CHAPTER 2
1383 Words
Chapter 2
Bella
A flicker of light on my face, and I hate it. I always switch off the light when am sleeping, I slowly open my eyes to an unfamiliar white fluorescent bulb which flickers above my head.
My pulse starts racing. What in the world is happening? Where am I?
The smell of leather, sweat, and something else I can’t yet place fills my nostrils.
Definitely an unfamiliar territory now. My head throbs, I feel a pounding behind my eyes, then I try to move, but the moment I shift, I hear a sharp clink.
My wrist cuffed.
I blink, squinting through the dim light, pacing around the room. One of my arms is chained to a metal chair, and I looked down, even my legs, too. My ankles strapped tightly, the edges biting into my skin with each movement.
Heat creeping up my neck as my heart hammering against my ribs. I yank against the restraints, but it’s no use; whoever did this had it spot on.
Breathe, Isa. Just breathe.
My heart trying to escape my ribs, my throat went dry. What is this?
Think Isa, think.
Adrenaline rushing in, suddenly the memories from the gallery flooding in mind, Ana asking me if I hired security, then shattered glass, the screams, then someone dragging me, then his voice, his presence, the man that looked like a devil that had this commanding aura around him.
These last words echoed in my head.
“You are a mistake, one your father made a long time ago.”
Then it all went blank.
Did he know my father?
What did he mean by correcting his mistake? he must mistake me for someone else.
I furrowed my eyebrows, pacing around the room. The walls are concrete, there were no windows. What type of room is this?
Why am I here?
Maybe am dreaming but the sad reality is am not.
My whole body shivering, my lips trembling, but I tried to hold myself together to understand what am up against first.
My heart skips as I watch the door knob turn clockwise, creaking open.
I stiffen. The sound is too slow. Intentional. Like whoever’s on the other side wants me to hear them coming.
And then he steps forward, the cold looking devil who said I was a mistake.
He steps into the light as if it belongs to him. His sharp jawlines, a smooth beard, and a spreading mustache. He wore a long black sleeves, which he folded the sleeves to his arms.
His hair is dark and slightly tousled, like he couldn’t be bothered to fix it. His warm blue eyes seemed familiar, but I couldn't place where I had seen them before.
Maybe on the news.
I shrank under his gaze.
He walks slowly, like a predator assessing his prey, calculating till it’s the right moment to attack.
“Who are you and what do you want?” I muttered, but it came out more of a whisper.
He doesn’t speak right away; he just looks at me, then speaks.
“Dante Valenci.”
My eyes almost popped out of my head.
It can’t be. The Valenci empire, the renowed and most feared mafia don, one of the most ruthless anyone has withnessed.
It can’t be him standing in front me. His name has been making waves on the news lately, but I have a bad habit of watching TV.
“Isabella Rose Moreau.”
The way he stressed Moreau sounds offensive to me. Like the name is a taboo, it physically disgusts him to let the name roll off his tongue.
“How do you know my name?”
He doesn’t answer. Just lifts his chin slightly.
“You don’t remember me?” he asks, his voice soft, but there was a dangerous edge beneath.
“No,” I continued. “From where? I have never seen you before in my life.”
How would I have known or had any business with the mafia boss when I lived a low-key life?
A smirk spread across one corner of his lips, but there was no humor in it, as he expected me to say that.
“Of course not,” he murmurs.
“Why would the pampered daughter of René Moreau remember the families her father destroyed?”
My breath hitches.
My dad now? The same one that died a long time ago? He must be crazy now.
“I think you have the wrong person,” I say, watching his expression carefully.
“My father died when I was ten. I barely even knew him.”
He steps closer. I press back against the chair.
He furrows his brows, looking unimpressed.
“Don’t play on my intelligence.”
“I’m not”
He grabs the side of the chair, fingers curling tight around the metal. His knuckles don’t even turn white. He’s calm. Controlled. Which is worse?
“How dare you lie to me?” he raises his voice.
“I am not.” I plead.
I saw a twitch in his neck as he grinned. He then looks straight into my eyes.
“Your last name is Moreau,” he says.
“That’s all the proof I need.”
“I didn’t exactly choose that name.” I snapped back.
“No. But you wear it.”
I can’t look away from him; all I feel is anger boiling down underneath my skin.
“Look, if you have any problem with my late dad, you should go to his grave or afterlife and settle it.”
I regretted saying that immediately when it came out of my mouth.
His face became red as he closed the gap between us and grabbed my chin hard, yanking it upward.
The pain became unbearable, he squeezed his fingers into my skin. Without thinking twice, I forced my chin down till I got a good portion of his hands, then bit as hard as I could.
But he didn’t flinch.
My jaw dropped internally when he didn’t move his hands away, he just absorbed all the pain. It was as if there was no pain for him in the first place, or he was enjoying it.
What type of person is this that doesn’t feel pain at all?
He just looks at me and smirks.
Instead, my teeth got tired of this hands as it dipped into his skin, so I released my teeth, leaving the shape of my jaw imprinted on his hands.
“Quite a fighter we have here.”
I whisper. “I don’t know what he did to you, but you can't just kidnap me.”
He circles behind me slowly. I feel him more than I hear him, his presence brushing against my skin.
"The Moreaus thought they could bury their sins. Reinvent themselves, build art galleries and buy charity awards, but blood remembers.”
Sins, blood, what the hell is this dude talking about? Does he belong to an occultist organization?
“I am an artist. That’s all I have ever been, my entire life,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
“I don’t know anything about the stuff you are talking about.”
He paused, released his hands on my chin, then pressed his fingers against my neck, choking me.
I jerk, but I can’t move far.
“Interesting,” he murmurs.
“No tremble or tears, you’re even braver than your father.”
“What?”
He continues. “You’re something else entirely.”
He walks back around to face me again, bending so we are same eye level. His face getting too close, his hot breath against my skin, sending chills down my spine, his strong scent of expensive cedarwood cologne fills my nostrils, I don’t know how or why, but I love it.
“You have done a good job hiding for this long,” he said.
“Tucked away like some trash no one would find. You taught I wouldn't find you?”
I stare at him. “I don’t know what you're talking about, and I am not my father.”
He takes a brief second to study me before saying the words
“Lies won’t save you, Isa poker.”
My eyes go wide, What?
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