CHAPTER 7 We'll Be Miserable Together
1492 Words
Francesca
I screamed until my throat hurt, raw with tension. It made no difference. The door remained closed, darkness surrounding me. I was locked in, and no one was coming to save me. Oh God. I couldn't survive.
My throat was dry and my lungs burned. This was my worst nightmare. Caged underground, where no one would find me. Was there air down here? Chest burning, I fell to my knees. How long would it take to suffocate? A few hours?
I could feel the hysteria fading from the old panic in my mind. The therapist I saw for my claustrophobia told me to breathe and count to one hundred, that staying calm was key. I closed my eyes and started counting.
I tried to focus on the numbers, the rhythm of my breathing, but the musty air reminded me of where I was, of who had imprisoned me. How many men died within these walls? Did Ravazzani kill someone here?
Of course, Frankie. He's the capo of one of Italy's most legendary mafia clans.
Were there ghosts in this dungeon?
Oh, f**k. I curled my hands into my palms, nails digging deep into the flesh. It hurt, but I embraced the pain because it reminded me I was still alive. I wasn't dead yet. He would get me back eventually. I had to marry his son, after all.
Bitterness filled my mouth. By the time they let me out of here, my mind will probably be broken. I'll be completely insane by then. I gave a hollow laugh. Maybe then he'd send me back to Toronto, declare me too unfit to marry the precious Ravazzani heir.
Or maybe he would just kill me.
I rocked back and forth, trying not to think about it. How had this become my life? Two days ago, I was an eighteen-year-old woman with a boyfriend on her way to a prestigious college. I planned to study botany. Something with plants and science where I could be outdoors. Now I was locked in a dungeon in Italy, being forced to marry a Mafia prince I didn't want.
Tiny claws slithered across the stone, and I froze. Oh my God. What was that? A rat? No, it sounded big, more like a mouse. I curled up as tightly as I could, clutching my trembling knees to my chest. I hoped Ravazzani would find my rat-eaten corpse. Good for him, the i***t.
My brain must have checked out at this point, because I don't remember anything else until strong arms lifted me off the ground. A warm, muscular chest met the side of my face, and I didn't fight. I couldn't. I clung to my rescuer, desperate to escape.
"I'm sorry, signorina."
The voice was new, one I didn't recognize, but I didn't care. Someone had come to save me, thank the sweet baby Jesus. And it wasn't Faust Ravazzani.
He began carrying me up the stairs. "My father can be a real bastard sometimes." The words were spoken softly, as if he were speaking to himself.
"You're Giulio." I sobbed into the rough skin of his throat, tears still streaming from my eyes.
"I am. You must be Francesca Mancini."
I shook my head and tried to bury myself closer to him, desperate to purge the lingering chill from my bones. "T-Thank you for rescuing me."
"You should never have been there in the first place. I wouldn't wish that on my worst enemy."
"Your father..."
"He has a temper. And you stabbed him with a pen. Not that I'm excusing his behavior."
We reached the top of the stairs, and the vast expanse of stars stretched across the dark sky. The knot in my chest loosened, and I took a deep breath for the first time since stepping off the plane. I could smell the earth and grass, a balm for my frazzled nerves.
You're okay. You're not locked up anymore.
"You can put me down," I told him through chattering teeth. "I can walk."
"Forgive me if I don't believe you. You were practically catatonic when I found you a few moments ago."
Was I? I sighed and rested my head on my arm. "I don't do well in small spaces."
Giulio swore in Italian. "I apologize, Francesca. I'd like to think he wouldn't have put you there if he'd known..."
The implication was clear—that Faust Ravazzani was no stranger to cruelty. That he would gladly use a person's weakness against them. Jesus, what a prize.
Before I could comment, we entered the castle. A small room led to a kitchen, which was surprisingly modern for a place with an actual dungeon.
"I'll ask Zia to bring some hot tea," Giulio said as he entered the house. "This is my aunt. She lives with us and does most of the cooking."
Calming down, I began to look around—curious about this different kind of prison. The contrast with the dungeon was startling. What I could see was light and airy, with gleaming wood accents and pale plaster walls. Huge oval windows were framed with tasteful drapes, and tile covered the floor. It was even nicer than our home in Toronto.
Surprisingly, I didn't see any security cameras. This is information I saved for future reference.
"This is my wing of the house," said Giulio. "My father is on the other side."
Thank God. I never wanted to see Faust Ravazzani again.
Giulio led me through several rooms, including an office with bookshelves and a music room. He stopped in the middle of the hallway.
"This is my room, the big door at the end. This one is your room."
The room was larger than I expected, with a king-size bed featuring an ornate metal headboard. An antique chaise longue and a vintage vanity made up the other side. It was both feminine and classic, and I couldn't help but admire it.
As much as one can admire a prison.
Giulio continued through the room to a small bathroom. The sheer size of the room made my heartbeat quicken again, so I took a deep breath as he set me down on the tiled countertop. I was out of the dungeon and never, ever coming back.
Giulio stepped back and shoved his hands in his pockets. His messy dark brown hair fell effortlessly across his forehead, a look actors and rock stars probably paid a ton of money to a stylist for. He had his father's jaw and eyes, but his face was longer. More elegant. Where Ravazzani was brutally handsome, Giulio was refined and gorgeous. And his body was lean and lean, not yet filled with his father's strength. Several tattoos ran along his forearms. Gia was right—Giulio was a complete snack.
"Are you a model?" I blurted, only half joking.
The side of his mouth twitched. "I could ask you the same thing, Francesca Mancini. After all, modeling is in your blood, and I've been told you look like your mother."
"I tried once," I said with a shrug. "I sent pictures to a modeling agency in Toronto, but they told me my breasts were too big."
Giulio smiled and kept his eyes on my face instead of checking out my chest like most guys. "It's their loss." He shifted on his feet, looking increasingly uncomfortable. "I should let you shower. You must be exhausted." He turned toward the door.
It couldn't be that. There was nothing more to discuss, how could I not marry him? "Giulio, wait!" When he paused, I said, "Are you okay with this? Us getting married, I mean. Wouldn't you rather choose your own bride than marry some random guy?"
His eyes were empty and resigned, hardly the excitement of a man about to marry. "It doesn't matter what I want. It only matters what he wants."
"That can't be true. You're his only son. We could help each other, tell him we're not a good fit. You could say you don't find me attractive, or that I'm a real slut. Something."
—He won't believe me, and besides, he wouldn't care. He never changes his mind once he's decided on something.
The walls seemed to be closing in on me, and my palms began to sweat. Still, I had to try again. "Giulio, I don't want this. I want to go home, back to Toronto."
I'm supposed to go to college in a few weeks.
"I'm sorry, Francesca."
I wanted to scream in frustration, but my throat was too raw. "Frankie," I whispered, needing someone to call me by the name I'd heard my whole life. I needed a reminder of home, of people who truly cared about me.
"What? "
"Everyone calls me Frankie."
"Frankie," he said quietly, his gaze full of pity. "Cheer up. At least we'll be miserable together."
After that enigmatic statement, he left me alone in the bathroom.
- Writer
