When I crack open my eyelids, I blink a few times to make sure I’m not dreaming. My thoughts are muddy, my tongue is dry, and my wrists really hurt. There’s a weird medicinal taste in my mouth that I want to spit out, but I’m seriously low on saliva. I shake my head to try to get rid of the brain fog and get rewarded with a sharp pain in my shoulder.
Oh, that might be due to the fact that someone tied my wrists together with a rough rope and left me hanging by my arms.
I’m in a square room, about the size of a bedroom. Tiled floor, unfinished walls, and a narrow window near the ceiling that’s mostly covered with newspaper, but there’s bright light coming through the gaps. It faces somewhere outside. A soft trickle of a bossa nova song makes it past the glass.
Dread swoops in faster than my memory. Where the hell am I, and how did I get here? My toes bump against the ground. I quickly realize if I stand up straight, I can take my weight off my arms, so I do exactly that.
And then it hits me. Damiano’s office. Martina. His strange unnatural smile when he handed me that water.
He drugged me.
How long have I been out for? Judging by how sore my arms are, it must have been a while. I whirl in one direction, then the other. There’s a door with no handle. I try to kick at it with my foot, but it’s way too far for me to even come close to reaching it. Instead, I lose my balance and get rewarded with more agony in my arms.
Anger and fear struggle for dominance inside my chest. Why would he take me to this place and tie me up like some kind of animal? I tip my head back to look at my restraints.
Cold recognition spreads beneath my skin. Ropes suspended off a big fishing hook. It’s how Lazaro tied up Martina in our basement.
No, no, no. I fight the dreadful panic and the tears that spring to my eyes. This is payback. He’s punishing me.
I don’t understand. I helped his sister. Does he think I was working with Lazaro? Why wouldn’t he let me explain?
Explain what? a voice in my head asks. You were working with Lazaro.
My bottom lip wobbles. I’d forgotten the fundamental truth about myself.
I am not a good person.
No amount of explanations will change that.
A single tear trickles down my cheek, and before I can collect myself, I hear the door open.
My gaze immediately connects with his.
Gone is the put-together businessman. Damiano’s hair is tousled, and instead of his usual suit, he’s wearing a simple black T-shirt and a pair of broken in jeans. He’s looking at me like I’m a carcass at a butcher’s shop. There’s not a flicker of affection in those eyes. My lungs freeze under his icy stare.
What will he do to me? He loves his sister. I’ve gathered that much. Will he chop me up and put me in a nice big box with a bow for her to open?
I reel my imagination back in. He might be looking at me like he’s ready to kill me, but there’s only one killer in this room, and it’s not him.
Whatever penance he has planned for me, I deserve it. But the need to let him know that I never intended to hurt Martina is so strong that it itches beneath my skin.
“Damiano—”
“Shut up.”
Those two words feel like a slap. The sting of them sinks into my cheeks. Fear, heartbreak, and determination are strange emotions to experience together.
His steps carve a slow path around me.
I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Please, let me explain.”
He fists a hand in my hair and jerks my head back, working a frantic gasp out of me. He peers down at me with his dark, turbulent eyes. “No, let me explain something to you. When I tell you to do something, you shut up and do it.”
He’s so furious, he’s not acting like himself. “This isn’t you,” I say.
“Do you know who I am?” He moves his face closer to mine, searching my eyes for something.
“I don’t understand.”
He lets go of me and heaves a dry laugh. “Ah. So you know even less about me that I do about you.”
I swallow. My eye catches on a tattoo peeking from under the sleeve of his T-shirt. The two times I’ve seen Damiano without his shirt on it was too dark for me to notice it.
He sees what I’m looking at. “This isn’t something I advertise, but since you seem to be confused about what’s happening here, I’ll make an exception.” He turns his arm to me and lifts up his shirtsleeve.
It’s some kind of an insignia. Two branches of leaves around a castle with two towers. Above the castle is an intricate crown. I’ve never seen it before.
“This is the crest of Casal di Principe, the town in Campana where I was born,” he says.
Casal di Principe. Something nudges against my memory. Where have I heard that name before?
“It’s a town of twenty-one thousand people. Three thousand of them are under near constant police surveillance. Do you know why?”
I have some guesses. The hairs on the back of my neck stand straight. Why did Lazaro take Martina? What did he say—
“It’s because that little town is the stronghold of the Casalese clan. One of the most powerful clans in the Camorra. I have a feeling you know what the Camorra is.”
The Neapolitan mafia. I tug on my restraints, not because I think they might suddenly break this time, but because something far more primal and afraid awakens within me.
“The police think there’s been around one thousand murders carried out by the clan in the past thirty years. They’re wrong. I know because my father used to run the Casalese, and he kept an accurate count.”
He takes me by the chin and forces me to look him in the eyes. “The real number is ten thousand people,” he whispers. “And if you don’t tell me who you are, your name on the ledger will bring it to ten thousand and one.”
My chest rises and falls with breaths that are too fast. I can’t believe this. He’s not a businessman. He’s just another part of the cruel world I thought I’d managed to escape.
I missed all the signs.
Now, my brain rushes to put it all together. His father used to run the clan—he used past tense, so I assume that means he’s dead. Is Damiano the current don? Is that why everyone always seems so afraid of him?
This changes everything. If I tell him who I am, I’ll become a bartering chip once again.
“Ah. You understand now,” he says as his fingers dig into my chin. “Who are you?”
I squeeze my eyes shut. The song outside changes to another bossa nova tune. What are the chances someone will come help me if I scream? Probably zero. I have no reason to doubt what he’s just told me, which means he knows how to hide a person he doesn’t want to be found.
I jerk my chin out of his grip and turn my face away from him. “Let me go.”
There’s a moment of silence, and then he barks out a bitter laugh. “Why would I do that?”
“I helped your sister get away. Please, just let me go.”
“I don’t think so.” He runs his tongue over his top teeth and studies me. “But maybe I’ll consider it if you answer my questions. Why did you follow Martina to Ibiza?”
“I didn’t follow her. I had no idea she’d end up here. We were on the same flight to Barcelona, but then I came here on my own.”
“You expect me to believe it’s a coincidence you’re here?”
“What else would it be?”
“An assignment.”
My heart hammers against my chest. He thinks I’m working for my father? “I’m not working for anyone except you. I’ve already told you the truth. I’m here because I wanted to get away from my family.”
“You didn’t know I was Martina’s brother?”
“No! I didn’t even know her name until you introduced us in your office.”
“Why did your husband take her?”
I can’t help but notice the inflection in his tone on the word husband. I could tell Damiano what Lazaro said to me about Martina, but it might be the only piece of leverage I have. Until I have a better sense of what he plans to do with me, I can’t reveal it to him. “I don’t know.”
“You’re lying.”
I glance away from him. “My husband never told me anything.”
“Martina told me you shot him.”
“I have no idea if he’s dead or alive.”
He cups my face with his palms and moves my head until I’m looking at him again. “You don’t seem to be torn up over it.”
“It was an arranged marriage, not a love match.”
A tendril of softness creeps into Damiano’s gaze. Am I getting through to him? Maybe I can convince him to let me go after all.
“Why did you help Martina?” he asks.
“Because I wanted to. I didn’t want her to get hurt.”
He drags his thumb over my cheek. “What’s your name?”
“Ale Romero.”
That softness is gone in a flash.
“You know as well as I do that Ale Romero doesn’t exist,” he bites out, dropping his hands from me. “What’s your name?”
“Why does it matter? I’m not here to cause trouble. I never thought I’d see Martina again. Why won’t you let me go?”
“Because I won’t rest until everyone responsible for what happened to my sister and her friend is turned into fertilizer. Tell me your name and tell me who your husband worked for.”
He wants to get revenge against Papà. He’s already halfway there by unknowingly having the don’s oldest daughter in his hands. If he knows who I am, he’ll kill me, or he’ll trade me away for something more valuable.
“I’m not telling you my name.”
Darkness clouds his features. “I thought you wanted to explain everything.”
“That was before I knew who you really are.”
He processes my words for a long second. “Are you really so loyal to whatever outfit you belong to? You’d rather stay here than implicate them?”
A broken laugh escapes past my lips. He’s got it all completely wrong. I’d tell him the truth if I thought I could get a promise out of him. A promise not to trade me back to Papà, no matter what. But I know he’ll never give that to me in earnest while he’s hungry for revenge. At least if Damiano decides to kill me, I might get a quick death.
“Do what you must.”
He walks around me until I feel his presence against my back. My heart beats loudly over the distant sound of that hypnotic music. What is he going to do to me?
He steps closer, lining up our bodies. Brushing my hair to the side, he brings his lips to my exposed neck. “Tell me your name, or I swear, I’ll make you scream it.”
A shiver runs down my spine. “I’m not afraid of pain,” I say, but it doesn’t sound convincing even to my own ears. In truth, I am afraid of being hurt. After seeing the entire spectrum of pain in Lazaro’s basement, I think anyone who says otherwise is a liar.
If Damiano starts cutting into my flesh, I don’t know how long I’ll be able to keep my mouth shut.
A hand lands on my exposed midriff. I suck in a breath when his fingers start moving in circles over my skin.
His lips touch the shell of my ear. “Was everything you told me a lie?”
“Not everything,” I say.
“You’re a married woman. Why did you lie to me about being inexperienced in bed?”
My throat tightens. “I- I didn’t lie about that.”
His movements halt for a moment. “Your husband didn’t fuck you?”
“He did his marital duty on our wedding night, that’s all. Like I said, it wasn’t a love match.”
“Why did you decide to get involved with me?”
I exhale. “Because I liked you.”
He drags his hand over my shorts until it’s over my pubic bone. Heat swirls through my core. It seems my body hasn’t caught on to our current situation, and it’s still reacting to him in the same needy way. He presses the length of his body against me and lets me feel his hard-on against my lower back. “Did you like it when I made you come?” The words rumble inside his throat.
I drop my head back, resting it against his chest. He looks down at my shirt, and I know he can see the outline of my hard nipples. “Yes.”
He unhooks the buttons on my shorts, one by one, like some kind of a count down. It dawns on me that just because I lied to him about many things, doesn’t mean he was lying to me. Even made men have their moments of truth. What if despite everything, he still feels some affection for me? What if he doesn’t want to hurt me?
His fingers dip into my underwear and find my clit. “If you’re not afraid of pain,” he says in a way that makes it clear he knows I’m lying, “then what are you afraid of?”
I gasp with the first circle he makes. “This is an interesting method of interrogation.”
He pinches me with his index finger and thumb, and the pleasure heightens with an undercurrent of pain. I cry out. The multitude of things he’s making me feel is making my mind dull with a not-entirely unpleasant haze.
He nuzzles my neck with his nose and sets off a ticklish frisson over my skin. “Tell me your name.”
He’s trying to confuse me. To break me. I try tugging at the ropes, but my arms have numbed from being strung up for so long. “No.”
His other arm wraps around my waist, and he tugs me into him, hard. “I think you’re lying to me,” he rasps. “You might not be afraid of dying, but you don’t want it to hurt. And, Ale.” He leaves my clit alone, grabs my shorts with both of his hands, and tugs them down to my knees. “I can make it hurt.”
The first hard slap across my ass is so shocking, I’m not able to suppress the yelp that comes out. “Fuck!”
I can’t see him behind me, but the long breath he releases makes me think he’s enjoying this. My ass burns, and my face feels like it’s become liquid fire. Then he does something far worse. He grabs the throbbing flesh and kneads it with his long fingers, as if he’s trying to relieve the pain. The physical sensation makes me want to weep—from the pleasure and the pain. I bite down on my lip. This is humiliating, and yet deep inside of me, languid arousal forms.
“You’re sick,” I whisper.
Another hard slap. I whimper.
“I am,” he says, as he kneads my flesh again. “I’m going to enjoy making this ass raw.”
When he starts to move his hand lower, I try to move away, but he places one firm hand on my hips and pulls me back into him. His fingers find my entrance, and he makes a noise of satisfaction. “Cazzo. Isn’t it even sicker that you appear to be enjoying it? Or is that my cum you’re still wet with?” He pushes inside my wetness and thrusts his fingers in and out a few times. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to temper the building pleasure.
“I can make you my toy,” he says as he keeps his fingers moving. “I can make you feel all kinds of pain. Maybe I’ll leave you hanging here for weeks, using you as I see fit, until you’re dripping with my cum from every single one of your holes.”
A groan works its way out of my throat. He reaches around me and starts to rub my clit with his left hand while his right is thrusting in and out of me in perfect rhythm. Images from the beach flash behind my eyelids. God, it felt so good to be completely filled with him.
The music outside pulls me under its spell. I grind my ass into him and feel how hard he is inside his jeans. How is it possible we went from that tender moment by the ocean to this in the span of a few hours?
“Do you like that?” he asks. “Do you want to be my captive whore? I’ll make you wear me for days before I let you wash me off your skin.”
“Shit.” I’m too far gone on my way to the promised land to analyze what he’s saying and why it’s driving me absolutely insane. The need to come builds until it’s the only thing in the entire world that matters.
Then everything stops. “Tell me your name.”
“No, no, no,” I pant. “Please.”
He won’t let me grind on his hand. “Name.”
I groan in frustration as the orgasm moves further and further out of my reach. But with every second, my brain turns back on. “No.”
He makes an angry noise. “I’ll let you think on it for the night.”
“Please, let me down. My arms hurt.”
He stops in front of me. His eyes are ablaze, and I can see he’s still hard, but I know better than to think his physical attraction to me is going to make him cave to my request. “No,” he says, mocking my consistent response. His gaze travels up my arms, and a flash of anger colors his face, but then it’s gone.
I watch his broad back as he leaves and then glance over at the window.
The sun still hasn’t set outside.
I’ll have an endless night to survive down here alone.
