“Hold still, signorina, if you don’t want to become my pincushion,” the seamstress, Anna, muttered through a mouthful of pins. “And breathe in. I thought we discussed losing five pounds?”
Taking a deep breath that sent a hundred pinpricks shooting through my ribcage as it expanded, I pulled myself up as tall as I could and sucked my stomach in like I was doing a crunch. It was practically concave, yet it wasn’t small enough for Anna.
“Better?” Considering I had already lost some weight, thanks to several days running through the wilderness and barely eating, it seemed a cruel jab, but I was used to it.
She mumbled something critical, and my eyes lifted to Angelo, standing at the door. He stared at Anna with a deep frown.
The sound of male voices drifted in from outside.
My father had finally decided to check in with me. I hadn’t seen him since I’d been rescued from Nikolai and we’d returned to the compound. The men had taken an unconscious Nikolai away, and I’d been free to shower and huddle in my bed, feeling all kinds of things I didn’t know how to deal with. Relief to be home was undeniable. I was the idiot prisoner who liked to lock themselves in and felt safer that way. Guilt was another thing that weighed heavily on me. I didn’t know what was happening to Niko in the bowels of the house, but I was the reason he was there.
Because he’d saved me. Because he hadn’t let me fall.
The door opened, and Anna turned away, plastering a sycophantic smile on her face. I pulled one pin from the narrow waist of the gown, giving myself a very crucial inch to breathe. I hid the pin in my palm and prepared to meet my father.
He strode into the room like he owned it, which he did. The dressmaker’s shop was just one of the small businesses that Antonio owned locally. It wasn’t enough for him to run guns and drugs into Atlantic City, Trenton, or Newark. He’d also strong-armed businesses to sign over hefty percentages of ownership in return for protection.
In our tiny town in New Jersey, he owned over seventy-five percent of the businesses and was closing in on more every day. Clearly, Antonio had wished to be born a feudal lord of times past, owning everything as far as the eye could see and forcing peasants to come and pay homage to him in return for allowing them to exist in his domain.
He might be my father, but I had no illusions as to the kind of man he was.
“Sofia, how is it going? Ciao, Anna.” He strolled to a velvet viewing couch and looked me over critically.
These monthly visits to Anna’s dress shop were always a low point. My father dictated not only where I went and who I was friends with but also how I dressed and looked, down to the smallest details. He was more interested in my diet and weight than I’d ever been. When I was younger, he made me stand on the scale in front of him. As an adult, he relied on Anna to monitor me once a month. Like any thoroughbred animal that aimed to fetch a good price at market, I had to be carefully maintained.
I dug the little pin into my palm. It helped to soothe my black mood and hopeless anger from showing on my face.
“It’s going well. I think we were nearly finished,” I said, smiling hopefully at Anna.
She flushed, wringing her hands. “Almost, sir. I need to make some adjustments and let the waist out a little.”
Antonio reached for a broadsheet newspaper, so creaseless it looked like it had been ironed. He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Why are Anna’s measurements wrong, Sofia?”
Because she’s a sadist who likes to control my body almost as much as you do.
I forced a shrug. “Water retention?”
My father’s flat stare told me he didn’t appreciate my excuse. “I’ll let Carmella know you’re not to have salt in that case, in anything.”
Great, sounds delicious. I swallowed the hard knot of hate and anger in my throat and simply nodded. In my head, I was brave, a spitfire who talked back to my father and didn’t let him grind me to dust under his heel. In my head, I liked the person I was, but none of it was real. The only person I’d ever been real with, I’d helped to lock away in the basement. Only Nikolai Chernov had heard that internal voice, the man I should be more scared of than my own family. What that meant, I had no fucking clue.
For a second, furious tears threatened to dash down my cheeks, but a quick jab of the pin into the soft skin at the base of my thumb helped to calm my upset. I pushed it further, cupping my hand to catch the drops of blood.
There it was. The calm in the eye of the storm.
“Of course, Father,” I replied dutifully.
“You owe me, Sofia, for the engagement debacle. The stain on your reputation is a stain on mine, and I won’t allow it.”
I dropped my father’s emotionless gaze. Not only was I an asset to be leveraged, but being anything short of perfect was intolerable to Antonio De Sanctis.
“Now, come on, Zio, it can hardly be Sofia’s fault that she isn’t to everyone’s tastes,” a loud, arrogant voice called.
A shudder went through me as my cousin drifted into view, followed by my uncle. Silvio was a good ten years older than me and one of the worst people I’d ever met. I hated him even more than my father. My hatred for Silvio knew no bounds, only growing since the fateful night with Nikolai and the poker game that had changed my life.
Silvio gave me a long, slow look from the tips of my bare toes peeking beneath the hem of the pale dress up to my shoulders. His dark eyes gleamed with want, the kind that made my skin crawl. He wet his thick lips, an unconscious movement, and shifted his belt a fraction.
Only the pin in my hand kept me steady. I fantasized about jumping off the platform and striding to Silvio. I’d slap him for looking me over like I was a piece of meat in a butcher’s shop. He’d have no idea the pin was in my hand until it stuck in one of the jelly-like orbs currently focused on my chest.
“Sofia? Don’t daydream, it makes you look simple,” my father snapped at me, breaking me out of my reverie.
“Sorry, Papa,” I muttered. A windup toy lurching back into its pre-programmed routine.
He studied me with reptilian eyes, unblinking and unemotional, then turned his attention to Anna. “For this dress, Sofia will need something pretty underneath, matching, white, something that reflects her purity.”
“Underneath?” I repeated lamely as Anna pulled out a notepad and jotted down my father’s sickening orders. “Why does it matter what’s beneath?”
“Why do you think?” Silvio snickered by the door.
A look from my father shut him up. “That’s not for you to worry about. Since you’re spoiled goods in the eyes of society, we have to move quickly to fix the situation before you become worthless. I need you to do as you’re told and not waste time arguing about it. Don’t disappoint me again, figlia mia.”
The “or else” was unspoken. We both knew what it meant. Or else I’d disappoint Antonio. Men had died for less. A muted hysteria bubbled up inside me. He had someone in mind. As soon as I thought it, I knew it was true.
He stared at me expectantly.
I tried to remember how to pretend not to hate him and plastered on my best daughter’s smile. “I know, Papa. I won’t.”
He stared me down for a moment longer, and I met his gaze unflinchingly. Antonio didn’t like those who refused to make eye contact with him.
“Brava, in that case, get changed. The dress will look fine once you slim down. Now, let’s go. We can’t be late for Sunday lunch.”
He left without another word, and I scrambled to get ready. He’d only wait five minutes for me to get changed. I knew from experience. I caught sight of myself in the mirror. With Antonio’s words echoing in my head, I’d never felt more lacking or more scared. He had someone in mind to marry me off to; it was obvious.
Soon, the days on the run with Nikolai would be the last taste of freedom I’d ever have. How fucked up was that? To feel freer in the hands of a captor than my family was a sobering realization. Most of all, for the first time in forever, I hadn’t felt lonely, not at all. I didn’t know what the hell to make of the disjointed, ill-fitting emotions bumbling around inside me. So I did what I always did: got dressed, plastered a good-girl smile on my face, and hurried to follow my father’s commands. Nikolai was right. I was his lastochka. A caged bird with clipped wings, too scared to make a bid for freedom.
On Sundays, the De Sanctis family hosted lunch at Casa Nera.
It was a tradition as old as I was, older perhaps. I could barely remember what it had been like when my mother was alive, but these days, it was my least favorite day of the week.
A host of skilled Italian chefs put on a feast to remember while more still ferried the food and drinks back and forth to the powerful men at the table. Being invited to Sunday dinner was a significant sign of favor and respect from the boss. A standing invitation was for family only. For that reason, Silvio and his father, Franco, attended every single Sunday and made me even more uncomfortable than I usually was in my childhood home. Since I’d been old enough to fill out a bra, maybe even before, lecherous eyes had followed me around the table as I caved my body inward and prayed to disappear.
Tonight, Silvio’s dark eyes followed me around the table. The sight of his self-satisfied gloating only sent my mind downstairs to the basement. Was Nikolai okay? The only good thing about this Sunday dinner was the man sitting at the far end of the table with a small cast on his lower leg. Gino was alive and well. He was heartily tucking into his first Sunday lunch at the boss’s table, thanks to his heroism in attempting to stop the escapee. Every time I caught his eye, I couldn’t help my grin.
“And where do you think you’re going? You don’t have time for your cousin, is that it?” Silvio’s hard hand circled my wrist as I passed out espresso topped with sambuca after dinner. My father thought it important for his only daughter to show her wifely capabilities and obedience.
“Sofia?”
The fingers holding my wrist tightened until I bit down a gasp of pain. The small china cup in my hand rattled in its saucer before spilling across the table in a dark stain.
“Madonna!” Silvio spit at me, drawing all eyes to us as he threw a napkin down dramatically on the spoiled tablecloth.
“I’m sorry. I was daydreaming,” I muttered tonelessly.
Silvio smirked, reveling in causing a scene and embarrassing me into speaking to him. “Well, what are you going to do? You spilled coffee on my pants. Clean it up,” he said, his voice dropping toward the last words, for only my ears.
My eyes darted to his. Silvio had none of the good looks of the De Sanctis blood. My father was a trim man, wiry and elegant, even in his advancing age. His brother, Franco, was the same.
Silvio was only a little taller than me and didn’t resemble either of them. His short neck, hairy knuckles, and thick shoulders marked him clearly apart from my brother and me. Since losing his hand, he had only gotten heavier and meaner.
It was understandable. I couldn’t imagine being in his position. If Silvio had been a different type of man, his contrasting looks would be a welcome sight, but he was as far from a good man as could be. I had nothing against how Silvio looked, but I had a lot against my cousin coming on to me.
“Well, hurry, it’s getting cold,” he said to me, sitting back and spreading his heavy thighs on the velvet seat below.
“You must be kidding, right?” I strove for nonchalance in my tone when I really wanted to scream until my throat burned. I wished I could slosh the bottle of liqueur across the drapes and tablecloth and light it all on fire. I’d sit at the head of the table and watch some of the most powerful men in New York scramble away from the flames.
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Silvio’s eyes lost their smarmy glint and turned ugly with aggression. If there was anything a man like Silvio hated, it was being refused something he wanted. He felt entitled to everything and everyone, and apparently, that extended to me.
Anger, white-hot and flameless, roared through me in a well-worn path. I was reaching for the espresso pot before I could help it. The last few days had used up my patience, and worrying about Nikolai was sending my usual good behavior out the window. Without another thought, I tilted the full pot of burning hot coffee into Silvio’s lap.
“Che cazzo!” He shot up, knocking the coffee pot from my hand so it clattered across the floor.
Conversation in the room petered out as twenty pairs of eyes turned to us.
“Sofia, what’s happening?” Antonio called to me from the other end of the table.
Silvio was glaring at me, his hand raised toward me.
“Go ahead. Hit me in front of my father,” I goaded him in a furious mutter.
According to my father’s rules, only he could hit me. Discipline was a father’s duty, and he was well-practiced at dispensing it.
Silvio swore and let his hand drop. “You stupid bitch, if you had any brains at all, you’d be on your knees licking up your mess. Instead, you’re mouthing off like Antonio will never die.”
“If you had any brains at all, you’d be thanking me for spilling coffee and not sambuca and a match.”
My quiet words sent his eyebrows up his shiny forehead. He shook his head, his expression incredulous. “You really think Antonio and Renato can protect you forever?”
“Are you threatening my father, because that sounds like something I should tell him,” I pointed out starkly.
I wouldn’t, of course, Antonio would never take my word over Silvio’s simply because he was a man. Regardless, the words made me feel stronger. Even if the safety I felt under my father’s watch at Casa Nera might be imaginary, I needed it. Even if he was my jailor, he’d let no one else hurt me. Well, until he married me off, and then I’d be my husband’s problem.
Silvio shook his head, blowing out a hard sigh as if the urge to wring my neck was nearly too strong. “I’m threatening you. Watch your back,” he tossed over his shoulder at me before striding out of the room, fussing with his wet slacks.
I watched him go and then turned to the burning eyes staring a hole in my face. Antonio sat with his fingers steepled, frowning at me over his fingertips. Conversation had resumed, but his attention didn’t waver.
He summoned me to his side with a jerk of his head. “You look tired. Check on our guest and make sure he eats something. Kirill Chernov is cutting us a nice slice of profit and will continue to do so, but we can’t let his brother die, unfortunately. Take Angelo with you.”
My heart leaped at the same time as nerves crashed against it inside my weak chest. Did I seriously want to see Nikolai? Yes, I did. I wanted to know how he was with my own eyes, crazy as that was. He’d saved my life only hours ago, and nothing could change that. The very fact of it had changed us both. No one had ever sacrificed something for me before. It filled me with an unfamiliar sensation of gratitude and guilt.
I left the room, anticipation brewing in my veins. Would he hate me now that he knew I’d betrayed him? Would he turn his back to me or be furious? For some twisted reason, I felt like I’d prefer his wrath to his dismissal.
I was almost in the kitchen when Silvio caught up to me. Clamping a hard hand on my arm, he dragged me down a small corridor. Angelo waited at the top, his face impassive. My bodyguard was well-versed in the hierarchy in Casa Nera and knew better than to interfere. Silvio and Franco were above my father’s rules when it came to me.
“What is it?” I demanded, ripping my arm from Silvio’s grip.
Silvio leered at me. There was a note of excitement in his eyes. The man looked like he was on something strong, and for all I knew, he was.
“Did Chernov say anything to you about what happened five years ago?”
I rolled my eyes. “What, the poker game?”
Silvio flinched. “No, stupida, the hand.”
The mention of Silvio’s missing appendage pulled my eyes toward his empty jacket sleeve. A faint feeling of nausea rose in me at the sight. “What would he say? You made a bet, lost, and decided not to keep it. He took your hand in punishment. What else is there to say?”
The memory of what had happened to Silvio’s hand turned my stomach. Silvio had never elaborated on the exact events, but I knew it was Nikolai who had cut it off, despite my cousin lying to Antonio. Silvio had no doubt feared telling his capo why he’d gotten into that situation in the first place, so had made up an excuse instead.
I knew it was Nikolai because he’d sent me the severed hand in a gift-wrapped box. He’d placed it inside my locker at school for me to open before class. I’d never forget the sight of the severed hand nestled in pretty pink tissue paper.
Silvio snorted and looked back and forth along the corridor, stepping into me. His eyes turned speculative. “So, what happened between you two?”
I fought to hide my guilty expression. “Nothing.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Nothing? You mean to tell me Nikolai fucking Chernov had you alone for days, and nothing happened? You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
“Because you don’t want Antonio to find out you’re more damaged goods than he thought you were,” Silvio said. He pressed me back one more step, and I shuddered. “Maybe you gave it up to him, or he took it, and you’re covering for him.”
“If he took anything from me, I wouldn’t hide it. I’d let my father kill him. Him and any other man who tried it,” I said, my voice barely wavering.
Silvio paused, narrowing his eyes at me. The tension between us swarmed with our shared past, his lust, and my disgust.
Then he smirked. “Well, maybe I should suggest to Zio Antonio that he have you checked. I’m sure I could scare up a doctor who does that sort of thing, or I’ll volunteer. What do you think, cousin? A little just-the-tip action to prove that you didn’t give it up to the punk downstairs.”
His hand was still holding my arm, and his thumb stroked upward, and I shivered with anger. My skin felt like it might crawl right off my body.
“Take your goddamn hand off me, or I’ll go to my father and tell him everything. All about the poker game, your hand, and the fact that you have a pathetic little hard-on for your own cousin.”
My scathing tone sent red crawling up Silvio’s face. He stepped back, and I pulled my arm firmly from his grip. Weakness was a siren call to men like Silvio, and I couldn’t afford to show it.
“Now, if you’d care to fuck off, I have something to do for the boss. The man who owns you, remember?” I drew my dignity around me like a cloak. I couldn’t let Silvio get to me. He was looking for a reaction, any tiny one would do, and I didn’t want to give him any kind of win.
He studied me for a long moment. I knew that look. Silvio might not be an intelligent man, but he was cunning in a way that unnerved me.
“You run along to that business then, but don’t forget, you aren’t alone with Chernov anymore. If I see even a hint of sympathy for the man who maimed me, I won’t hesitate to tell Antonio my suspicions, and that fucker won’t leave here alive.”
