I step on the lawn and head toward the garage, making sure I walk a few more feet over to the left than I did yesterday. The camera mounted on the lamppost by the driveway covers a wider angle than I thought, and I need to determine how much wider.
Every morning when I arrive at the Pisano mansion, I take a seemingly casual stroll around the grounds, and to anyone who might wonder, it probably looks like I’m just walking around while waiting for my charge to get ready. However, there is nothing random in my intent.
The map of the Pisano property, which is pinned on my wall, has all camera positions marked with a circle around each, showing the approximate area it covers. I don’t rely on approximation, so every morning, I take the path I believe will avoid the camera-monitored spaces. When I get home at night, I play that morning’s recording, note the spots where the cameras picked me up, and adjust my route the next time. During the ten days of reconnaissance, I’ve established most of the locations on the driveway and the front lawn where cameras don’t reach. A week or so more, and I’ll have the whole property scouted.
The door on the second-floor balcony opens, and Ravenna Pisano steps out, wearing a long white satin robe. I take a step behind a thick beech tree so I can watch her without being seen. Her black hair is gathered in a bun, as always, and even from this distance, I can see she’s wearing heavy makeup. It creates such a contrast with her delicate gown as it flutters in the wind. She resembles one of the marble statues scattered around the lawn. Cold. Untouchable.
Her husband called me this morning, giving me her schedule for the day and asking if I have anything to report. As I do every morning, I said nothing out of the ordinary transpired the previous day. But the thing is, what Rocco Pisano considers ordinary is anything but.
His wife doesn’t seem to have any friends or even acquaintances. Other than her mother, she never meets anyone. Shopping, spa treatments, lunches . . . she always goes alone or with her husband. Yesterday, I took her to a park where she spent three hours just walking around before I drove her home.
I don’t know why the fuck I can’t stop thinking about her. From the moment I set eyes on her, she’s been constantly popping into my head. I have no business having thoughts about Rocco Pisano’s wife other than deciding how I’m going to kill her, but the notions that flood my mind have nothing to do with her body covered in blood. Just the opposite.
I imagine my fingers in her hair after I pull it out of that damn bun. My hands on her milky white skin, exploring her sinful body while she moans under me. Trailing soft kisses along the line of her delicate neck where I had planned to slice it open. Just thinking about her makes me hard.
The logical part of me feels sick about that. I haven’t touched a woman for eight years because neither sex nor any other kind of physical indulgence have interested me in the least. Revenge was my only desire. I lived for it. Nothing else mattered. And now, I’m lusting after one of my targets. It’s like fate has decided to royally fuck with me.
Ravenna Pisano turns around and goes back inside, closing the balcony door in her wake. I stay hidden behind the tree for almost half an hour, trying to push away the images of her naked body under mine. And failing.
* * *
“I’m just going to grab some breakfast and then we can leave,” Mrs. Pisano says as she descends the grand staircase that bisects the house into the two wings, then crosses the foyer and heads toward the hallway leading to the east part of the main floor.
The enormous dining room is in the opposite part of the house, and it’s where she always has her meals, even when she eats alone. It’s rather idiotic, in my opinion, for her to sit by herself at a table long enough to seat twelve, but it seems that’s the way things work around here.
I follow her down the hallway which leads to the kitchen, using the opportunity to commit this part of the house to memory. Only the maids and the housekeeper have gone into this passage, so I’ve avoided it while Rocco has been home because I don’t want to raise suspicion. But he left early this morning, before my arrival.
“Could I get some ham and cheese, Abby?” Ravenna Pisano’s voice reaches me from the room further down the hall.
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Pisano,” the housekeeper’s clipped voice replies, “but the boss said only bread and water.”
I stop in my tracks a step away from the door leading to the kitchen.
“May I get milk instead of water?”
The satisfaction in the housekeeper’s tone of voice isn’t lost on me as she replies, “Mr. Pisano was very clear in his guidelines on the meals I’m to prepare for you. Should I call him and ask about your request?”
“No, of course, not. This is perfectly fine, Abby.”
I grit my teeth and step inside the kitchen. Ravenna Pisano is standing by the counter, holding a glass of water in one hand and a plate in the other. A plate with a single piece of bread on it.
“Get out,” I say.
Both women look at me with surprise and shock in their eyes. I meet the housekeeper’s gaze. “Now, Abby.”
She blinks at me in confusion and rushes across the kitchen toward the door. As she passes, I reach out and grab her upper arm.
“And keep your mouth shut, unless you want me to shut it for you.” I bend to whisper in her ear. “Permanently.”
Abby nods and dashes out of the kitchen. I close the door once she’s through and turn to face Mrs. Pisano, who stares at me with wide eyes.
I walk past her and pull out a chair from a small table next to her. “Sit.”
She regards the chair for a few moments, then places her glass and plate on the table and takes a seat.
I head to a big black fridge in the corner and open it, scanning the items within. I locate milk and cheese, but I don’t see ham anywhere. After I move some of the contents around, I find two packs of sliced ham behind a row of condiments. I slam the fridge doors closed and carry the food to the table where Mrs. Pisano is sitting with her eyes glued to her plate.
Tempering my disgust with this fucked-up situation, I place the groceries in front of her in the same order she asked for them—ham, cheese, and, finally, a jug of milk—then I turn around and leave the kitchen.
* * *
The traffic light changes to red. I pull to a stop behind a white truck and look in the rearview mirror. Mrs. Pisano is sitting with her eyes focused on her lap.
She hasn’t uttered a word since she exited the kitchen this morning. I took her on another shopping spree and then to her mother’s place, where she again covertly left some of the things she bought. A sweater and a shawl this time.
The initial time I witnessed this, I thought the clothes may have been for her mother. But once I had a chance to consider what was happening, I realized that both women are roughly the same size. Since all those items seemed too large for her, the clothes Mrs. Pisano stashed behind the couch must be for someone else. Before we leave, I noticed her slip a piece of jewelry under the cushion of the sofa. We didn’t visit any jewelry stores today, so I assume it’s something of hers.
The light turns green, and I move my eyes back to the road, but the scene from this morning lingers in my mind.
“Why?” I ask.
It’s been eating at me for hours. Why would that son of a bitch control what his wife fucking eats? And, more importantly, why in hell do I give a fuck?
“Excuse me?”
“The breakfast,” I say.
When she doesn’t reply, I glance in the rearview mirror, expecting to find her glaring at me for daring to ask. She’s not glaring. The expression on her face is hard to interpret. Her lips are pressed tight, and her eyes are bulging. An instant later, she bursts out laughing.
It’s like magic. Unrestrained, high-pitched laughter that reminds me of chirping birds. I should be watching the road, but I can’t take my eyes off her. I’m so captivated by the sight that I ease my foot off the gas pedal so we don’t crash and stare at her.
“I’m sorry, but the breakfast?” She snorts and erupts into another round of giggles. “Do you have something against compound sentences?”
I want her to keep laughing but I’m not sure how to manage that. In all the time I’ve spent in the Pisano household, I don’t think I’ve seen Ravenna Pisano laugh once.
“Maybe,” I say.
She shakes her head and wipes under her eyes with her fingers. “The breakfast is one of Rocco’s things. He likes to emphasize that he’s the sole provider in our household, so, sometimes, when he’s not home during a meal, I only get bread and water as a reminder.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel. “How often is sometimes?”
“A couple of times a month.”
A horn blares somewhere behind us. I step on the gas pedal and turn my focus back to dealing with traffic. When I look in the rearview mirror a moment later, Mrs. Pisano isn’t smiling anymore.
We drive the rest of the way to the mansion in silence. I try really hard to keep my eyes on the road, but they keep wandering to that damn mirror every couple of minutes. After I park in front of the house, I pick up the shopping bags from the passenger seat and get out. Mrs. Pisano has already left the car and is walking toward the front door, clutching the sides of her white coat at her chest.
Ravenna
I’ve been so deep in thought that I realize Alessandro has followed me up the stairs only after I come to a stop in front of my bedroom door. Taking a deep breath, I turn around and reach out to take my bags, but when my fingers wrap around the ribbon handles, he doesn’t release them.
“Has your husband been hurting you?” Alessandro’s deep voice comes from above my head.
My body goes still. I swallow and, not looking up, shake my head.
His huge hand enters my field of vision as he takes my chin between his fingers and tilts my head up. I should be intimidated by his towering over me while his dark piercing eyes bore into mine, but his touch is featherlight, and he doesn’t make me feel threatened. His gaze is steady, and I realize his eyes aren’t black, but the deepest shade of blue.
“I could have sworn they are black,” I mumble.
“What?”
“Your eyes.”
The tip of his thumb starts moving to the side, tracing the line of my jaw. A tingling starts in my stomach. I close my eyes for a moment and enjoy his touch.
“I asked, is he hurting you?”
Can I trust him? Should I risk telling him the truth? If it was just my life on the line, I would. But I can’t risk the lives of my mother and brother. If Rocco finds out I’m trying to escape, he would probably kill us all.
“No.” I open my eyes. “Of course not.”
Alessandro nods and releases his hold on the bags. The finger on my chin lingers for a moment longer before he turns around and heads back down the hall.
I take off my coat, then carry my purchases to the bed and start putting away the things I’ve bought. Silk blouses. Cashmere sweaters. Shoes that cost more than six months of my mom’s rent. Rocco insists that I wear only particular brands, preferably something where the logo or labels are visible. Sometimes, I feel like a walking billboard, advertising just how rich my husband is.
People love to talk behind my back, especially at parties. They gossip about how well I did, snatching a prize like Rocco. A real-life fairytale about a poor girl who ends up married to a capo. One who showers her with expensive jewelry and clothes. They have no clue what happens behind closed doors, and how those shiny trinkets are used to cover up the bruises.
I would gladly trade it all to get my old life back.
My family, who I’m allowed to visit only under supervision. Friends, who these days turn their heads in the other direction when I happen to unexpectedly meet them while I’m out. I’ve stopped calling, so they think I believe I’m too good for them now. And my dreams of going to college and finding a good job so that I can help my mom. I want those back.
But most of all, I wish I still had my hopes of getting married for love. The realization that I’ll probably never have a family, was the hardest blow. I’m not sure if Rocco is capable of having kids, but even if he is, I could never bring a child into this mess. The Viagra placebo tablets are not the only pills Melania has been supplying me with.
Once I have all the shoes and clothes put away in the closet, I reach for the last bag and take out the black velvet dress. Rocco sent me the link to this particular garment a few days ago, ordering me to buy it for the upcoming party. Like all other dresses he makes me wear, it’s short, tight, and shows too much cleavage. I put the awful gown on a hanger and walk out onto the balcony that overlooks the front yard. It’s chilly outside, but I don’t mind.
Close to the iron gazebo that’s located some distance beyond the garage, a figure of a man lurks. Alessandro doesn’t seem to be bothered by the cold as he stands, unmoving, and observes the surroundings. I lean my shoulder on the balcony doorway and follow his gaze, trying to figure out what he’s looking at. He’s at the fringe of a nice enough garden, but there is nothing overly interesting there. Scattered trees, rose bushes that are all dry now, and a few life-size marble sculptures Rocco had ordered. My husband believes that these make the garden look more sophisticated.
Alessandro tilts his head up, looking over at the garden light a few feet in front of him, then looks to the right toward the driveway, where a lamppost illuminates the wide access route. A few seconds later, he heads toward the mansion. He looks deep in thought as he walks straight ahead, then changes course, slightly wavering to the left for a dozen or so feet before turning back to the house. When he reaches the edge of the driveway, he shifts his track once again. The corner of my lips spring upward. What is he doing, going around in a zigzag?
As he reaches the edge of the lawn, he comes to a stop just below my balcony. I step forward and lean over the railing just as he looks up. Our gazes meet.
The wrought iron railing under my palms feels hot compared to the coldness in my bodyguard’s eyes as he watches me.
“Get inside,” he barks.
“Why?”
His gaze moves from my face to my silk blouse. “It’s cold.”
With that, he turns around and heads toward his car parked in the driveway. The fallen leaves and road salt crunch under the tires as he reverses and drives toward the gate, disappearing from view. It must be six already since that’s when his shift ends. He never leaves a minute early, even when there is nothing for him to do.
Maybe I could ask him to take me to one of the malls in the neighboring borough tomorrow. I can pretend I’m searching for something particular, and that would allow me to spend more time with him. I like the feeling of having him near, even if he doesn’t talk much. I could pretend to stumble again, like I did a few days ago and hoped he’d take my hand to steady me. He did. And for those few seconds, while his huge fingers held mine, I felt like no one could do me harm.
My father’s face rises in front of my eyes, his preaching words fill the recesses of my mind. Marriage is for life, Ravenna. The sanctity of marriage is the foundation of our society.
Well, I seem to recall something about husbands loving their wives, and there being an equal amount of respect and understanding when it comes to marriage, too. None of those things reside in this house. I hate my husband with a passion so strong that, each day, it’s becoming harder to hide. Does it make it okay, then, to be attracted to another man if my husband is a bastard?
Later that night, I wake up covered in sweat. It’s not the first occurrence. The difference is, this time, it’s not a nightmare about something my husband has done. It’s a dream about him. My bodyguard. The sweat is not the product of fear but of the overwhelming pleasure that engulfed my dreams where he slammed into me—again and again—as his brooding dark eyes bore through mine.
