Fated Under The Mistletoe

He's a mafia

My eyes flutter open, and the bright light from the window stings. My head pounds with a dull ache radiating from my temples.

I’m under the duvet, naked. Naked! And alone.

The silk sheets cool against my skin. My mind is a jumbled mess, fragments of the night before flashing through it. Just fragments, nothing enough to hold on.

The mistletoe. The man.

His face is a blur. I remember his lips warm against mine. His name? I don’t remember. I didn't even ask. His voice, a low rumble, “Bring her with me.”

Getting home, the cool bath, the maid’s gentle hands dressing me in a nightgown. And then…

Did we do it?

The thought slams into me. Did I open my legs? Did he… did I feel him inside me?

The door creaks open and a figure silhouetted against the morning light. It’s him, the man from the mistletoe, his dark eyes like pools of mystery.

I snatch the duvet, pulling it tighter around my chest.

“Good morning, Bianca.” He says and smiles.

“Good morning?” My voice is shaky, unsure. I want to ask him so many things, but the words catch in my throat. Did we… were we…

“You were…quite a handful last night,” he murmurs, his gaze raking over me, lingering on my bare shoulders. The memory of his touch, his lips, the way he held me… I can’t tell if it was real or just a hallucination brought on by the champagne and the mistletoe.

“I…I don’t remember much,” I manage.

“That’s okay. You don’t have to.” He steps closer and the scent of his cologne is still sharp, almost metallic, filling my senses.

“What… what happened?” I ask, the question tumbling out of me.

He leans in, his lips close to my ear. “We had a rather…spirited night. Remember the mistletoe?”

I remember the mistletoe.

“We… drove home,” I stammer, hoping he won’t notice the tremor in my voice.

He chuckles. “And then …”

“I don’t… I don’t know,” say.

I have been stupid. The same was what happened with Ryan. A stranger took me in his car to an anonymous location and I didn't fight back. Was the kiss that captivating?

Oh, Ryan? The pictures. Just hours until Christmas!!!

“Wait, Sir, What time is it?” I ask.

He c***s his head. “Merry Christmas, Bianca.”

Merry Christmas. The words slam into me.

“What?” I gasp, my eyes widening in horror. Tears roll down my cheek. The inevitable must have happened. “Where is my phone?”

“What?” he asks. “Why are you crying?”

“I’m done! You should have killed me!” I cry. “You said you were death. What didn't you do as you're named? Why didn't you kill me?”

“I took care of it,” he says, his voice flat.

“What?” I ask, my mind reeling with expectations. He took care of what?

“The reason you want to kill yourself. I took care of it. You were so dumb to send nudes to a man. Don’t do it again,” he says, more of an order than an advice.

“Did you…” I pause. My tears stop as if he is the one who puts them there in the first place. “Did you pay him?” I ask.

“Pay him?” He laughs, a harsh, cynical sound. “He’s in my basement, together with his friends. He wanted to paint the town red. Now he’s painted red in his blood.”

“What!” I stand from the bed, still holding the duvet to my chest. “Don't tell me. Did you kill him?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “No, he's not my enemy. He is yours. I only kill my enemies. He’s still alive. That’s yours to decide.”

“So…” I say, my voice trailing off.

“Enough,” he snaps. “Enough questions. You made my night boring. I was about to dive in when the bastard called. I told him to call in the morning and he threatened me.” He stands and paces from right to left. “I don't pay unless I have acquired what I'm paying for. For the first time in my life, I have granted a wish before I have my way. You know what that means? Now you owe me. And tonight, you’ll be my meal.”

My mind races, trying to make sense of his words. He truly wanted me last night, I know that. I guess that's why I followed. Maybe I will get paid a million dollars. But was I drugged? I don’t know. My mind is a tangled web of confusion and fear.

“Who are you, mister?” I ask, my voice a mere whisper, trembling with fear.

He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “I am Stefan Da Vinci. You owe me.”

***

The phone feels heavy in my hand. I watch the numbers flash on the screen as Mom's name pops up.

Relief washes over me. I didn't know I would hear her again or see her. Thanks to Stefan Da Vinci.

"Bianca, are you okay? Where are you?"

"I'm fine, Mom," I say. "Don't worry. Everything's all right."

"Are you with Ryan?" she asks.

"No, with a couple of friends. I'll see you soon," I say. The words feel hollow in my mouth. My eyes drift to the ornate iron gate. I can see the guards standing rigid like statues sculpted of stone. “Merry Christmas Mama. I will see you later today.”

The call ended.

“Merry Christmas,” I say to the guard.

None of them answered.

I walk about. Who am I? The boss's girl.

The woman who bathed me last night approached. They smile as one of them speaks. "Master said we should bathe you.”

My stomach clenches. I know what this means. The master, he's preparing me. Just like he did yesterday. I follow them silently.

The cold marble of the bath feels good against my skin. I'm scrubbed and rinsed. My body is treated with the same care and attention as a fine porcelain doll.

The scent of rose petals and sandalwood hangs in the air. They dress me in a white gown and a black hat with a wide brim. My lips are coated in a fiery red gloss, and my fingers are adorned with jewels that gleam in the dim light.

I look at myself in the mirror. This is not the Bianca I know. This is a creation, a puppet crafted for someone else's amusement.

"This is how the Master wants his date to look like," the woman says.

I stand there, numb, a part of me disbelieving, the other part, a sickening dread. It's like watching a movie, a horror film, one where I'm both the audience and the victim. “His date?”

I’m led to the balcony from which I can view the town of Bloomfield, where I grew up. Stefan is there, smoking a cigarette. His eyes meet mine, and he smirks, a predatory gleam in them. “Who is this man?” The question remains in my mind.

“You’re worth the bath,” he says.

“Can I see them?” I ask. I don’t even know if I want to see them, but I need to know, to feel their presence, to see the fear in their eyes, to see the fear that I have wrought.

He takes my hand and leads me to the basement, down the twisting stairs, the cold, damp air seeping into my lungs.

We enter the room. It smells of mildew and desperation. Four chairs are lined up, their backs to each other.

The figures sitting there are bound, their mouths covered with gags. I recognize Ryan. He’s facing away from me, his back rigid, his head bowed. I see his friends, Collins, Mark, and Jerry.

They try to speak, to call out, but the gags stifle their cries. I can see their lips moving, forming words that I cannot decipher. I see the silent pleas in their eyes and I smile.

I’ve never been that terrible. To see people bound and feel no pity. I’ve never enjoyed pain or suffering. But I love the sight of it at the moment. The power it gives me. It makes me feel… alive.

I feel a strange sense of triumph, a satisfaction that burns in my chest. I smile at Ryan, a cold, hollow smile, a mockery of warmth.

“You thought you had me, but I win,” I say, my voice laced with venom. “Are you hard now? Are you? Does my picture make you hard?”

I reach out and grab Ryan’s p***s and squeeze it tight. He gasps. The others try to move, to turn away, but their chains hold them fast.

“You will rot here,” I say and turn.

I leave them there and Stefan follows me.

As we ascend the stairs, Stefan speaks. “You look tough. I expect you to break at the sight of blood. That's someone you know in there.”

“It’s my enemy seated there, not someone I know,” I say, my voice cold. “Someone who would end me if he had the chance.” I shrug. “I don’t care.”

“Hmm,” he hums. “That’s some manly bossy spirit. You’re more than what I thought you to be.”

I smile at him.

“We're going for a date. The King's Elite event. You'll go with me,” he says.