. He keeps me still, the force of his fingers bruising, while taking me at his own sweet pace.

My inner walls clench hard. He utters a curse but maintains the lazy pivoting of his hips. His palms no longer heat the skin of my ass. Instead, he massages my globes, wiping away the burn. Digging his fingers into my sensitive flesh, he spreads my ass cheeks and drives home with enough force to wrench a gasp from my lungs.

Finally, he gives me what I want. He bends over me and slips a hand around my waist and between my legs to massage my clit in circular movements. His pace doesn't falter as he quickly and effectively brings me to the edge before violently pushing me over.

An orgasm rips through me at the same time as he surges deep and stills. Warmth bathes me inside. My release is instantaneous and powerful, leaving me legless and weak. When he pulls out and pins me in place to watch his seed leak from my body, I don't have the energy to fight him.

"You're so pretty with my handprints on your ass and my cum dripping down your thighs," he says, finally letting me go.

I collapse flat on the bed, shame not only for the crass remark but also for how cold it leaves me creeping over my cheeks. His feet are quiet on the floor. I don't need to open my eyes to know he's gone. The water that comes on in the bathroom confirms it. That's how he leaves me—discarded after being used.

I take a moment to catch my breath. To deal with the aftermath. I've long since accepted the awful fact that I find pleasure in the arms of my dad's killer. It doesn't make me feel less despicable. It's just another bitter pill to swallow.

The room is warm, but I shiver. I'm about to get off the bed when Angelo returns. I feel him rather than hear him as he stops next to me. Despite my better judgement, I open my eyes. He stands tall and proud, the familiar hatred as he studies me darkening his eyes.

"Get up," he says.

Fear knots my stomach. "Why?"

"It's late. I have a long day of work ahead. I need my sleep."

"Then sleep," I say, unable to keep the bite from my tone.

The smile that curves his lips doesn't reach his eyes. "You're sleeping in my room. Come."

He doesn't wait. He goes ahead and opens the interconnecting door, knowing I'll follow.

It takes effort to peel myself off the bed. Steeling my spine, I say to his back, "I'll shower first."

He turns to face me, that evil grin intact. "You won't."

I gape at him. He can't be serious. I know what he said, but he can't expect me to crawl into bed with a sticky skin and his cum drying on my thighs.

His eyes crinkle in the corners. "You should've begged when you had the chance. It's too late now. Come before I decide to drag you in here."

Turning his back on me, he walks through the door. I stand rooted to the spot, disbelief and a hot wave of fresh anger running through me.

"Sabella," he says from the other room. "Now."

"I need to get my pajamas."

"You're sleeping naked," he calls back.

Bastard.

I bite my tongue as I cross the floor and enter a room that's almost an exact replica of mine. The sight that greets me steals my breath. Candles are burning on every surface, and rose petals are strewn over the bed. I guess Heidi is responsible for the effort. She must've assumed we'd consummate the marriage in his bedroom.

The romantic setting doesn't faze him. He grips the comforter and shakes off the petals, making them sift down over the floor.

"Blow out the candles," he instructs. "We don't want the house to burn down."

Swallowing a retort, I go around the room and blow them all out. The sharp smell of smoke and wax hangs in the air when I'm done.

Angelo lifts the covers and gets into bed. I hover for a moment, starting to feel cold. When I make my way to the other side of the bed, he says, "No."

I stop. "What?"

He points at the floor next to his side of the bed. "Here."

My mouth drops open. "You're joking."

"I'm afraid not, cara. That's what you chose, and that's what you'll get until you learn to beg."

Fuck him.

I'm spinning on my heel when his words stop me.

"Don't make me tie you up and dish out another punishment. You're keeping both of us from our sleep."

Angry tears burn at the back of my eyes. He doesn't only want to punish me for my family's sins. He wants to break me. Well, good luck to him. I refuse to break. Not for him.

Lifting my chin, I go over to the side of the bed and lie down.

"That's a good girl," he says, reaching over and switching off the lamp on the nightstand. Darkness folds around us. "Sleep well, bella."

I suppress an urge to punch him. In the dark, tears of humiliation and helpless anger finally run over my cheeks. The rug is scratchy, the wool scraping my skin. The flagstones under the rug are hard and uneven, the edges digging into my hip and shoulder. I use my arm as a pillow, but it's difficult to get comfortable.

It's colder on the floor. Soon, I'm shivering. The lesson isn't lost on me. The price for a shower and sleeping in a warm, soft bed is humiliating myself over and over, night after night, on my knees. I don't know if I can do it. My pride won't let me, but how long will my pride last? How many skipped showers and nights on the floor will it take before my pride bends and I give in?

When I start itching from the wool, I turn on my other side to scratch the irritated skin. Angelo's slow, even breathing only rubs salt in my wound. He's sleeping cozily in his bed while making me suffer. There's no way I'll last the whole night like this.

Getting up quietly, I tiptoe back to my room. Afraid to make noise, I leave the door open. I don't want to switch on a light and risk waking him, so I feel around on the floor until I find his discarded clothes. My fingers brush over his shirt. I pull it on and button it up. A smell of cedar and citrus wraps around me, reminding me of the man I fell in love with. He's like Jekyll and Hyde. I'm never sure which one I'll get. I have a feeling that here, in the environment where he lost his family, he's not going to be the kinder Angelo often. The memories are too raw. There are too many reminders in his home.

I don't want to wear his clothes, but I haven't unpacked my suitcase, and I don't want to run into anyone while stalking naked through the house. There were guards when we arrived. For all I know, they're patrolling inside at night.

The big bed in my room is tempting, but I don't want to give Angelo a reason for punishing me if I can avoid it. The last two punishments are still too fresh in my mind. I'll have a hot drink to warm up, and then I'll find a sofa where I can make myself comfortable. If I'm lucky, I may even locate a blanket.

My bare feet are quiet on the cold floor. Moonlight sifts through the big windows, painting black shadows in the corners as I go downstairs. It's eerily quiet. No guards are moving about. The hallway to the kitchen is lit with dim floor lights. Heidi must've clocked off for the night because the kitchen is dark.

I feel for a light switch on the wall and flip it on. A single bulb flickers to life over the island counter. The kitchen is fitted with modern appliances, but with baskets of dried herbs and fresh ones growing in pots on the windowsill, it has a rustic feel.

After putting water on to boil, I go through the cupboards until I find a mug and jars of tea leaves. Choosing chamomile, I brew an infusion and stand by the window while sipping the drink. Beyond the vegetable garden, the moonlit vineyard is visible. If the property is as big as Heidi said, I'm effectively a prisoner here.

The herbal tea quickly warms me inside. My muscles are sore, and my skin is itchy from the wool carpet and Angelo's dried seed on my thighs, but I try not to think about it. Maybe I can quickly rinse down while he's sleeping. I'm yet to come up with a plan to avoid begging for basic living necessities, but I don't think about that either. I'm too tired.

I carry the mug upstairs, heading back to my room. On the landing, I stop. It wasn't my plan to go there, but my feet carry me left instead of right. I tread carefully, like a trespasser, driven forward by curiosity and a strange, invisible pull.

The hallway is dark except for a sliver of light that falls from a door that's open a crack. The decision to go there isn't conscious, but I find myself in front of it, pushing a palm on the heavy wood.

The door swings open soundlessly. The light comes from a desk lamp with a stained-glass lampshade. The room is fitted with bookshelves and a writing desk. A sewing machine stands on a large table. A cozy sitting area with a well-worn sofa and armchair faces the window. On a rail pushed against the wall hangs the wedding dress.

I step into the room. It looks like a study. The books on the shelves include an eclectic collection of fiction, romance, biographies, and recipes. A framed photograph of the Eiffel Tower hangs on the wall. The space looks well lived in, much warmer than the rest of the beautifully decorated house.

Going over to the desk, I trace a finger over the dust-covered wood. Brochures are stacked in neat piles on the surface. I tilt my head to study them. They depict flowers and formal place settings with fancy crockery. Wedding brochures. Some have photos of cakes. Others show chair covers and tablecloths. All the colors are in shades of apricot. This is what Angelo's mother had planned for us.

Something twists in my chest as I stare at the pictures of a wedding that never came to fruition, a wedding my dad kept a secret. I understand why he tried to stop it from happening. He knew Angelo. He understood the duality of my dangerous husband's personality. He did what he did to protect me from this fate, but the price was heavy. Unthinkable. The price was this—a deserted room layered in bitter-sweet memories and covered in dust.

It's unbearably sad.

I shouldn't be here. I won't be welcome.

Leaning over the desk, I switch off the lamp. Heidi must've left it on when she returned the dress. I leave quietly, shutting the door behind me. When I turn, I come face to face with a picture in a frame hanging on the door on the opposite side of the hallway. Pressed flowers in all the colors of the rainbow are glued on a painted background of pink, spelling a name.

Adeline.

I go closer and squint at the name and date written in the corner in thick black ink. Angelo's sister made this when she was ten years old. The tightness in my chest increases, squeezing the air from my lungs. Sadness wraps around me like the emptiness in the house. How hard it must be for Angelo to have lost his twin.

Did she look like him? Was her personality the same? Was she also cursed with cruelty and kindness living side by side in her heart? Were they close?

I hesitate. I should go back to my room, but I'm riveted by the past, curious about my husband and his history. It's the notion that I'll never know that part of his life that sways me, that makes me open the door and flick on the light.

The room is similar in design to mine, but it's an explosion of colors. Bright yellows, oranges, reds, and pinks fill every nook and cranny. The wallpaper is pink with a sunflower motive. A hand-knitted blanket in purple, blue, and turquoise covers a wrought-iron bed. Porcelain trinkets, bottles of perfume, and glass bowls filled with costume jewelry stand on a dresser. Rows of bead necklaces hang over the frame of the mirror. A red sweater is carelessly draped over the back of a chair, and a pair of yellow ballerina flats lie askew in front of the bed as if they'd been kicked off in a hurry.

The photo frames on the dresser catch my attention. Clearing a small space, I leave my mug on the corner and pick up a heavy silver ornate frame.

The young woman in the picture smiles at the camera. It's a happy, contagious smile that dominates the image. It's a smile you see even before you notice the long hair that billows in the wind.

She stands on a clifftop with the sea behind her like in one of those scenes from the paintings. Sunbeams pierce through the clouds in the sky as if the angels themselves projected them to shine on her. Her hair isn't as dark as Angelo's. The sunlight that falls like a spotlight on her reflects an auburn tint. Her features bear a striking resemblance to her brother's. They have the same olive-toned skin and black eyes as well as the same good bone structure except that hers is more feminine and the lines of her face are softer.

I return the photo and pick up one in a Swarovski frame. It's one of those family portraits that's done in a professional studio. Judging by her and Angelo's age, the photo was taken a couple of years ago at the most. I recognize Santino although his image in my memory is vague.

With thick, white hair and Angelo's angular features, he looks the same as when I saw him at my sixteenth birthday party. A petite woman poses between Adeline and Angelo—their mother. They got their almost pure-black eyes and dark hair from her. Unlike the twins who are tall and toned, Mrs. Russo is small and frail. She's well-dressed, but there's a vulnerability and shyness in the manner she clutches her hands together in front of her.

I bet it's not the photo from the shoot that Mr. and Mrs. Russo chose to have framed, because Adeline is making bunny ears behind Angelo's head and wearing a mischievous grin on her stunningly beautiful face. Like his father's smile, Angelo's is proud.

The image gives me somewhat of an insight into their family dynamic. My gaze is drawn to Angelo, to how handsome he looks in a designer three-piece suit, how deceptively civil and well-bred. It's just a front though, the one he shows the world when he has to function in it among mere mortals while hiding the demon lurking under his skin.

After taking my fill of the image, I put it back in its place and open a jewelry box with an intricate inlay of triangular mirror pieces in the lid. A ballerina pops to life, doing a pirouette on the tune of The Blue Danube. Two compartments are filled with earrings and rings, most of them costume jewelry. The bigger one holds a cross on a gold chain and various bracelets and baubles. A short necklace of Venetian glass beads lies on the top. I take it out and lift it to the light. I'm admiring the kaleidoscope of colors inside a bead when Angelo's cold, furious voice cuts through the tinny notes of the waltz.

"What the fuck are you doing?"

I give a start, dropping the necklace and knocking the jewelry box down in the process. The necklace falls on the floor with the unmistakable clink of glass breaking. The box hits the stones with a thud, the metallic notes screeching with a hollow vibration before dying as the box cracks in the middle and the ballerina stops dead.

Jewelry is scattered everywhere. The bottom of the box is split open, revealing the skeleton of wheels and mechanics. Splintered glass beads litter the space around my feet. Some have rolled under the bed and the dresser. The broken string lies like an accusation over my bare toes.

I stare at the destruction, unable to breathe.

"What have you fucking done?" Angelo yells, beside himself with fury.

"I'm sorry," I say in a trembling voice. "I'm so sorry, Angelo. It was an accident." I kneel and start to gather the pieces. "You gave me a fright and?—"

In two long strides, he's next to me, hauling me up by my arm. "What were you doing in here?" He shakes me hard as he drags me to the door. "Snooping? What were you looking for, Sabella?"

"Nothing," I cry out as he pulls me behind him toward the stairs. "I swear."

"You're a bad liar, wife," he utters in a cold, haunted tone. "You're a fucking traitor. A betrayer."

This Angelo is the one I'm terrified of. This is the monster, not the man.

"Angelo, please."

My protest falls on deaf ears. He manhandles me down the stairs. I almost trip trying to keep up with him, barely managing to find my footing. My feet leave bloody prints on the pristine, yellow floor, but I don't feel pain. I vaguely register that I must've cut my soles on the glass shards.

He drags me across the foyer to the front door.

"Angelo," I say again, trembling in his bruising hold.

He punches a code into a wall panel. "Do not say my name. You don't deserve that privilege."

The door clicks open. A blast of cold air hits me in the face. He shoves me outside, making me lose my balance. I go down, catching myself on my hands and knees. Lights go on in the garden and on the porch. The bright glare that shines in my eyes blinds me. I have nowhere to run, but I know one thing. I have to. And I can't let him catch me, because Angelo isn't human right now.

I struggle to my feet, slipping on the tiles that are wet from dew, but before I can straighten, he catches me again, his fingers finding purchase around my bicep and in my hair. He pushes me ahead of him down the steps and along the side of the house.

Running not to fall, I knock my toes against rocks. The cliffside of the house is dark. Another few steps, and a spray light goes on. The light must be motion triggered. I'm shivering with cold and fear when he stops in front of a metal door.

I fight him, but he easily constrains me by gripping both my wrists in one of his hands behind my back.

"Angelo," I try again when he punches another code into a wall panel.

"I said not to fucking utter my name."

The door clicks open, revealing a staircase. The inside is dark. Freezing. I don't want to go down there, but I don't have a choice when he wraps his arms around me in a steel vise and lifts me off my feet.

I twist in his hold, trying to free myself, but when we get to the bottom, I still. It's so dark I can't see my hand in front of my face. Yet I don't have to see to know this place is shrouded in death. I smell it in the strong scent of bleach that hangs in the air.

When he drops me to my feet, I scurry away from him. A single, naked bulb flicks on, throwing a circle of weak light into the shadows. Angelo stands in that pool of illumination like a dark angel, hatred bleeding from his pores.

Swallowing, I retreat until my back hits the wall. Something clanks as I stumble into it. Chains. If I didn't know before, I now know without a doubt what the cellar is for. What he does here.

This is where he kills people.

The realization restricts my throat. The air is cold and brittle. It hurts to breathe.

I try again. "Angelo."

What he does next makes my knees buckle. He takes a whip from a hook on the wall.

"Angelo, please," I say, raising my palms as he advances on me.

He tests the whip by lashing it on the damp floor. A sharp slash cuts through the air. Pausing in front of me, he says, "Stop fucking saying my name."

"Then what am I supposed to call you?"

The way his knuckles turn white around the handle draws my gaze. I shiver so violently my teeth chatters. He swings the whip past my face, hitting the wall behind me. I jump. He's going to kill me. He's going to beat me to death.

"I'm sorry," I say, tears streaking over my cheeks. "I shouldn't have gone in there. I was just curious."

Swishing the whip next to me again, he says in an icy tone filled with loathing, "You have no business being curious about them. Not about my mother, and not about Adeline."

"Stop," I say, flattening my body against the wall when another thwack falls on the other side of me. "Stop before it's too late."

"I should fucking kill you," he says, clenching his jaw. "My father would've."

I try to make myself small. "Then why did you marry me? Why didn't you just kill me that night when he told you to do it?"

He stills at that, stabbing the fingers of one hand into his hair while raising the whip in the other. The effort it takes him not to bring that whip down on me shows in his eyes, how hard he's fighting with himself.

"It's because you want me to pay," I answer for him. "If it's going to take whipping me, then do it. Do it or kill me now and get it over with."

He utters a raw cry, throwing the whip aside and cupping his head while walking in a circle with his face tilted toward the ceiling.

I stand quietly, the bones in my body rattling as I wait to see who's going to win his war, the man or the demon.

Finally, he turns to me with a wail of frustrated rage and grabs my arm. I fall, knocking my knee hard, but he doesn't give me time to straighten. He hoists me up, throws me over his shoulder, and carries me outside, jostling me like a bag of potatoes.

"What are you doing?" I ask, numb with fear.

He walks to a building a short distance away, takes a key from his pocket, and clicks on a remote that opens one of six garage doors. A sports car is parked inside. After yanking open the door on the passenger side, he dumps me on the seat and slams the door. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to still my trembling.

"Where are we going?" I ask when he gets inside.

His jaw locks as he starts the engine and pulls out of the garage with screeching tires before racing down a gravel road.

The speed at which he's driving forces me to unwrap my arms from my middle and clutch the edges of my seat.

"Where are you taking me?" I ask again.

Staring straight ahead, he puts his foot down on the accelerator.

Wherever he's taking me, it's going to be bad.

"Tell me," I say. "I have a right to know."

He turns his head and fixes his black gaze on me for so long that I want to beg him to watch the road again. The look in his eyes is filled with so much loathing there's no doubt about how much he despises me.

He changes gears and finally faces forward again. When he replies, his voice is devoid of emotion. "You're not a wife or a lover to me. You're nothing. Just a body to use. You don't deserve to be a part of my life or to live in my house. You don't deserve to breathe the same air they used to breathe."

His words are designed to inflict hurt, and they do. My heart shrivels, everything inside me icing over. "What does that mean?" I add with stupid hope, "Are you letting me go?"

His hold tightens on the wheel as he maneuvers the car around a bend in the road. "Never."

The momentum throws my body against the door. I cling to my seat. At the next straight stretch, I sit upright and exhale shakily. "Then what's going to happen now?"

The moonlight draws deep shadows over his face. The harshness of his features seems to reflect what's inside him. "You're banished from my house, Sabella." His sentence is a cold judgment that dooms me to a dark fate. "Forever."

TO BE CONTINUED