The Deal
1085 Words
Yara woke to a dark room. She sat up fast, her heart hammering against her ribs. She wasn't in her car. She wasn't on the road. She was in a tiny room. Then, the memories rushed back. The highway. The blood. The man with the lethal eyes.
She ran to the door. Locked.
She scrambled to the window and pulled back the curtains. She was trapped.
Suddenly, the door clicked open. Lucia stood in the doorway, her eyes filled with hostility.
"The boss is waiting," she said. "Breakfast."
"Am I a prisoner?" Yara asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
Lucia’s smile was sharp. "You’re a guest who isn't allowed to leave. There’s a difference."
She led her to a sunroom at the back of the house. Dante sat at a small table, taking in the morning light. He wore a black shirt, unbuttoned at the top to reveal the white bandages Yara had placed there herself. His left arm was in a sling, but he still looked like a king on a throne.
But his eyes . . .
His eyes were the same. Dark, watching and hungry.
"You look terrible," Yara said.
One of the guards inhaled sharply. Dante didn't react.
"Sit." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Eat."
A plate waited for her. Eggs. Toast. Fresh fruit. Coffee.
Yara didn't move. "Am I a prisoner or a guest?"
"Sit."
She sat.
The first bite of eggs made her realize how hungry she was. The second bite made her realize she didn't care if they were poisoned. She ate hungrily.
Dante watched her. A cup of black coffee rested in his good hand. He didn't eat.
"You should have something," Yara said between bites. "Your body needs protein to heal."
"Not hungry."
"Then drink water. You're dehydrated. Your lips are cracked."
"You sutured me well," he said. "The wound is clean. No infection yet."
"You're welcome."
"I didn't thank you."
"I noticed."
Dante set down his coffee. Leaned back in his chair. The movement made him wince, but he recovered quickly.
"You're different," he said.
"Different from what?"
"The women I usually meet. They're afraid of me. Or they want something from me." He studied her face. "You're afraid. But you don't want anything."
"I want to leave."
"That's not nothing." He paused. "That's everything."
The sunroom fell silent. Outside, a bird called. Inside, Yara could hear her own heartbeat.
He's dangerous, she reminded herself. He kidn*pped you. He's a criminal. He's…
"...watching you," Dante finished. "Yes. I know."
"Stop."
"No."
She set down her fork. "Why am I here? Really?"
"You saved my life." He said it simply. Like it meant something. "That makes me responsible for you."
"I don't want you responsible for me."
"Too late." He reached across the table, slowly, careful of his shoulder, and touched her hand. Just his fingers against hers. "You're mine now, dottorina. Until I say otherwise."
Yara pulled her hand back. Her skin tingled where he'd touched her.
"That's not how consent works."
"That's not how my world works."
She stood up. "I need air."
Dante stepped forward, closer. His eyes never left hers.
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It was a claim, his mouth on hers, his hand sliding into her hair, his body crowding her against the stone wall. She kissed him back.
Because some sick, reckless part of her had wanted this since the moment he'd pointed a gun at her on that dark highway.
His tongue move across her lower lip. She made a small sound and his arm tightened around her waist.
When he finally pulled back, they were both breathing hard.
"Don't talk about leaving again," he said.
"Or what?"
"Or I'll kiss you harder.”
"Here's the deal," he said. "You stay. You work as my personal physician until I'm healed. You don't try to escape. You don't talk to anyone outside this house."
"And in return?"
"You live."
Yara's fist clenched. "That's not a deal. That's extortion."
"It's the only offer you're getting."
"I could refuse."
"You could." He picked up his coffee. Took a sip. "But you won't."
"Why not?"
"Because you're a doctor. And whether you hate me or not . . . you don't want to watch me die."
The worst part? He was right.
Yara stared at him. At his bandages. His bruises. The way his hand shook slightly when he set down the cup.
"Two weeks," she said.
"Ten."
"Six."
"Six." His eyes glittered. "Final offer."
"Six weeks. Then I walk."
"Then you walk." He extended his good hand. "Do we have a deal?"
Yara looked at his hand. Then at his face. Then at the razor wire visible through the glass.
She took his hand.
His grip was warm.
"We have a deal," she said.
Dante smiled with satisfaction.
"Welcome to the family, dottorina."
That night, Yara lay in her locked room and stared at the ceiling.
Six weeks. She could survive six weeks. She'd survived harder things. Medical school. Residency. Losing patients on the table. Living with a father who saw her as currency.
Six weeks.
Then she'd disappear again. Farther this time. A different country. A new name.
She didn't even know how right she was.
Downstairs, Dante Marchetti stood in his study.
The fireplace crackled. Whiskey warmed his bad hand. His shoulder throbbed. His side burned. But he barely noticed.
He was thinking about her.
Victoria.
The doctor with the steady hands and the terrified eyes. The woman who'd kissed him back like she hated him for making her feel something.
Interesting.
His phone buzzed.
He picked it up. "Talk."
It was his soldier, Enzo. His voice was tight and nervous.
"Boss, we have a problem."
"Tell me."
"The bride." Enzo paused. "The one your grandfather arranged the marriage with. She's gone."
Dante's fist clenched. "Gone how?"
"Her father just called, he says she vanished yesterday. We've searched the city. The airport. The bus stations. Nothing."
Silence.
Dante set down his whiskey. Walked to the window. Stared out at the darkness.
"What was her name again?"
"Yara Hale, boss. She's a doctor."
"Find her," Dante said quietly. "I don't care if it takes every man we have. I don't care if she's crossed state lines or left the country."
"boss, if she's gone for good.."
"Then you bring me her body." His voice dropped to ice. "No woman makes Dante Marchetti a laughing stock. Dead or alive. Do you understand?"
"Yes, boss."
- Writer
