PROLOGUE

Domenica

July 1984…

Domenica Fibonacci woke slowly. Her head felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton, her mouth dry as the Sahara. Slowly cracking one eye open, she could see the room was dark. Giving her fingers a wiggle, she found they moved freely. Ditto for her toes. Repeating the motions found her hands and feet unbound, but moving each limb took much more concentration than usual and strength she did not have. Although no longer shackled to the bed, the drugs held her prisoner all the same.

How long had she been out? A few hours? A few days? A few weeks? Domenica wasn't sure. The only thing she knew for certain was that she was alone in her own personal hell. At least for now.

It hadn't always been like this with Domenica's movements restricted in her own home by her husband, Vic Rothschild. When they'd met in Positano on Italy's Amalfi Coast nearly seven years ago, he'd been handsome and charming. A rich American who'd thrown money around as if it were nothing. Generous to a fault, Domenica had been helpless against his charms, of which, at the time, were many.

She'd fallen head over heels, against her father's wishes. Matteo Fibonacci was a pragmatic man. He understood his daughter's beauty would be her ticket to a better life, certainly better than the one he'd been able to provide to his family, but there had been something about the charismatic American that hadn't felt right to him.

After a whirlwind courtship and wedding, Vic had brought his new bride back to Rothschild Manor, a beautiful mansion situated high on a cliff, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and Salem Harbor to the north. Upon seeing the house for the first time, Domenica had thought she was the luckiest woman alive. Now, she saw this monstrosity of a house as a prison. One she was desperate to escape.

According to Vic, his ancestors survived the maiden voyage of the Titanic in 1912 and the stock market crash in 1929 with their wealth intact. There were rumors of minor ties to the British royal family, but Domenica had no idea if any of what Vic told her was the truth. At this point, she couldn't care less.

Domenica wished she'd listened to her father's gut feeling. She might not have the wealth and status a life with Vic afforded her, but she wouldn't be in fear of losing that life at the hands of the man who'd vowed to love and protect her until death parted them.

Willing herself to move, Domenica sat up. The room spun. She shut her eyes and began to count backward from ten. After a few seconds, the room stilled. She scooted to the edge of the bed and set her bare feet on the floor, which was cold. Taking a deep breath, she stood up. Her first few steps were wobbly, but she managed to keep her balance.

With stilted movements, Domenica made her way to the closet. She needed to get rid of the long white nightgown Vic insisted she wear. What she needed was a pair of jeans and her favorite running shoes. Not wanting to risk turning on the light and alerting Vic that she was up, she made her way to the shoe rack and found what she was looking for. As she reached for jeans, a noise caught her attention.

Vic.

Her husband was singing from his adjoining bedroom. It sounded like "Volare," which chilled her to the bone. It was the song Vic sang when he came to visit her. A piece of her past that he used to taunt her. There was no time for her to change now. She would have to run dressed as she was.

Slowly turning the doorknob, Domenica dared a peek into the hallway. Candles were lit, casting everything in ominous shadows. She gently shut the door behind her and crept past Vic's bedroom door on her way to the stairs. Her left foot was on the first riser when she heard Vic.

"Domenica?" Vic's call was filled with worry and what sounded like pain, but she knew better. Her husband was a world-class actor. A vile manipulator who could convince anyone that shit tasted like champagne. She wasn't going to fall for his act.

Not again.

Moving with as much speed as she dared, Domenica made her way down the stairs. She stopped to catch her breath on the landing. Looking out the large picture window, she could see the backyard and the cliff beyond. A rumble of thunder caught her attention. It was followed seconds later by a bolt of lightning, which illuminated the entire foyer.

A storm had hit; that's why there were candles lit. The power was out. Perhaps the dark would work in her favor.

"Domenica, where are you?" Vic sounded sweet and caring, but Domenica knew her husband was una lupa vestitio da pecora . A wolf in sheep's clothing. "I brought you dinner. Your favorite chicken casserole."

Domenica's stomach threatened to revolt. Chicken casserole most definitely wasn't her favorite. The meal was a monstrosity. Overdone supermarket chicken mixed with soup in a can and mushy noodles. It was everything wrong with America in one vile bite.

Footsteps pounded behind her. Vic's face appeared over the second-floor banister. "Domenica! There you are! I was worried."

"Stay away from me!" Domenica shouted, her voice sounding weak to her own ears. She grabbed a handful of her nightgown in her left hand and hiked it up toward her thighs. Like this, she'd be better able to run. "I know you drugged me again! You're poisoning me!" She took off down the stairs, as fast as she dared. One misstep and she would fall. Just what she imagined Vic was hoping for.

Reaching the first floor, she dashed toward the kitchen. Vic kept the spare sets of car keys in the pantry. All she needed to do was grab the set for her Mercedes and she'd be gone. Freedom would at last be hers.

Her bare feet slapped loudly against the travertine marble floors. Imported from Italy, the stone tiles had been a gift from Vic to his new bride. A piece of her homeland in her own home. How she hated the very sight of them.

"Domenica, please stop, sweetheart. You've been unwell. Let me help you!" Vic's voice was closer. He'd reached the first floor and was only steps behind her.

Running on tiptoes, Domenica reached the kitchen. She skirted around the center island, the twelve-burner stove, and the rest of the French kitchen suite of appliances Vic had installed five years ago. Yet another present for his bride.

When she reached the large walk-in pantry, she flipped on the light. Nothing happened. No matter, she rummaged loudly through the shelves, looking for her keys. There was no need to hide her movements now that Vic knew she'd escaped the confines of her bedroom. Every second she wasted not finding the keys was more time for Vic to find and stop her.

Moving the flour canister out of the way, Domenica noticed the key rack was gone. Not only were the hooks gone, but so were the holes they would have left in the plaster. Vic had done this to trick her. To prove that she was indeed insane. "This is another one of your tricks!" Domenica screamed, feeling her entire body pulsing with rage.

Stopping in the pantry door, Vic offered her a sad, pitying look. "I'm not tricking you, Dom. Please, come here." He held a hand out to her. "Have dinner with me. If you're not in the mood for chicken, we can have something else."

"No! I'm leaving. You can't keep me here. I'm your wife, not your prisoner!" Domenica tried to push past Vic, who grabbed her wrist. She turned and slapped Vic across his smug face with her free hand, which instantly stung. Her husband would bear her mark on his cheek, as she had worn his many times in the past.

"You've been doing so much better. Please don't make me call Dr. Hartman. Again. " Vic looked sad, as if he were going to burst into tears at any second. Five years ago, she would have believed this pathetic display from him, but not today.

"The man is a butcher, not a doctor." Domenica's entire body shuddered. "He killed my babies and drugs me into submission. Is that your idea of do no harm?" Three times she'd been pregnant, and three times Dr. Hartman had taken those precious lives from her womb.

"There were no babies, Dom." With those words, a lone tear began to cascade down Vic's cheek. It caught against the raised handprint on the side of his face and rolled toward his ear. "You were never pregnant. Dr. Hartman is a psychiatrist, remember?" The look in Vic's eyes would have been devastating if Domenica didn't know what a skilled liar he was.

With a hard jerk, Domenica pulled her wrist free. She moved toward the glass doors leading to the patio and pulled one open. A blast of wind rattled her bones, pushing her back into the kitchen momentarily. Rain fell in sheets, soaking everything. Not that it mattered. This was her only means of escape.

Running into the rain, Domenica heard Vic bellow her name. It sounded like her husband had turned into a wild animal, which made her move faster. She ran toward the edge of the cliff. Her bare foot kicked against a small pebble, which flew over the edge. A flash of lightning illuminated its path straight down into the roiling ocean.

"Domenica," Vic pleaded. He'd come to a stop approximately two feet from her and held out his hand, which to anyone else would have been a lifeline. To her, it was just another trick to keep her under Vic's control. "Take my hand. We'll go inside and talk."

"Stand back! I'll do it! I'll jump!" Domenica cast a look over her shoulder. Her long, dark hair blew in the wind, tangling around her face. "You've ruined my life. Stole my babies. Kept me a prisoner." She took half a step back. She felt the back of her left heel slip over the edge of the cliff. Small stones broke free and tumbled toward the raging ocean below. There was no room left to run.

"You've never been a prisoner. All I've ever done is try to keep you safe from yourself. Just take my hand. I'll bring you back to Italy. Back home to your father. Please, don't do this."

Domenica stood tall. She studied Vic, who was still pleading with her to come back from the edge. He'd promised to take her home before. "Lies! All lies! You promised before, and we didn't go."

"You were in the hospital, remember?"

"Yes, I remember," Domenica screamed. "You forced me to go. Approved the straightjacket. The padded room. You left me to rot!"

"You'd tried to hurt yourself. Look at your wrists."

Domenica looked at her forearms. The skin was pristine, unmarked. Vic was lying. There was no way out of this situation. Either she gave in to her husband's demands, or she freed herself once and for all.

Which would it be?

Live to fight another day. Or jump.