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24. Tasha

24

It's been two days since I've seen Matteo. After our midnight crash course in anatomy and how to make me come within minutes, he'd marched me to the safe room, where I spent the rest of the night locked up. I fell into a listless sleep, only to be woken by Rosalia in the morning. She didn't speak to me, only handed me a clean T-shirt to wear and indicated I should follow her up the stairs to my other room, which was stripped bare. Only a mattress on the floor remained, with basic toiletries in the bathroom, all my ruined underwear and the beautiful white dress gone.

Ever since then I've been a prisoner, feeling really kidnapped by the mob. I've been drifting through bouts of boredom, sleep, and anxiety attacks that made me hammer on the door. Nothing. It's as if I were abandoned. The only thing that keeps me going is the meals Rosalia brings to me, Burley following in tow, always on standby and watchful. I can see how people go mad when they're locked up in isolation.

A knock on my door makes me look up from where I'm huddled on the mattress, rocking myself. I've become used to that knock, three in quick succession, a pause and then another knock. I still. The tears come and go, born out of frustration and the knowledge that I've been abandoned by my dad—the man whom I did everything for. He has contacts, he has influence, he would know where Matteo lives, or he'll be able to figure it out. No SWAT team has stormed this fortress yet, and all I can think of is that Dad is out of his depth and got mixed up in some real dirty business.

For all I know, Dad is dead.

I've been sitting so long in this same position that my legs cramp when I straighten them. I'm halfway up when the door swings open and Rosalia stands there with a tray, Burley holding the door for her. They are such a contrast too. Burley is basically a giant, where Rosalia is delicate with soft doe eyes and a secretive smile. A smile I haven't seen since we had an hour of stupid girly shopping in this apartment, as if I were a Mafia queen and not a pawn.

"Breakfast," she says softly. "And some clothes." A bag is swinging from her arm. "You're to shower and get dressed."

"Why? Where am I going? Sicily?" The end of the road for me. I've wracked my brain, wondering how they're going to smuggle me out of the country, but then I realized they'll have everything in place to fly me out as if I'm going on vacation.

Rosalia steps into the room and puts the paper plate with peeled boiled eggs and croissants down, then drops the bag onto the mattress. She avoids my gaze as if I'm Medusa.

"Rosalia, please!" I'm getting desperate, reaching for her, but Burley steps closer, his eyes empty as he stares me down.

"Half an hour," he says and his wife scoots past him into the corridor.

The door clicks closed and the lock turns. I know nothing. I expect the worst and have nothing to do but wait for it to happen. Waiting is a killer in itself.

I pick up the bag and empty the contents onto the mattress. I almost cry when I spot a hairbrush, proper shampoo, conditioner, and very expensive body wash tucked in with some gorgeous golden ballet flats, a set of underwear from Esta's, and the pink dress I tried on for Matteo.

That man. He's had me in a total mind funk the past few days. Matteo left me with nothing to do but to relive every moment with him, every touch and every caress, only to now shatter me with the promise of sexual assault to eliminate my dad's debts.

I've done nothing to deserve this, but I'm starting to understand I'm part of a much bigger vendetta here. Collateral damage in some old men's feud.

It takes me only minutes to force down the food. Starving myself won't conserve my strength, and I haven't given up yet. Going to Sicily means there'll be road trips, flights, new locations: every one of them an opportunity to run and try to get away from him.

Half an hour later I'm ready, my hair still wet, but for the most part I should look presentable. When the door unlocks and Burley holds it open for me, I walk out and stare over the railing into the open plan living area. Matteo and three of his brothers are sitting at the dining room table, papers spread out before them, having a companionable morning coffee.

Assholes.

Matteo glances up and meets my gaze. If I could spit and know it would splatter on his face, I'd do so.

Burley has me by the elbow, directing me to the stairs. "Just so you know, luv, your dad is being held at gunpoint," he says softly. "If you don't do what Matteo says, he'll be executed."

He doesn't need to add that I'll be next. My knees cave, but Burley has me. I don't know how I get down the stairs, but I'm shaking by the time I get to the dining table.

Matteo stands, his gaze boring into mine, and if I weren't in shock, I'd tear at him with my kitten claws. He pulls out a chair for me and takes over from Burley, supporting me with a warm hand on my waist as I lower myself into the chair. A hand that has no business touching me so possessively. He gathers my hair so he can rest his hand on my bare neck and leans over to whisper, his warm breath a caress to my ear, "You look beautiful." He straightens. "Good morning, wife."

"What?" I've never been more grateful for a chair to hold me up. I'm not married. Am I? "Wife?" I spit out. "To you?" I glance up at him where he towers over me. "When? How?"

Several other thoughts zap through the sudden maze in my head. No more virginity auction? Thank God. Did Dad sell me to this man? How could he? And then, probably the most frightening thought: what would it be like to be married to the Mafia? To Matteo?

"Just on paper, kitten." Matteo lets go as he sits down. "For now." He reaches for a cup of coffee and takes a sip. The brothers, who just look at me with sickening humor in their eyes, seem to have enjoyed breakfast together. Remnants of a continental breakfast are pushed to the side, making space for an array of documents. Passports… a marriage certificate… what the hell…

"Would you like some coffee?" Matteo asks as he reaches for the French press.

"To throw in your face, yes," I blurt out.

Deep chuckles circle the table.

Matteo shoots me a sideways glance, but it doesn't stop him from pouring me a black coffee and pushing the creamer in my direction. "Surely you don't want to start your honeymoon like that, kitten. All claws. Ruining that perfect dress."

"Honeymoon?" I close my eyes, trying my best to be immune to his compliments. This asshole turns on the charm like a tap. "Let me guess, to Sicily, to meet your charming fucked-up extended family?"

"She catches on quick," Stephano says as he gathers the papers out of harm's way.

"It's selective," Matteo says, placing the coffee in front of me.

The coffee's aroma wafts up my nose. It's been days since my fix and every cell in my body begs for a caffeine kick. I don't reach for it though, suspicious of everything.

Matteo leans over and brushes his shoulder against mine to reach for an iPad I hadn't noticed before. "Have a coffee with your dad, Tasha. Let him wish you all the happiness."

What the actual?—

Matteo unlocks the iPad and it immediately lights up to video footage of my dad, at our breakfast table by the bay window, overlooking the beautiful garden and the pool, all of which seem as far away as an undiscovered planet right now.

"Dad?" I call out, wanting to grab the iPad, but Matteo rests a warm hand over mine.

Dad looks up, his eyes rimmed red, looking terrified. It's only then that I notice the other person in the video and the automatic rifle he has in his hand. There's no sound, but my dad speaks. I try to lipread, but all I make out is Tasha... I love you, but that could be wishful thinking.

"Come on, drink up, we have a plane to catch," Matteo says. "A plane which you are going to board without giving me any trouble, understand?"

"Understand?" Rage engulfs me, but I can't do anything but fist my hands so hard that my nails bite into my skin. "Perfectly."

"Good girl. Bottoms up."

I'm starting to hate so many words. His vocabulary is very limited when it comes to me. I glance to my coffee. This might be my last one on American soil. It might also be drugged.

I want to be drugged. I don't want to know what happens next.

Without further thought, I take the cup and swig the lukewarm coffee down in one gulp. I bang the cup down on its saucer and stand so abruptly that all the men around the table startle and have their hands on their guns in a split second.

"What?" I say, glaring at them. "Let's get this fucking show on the road."

Right now I'll do anything to stop them from tormenting my dad. He has aged a hundred years in the days I haven't seen him, and I now know why he'll never come for me. They've threatened to kill me if he does, just as they threaten to kill him if I don't comply. For now, going through the motions seems like the only way to stay alive.

Stephano drops his hand away from his gun where it's hidden in his jacket. "You should gag this one."

"And tie her up," Dominic adds.

"Better safe than sorry." Benedict is still sitting. Clearly it takes more than a female tantrum to stir him.

Matteo hasn't moved but stands with the same level of control I've come to know from him. When he turns to me, there's a sparkle in his eyes. He reaches for my face, and his fingertips are feather soft as he gathers my hair behind my ear. The touch blazes down my body right to my sex where every memory of that night flares up, making me glow with unexpected and unwanted longing. For him.

"The person who gags my wife, or ties her up, gets a bullet in the head." His tone is even, measured, and terrifyingly calm.

I don't doubt for a second that he'd actually kill someone for simply gagging me. His words do something to me that I can't even understand. He's ignored me for two days. Two whole torturous days after what he did to me, after what he made me feel. After what he's promised to do to me when we get to Sicily.

Asshole.

Gorgeous, hideous, beautiful, tortured asshole. Stockholm syndrome must be real because I'm standing next to a madman I'm falling for.

I must be losing my mind.

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