Chapter 2
1024 Words
"Mr. Russo, please. Do whatever you want with her. If you don't want to marry, put her in your brothels. She brings in quick money. Clients pay top dollar for untouchables in the underworld. Just forgive me. Erase the debt and let me walk away."
I closed my eyes for a long second. Took a deep breath through my nose. The air smelled of cigar and despair. I hugged my own body. I had accepted my fate the night he told me to wear my best clothes. I always knew my life would be his bargaining chip.
"Stand up," Dante ordered.
My father tried to stand, but his weak legs gave out. He fell to his knees on the dark rug, bracing his hands on the floor to keep from hitting his face.
"Not you. Her." Dante pointed his chin in my direction.
I let out the breath I was holding. I planted my feet on the solid floor and stood up. My knees popped in the silence of the office. I stood straight. Threw my shoulders back. I didn't lower my head. If I was going to die today, I wouldn't cry in front of the executioner.
Dante analyzed me for the second time.
"How old are you?" he asked straight to me.
"Twenty-one," I answered. My voice came out sharp, slicing the air in the room. It surprised me.
"Do you know how to cook?"
I frowned. Pressed my lips together. The question made no sense.
"Yes. I do."
"Do you know how to keep your mouth shut when you're told to?"
"I do."
Dante looked away. He looked back at my father, who was still cowering on the floor.
"Your debt is paid, Lorenzo. Get out of my house. If I see your face in my territory again, my men will slit your throat."
My father let out a loud, high-pitched sob. He rubbed his wet face with his dirty hands.
"Thank you. Thank you, Don Russo. The Cosa Nostra is fair. Very fair."
Cowardice and relief gave him a sudden burst of energy. My father got up fast. He adjusted the lapel of his wrinkled suit jacket and took two short steps toward the mahogany desk.
He stretched his right hand forward.
"A gentleman's agreement," my father said, forcing a nervous smile.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees at once.
Dante looked at my father's outstretched hand. He stopped breathing. Dante's broad jaw clenched so hard a muscle jumped in his cheek. His dark eyes went blank. Dangerous. Cold. He looked at my father's extended fingers like he was looking at rotting garbage. As if that damp hand were a dirty, blood-stained knife pressed against his neck.
Dante gripped the armrests of his leather chair. His long knuckles turned white from the extreme force. He pulled his torso back, leaning a half-inch away from the desk. He didn't move his own arm. He wouldn't shake my father's hand. His posture screamed that he would kill with his bare hands anyone who tried to touch him.
The silence stretched. Pure fear flooded the room. My father's hand remained in the air, trembling more and more.
Before Dante had to open his mouth or draw a weapon, the shadow behind the double doors moved.
One of the guards took a long step forward. The sound of his heavy boot hitting the floor was like the crack of a gunshot. He raised the metal barrel of his rifle and struck the center of my father's chest with brute force.
The dry thud echoed.
My father lost his breath instantly. He choked and stumbled backward, hitting his back against the wooden door before falling to his knees again.
"Hands down, you worm," the guard growled thickly. "Nobody touches the Don."
My father pulled his hand to his aching chest, as if his fingers had touched a hot stove. He looked at Dante with pure terror in his eyes.
Dante pulled in a breath. His broad chest rose and fell exactly once. He released the armrests of the chair slowly, unclenching finger by finger. His rigid posture returned to normal. The mask erased any sign of panic or aversion.
"Leave. Now." Dante spoke. His voice was nothing more than a deadly whisper.
My father obeyed. He didn't look at me. Didn't say goodbye. He turned his back and ran. The two guards opened the heavy door and he disappeared into the dimly lit hallway.
The door slammed shut.
Bang.
I was alone.
Just me, four heavily armed security guards, and the Capo dei Capi.
My lungs felt empty. I tried to pull in air, but my chest was locked. Cold sweat ran quickly down my spine.
Dante stood up from the chair slowly. He was very tall. His broad shoulders blocked the light from the desk lamp, covering his face in shadows. He walked around the desk and stepped toward me. The sound of his shoes on the rug was muffled.
I held my breath. Squeezed my eyes shut. Waited for his hands to grab my bare neck. Waited for him to rip the collar of my dress. Waited for the pain and violence I had been promised.
"Open your eyes," he ordered dryly.
I opened them.
Dante wasn't close to me. He stopped exactly two meters away. His face held no lust. No hunger. It was just a cold wall under the dim light of the office.
"Rocco," Dante called out without looking sideways.
The guard who had knocked my father down took a step forward.
"Yes, boss."
"Take the woman to the east wing." Dante's black eyes dug into mine. Unblinking. "Lock the bedroom door from the outside. Give her a shower. Give her food."
He turned his back to me and walked back toward his own desk.
"And make sure," Dante added, already facing away, "that she washes her hands thoroughly with soap before touching any doorknob in this house."
I stood frozen in the middle of the office. The dread swapped places with shock.
The monster didn't want my body.
He wanted me to wash my hands.
- Writer
