Page 133 of Vicious Intentions
Matteo brought my meals to my room every day this week, making sure I ate everything down to the last bite. His presence both annoys me and terrifies me in equal measure.
However, that isn’t even the worst thing he’s done to me. Late at night, he comes in, thinking that I’m asleep, and sits in his favorite armchair, watching me until slumber takes him. While he sleeps, I imagine getting out of bed, moving slowly toward him at his most vulnerable, and shoving a knife into his neck.
That’s what Matteo has done to me. He’s made me imagine the coldest, cruelest acts. Things I never thought I was capable of. I’ve spent years worrying about my family’s souls, how bloodied and tainted they are, only to now fantasize about what it would feel like to be covered in Matteo’s blood.
I hate him. I hate him with all my heart. He’s ruined me. And yet, when I wake in the morning, I catch him staring at me asif I’m something precious. As if I’m the most valuable thing in his world. It’s baffling and, quite honestly, unsettling. It’s almost as if he’s obsessed, and I’m not sure being Matteo’s object of obsession is something anyone would want.
I wish he wouldn’t look at me like that. I wish he hadn’t forced me to look at him at all.
I wish… I wish… I wish I could go home.
These are the thoughts running through my mind as I stare at the New York skyline, the sun setting over the skyscrapers, while I force myself to eat dinner without throwing up.
I used to love sunsets. They were my favorite time of day. They held promise. Memories. Sweet, foolish memories of running through the woods in the hopes of seeing my best friend. Shameful memories of me waiting by the phone, eager for his words to ignite a flame inside me that only ever burned for him.
Yes… I used to love sunsets. Not anymore. Now they only remind me that I’m one more day farther from the people I love most.
My parents’ worried faces flash through my mind, followed by my siblings. Matteo told me my father arrived in New York a few days ago. Did Stella come with him? Marcello? The twins?
God, I hope not. I hope they stayed in Chicago, where they’re safe and far away from the madman holding me captive.
I don’t know what Matteo’s true intentions are, but one thing is very clear—I’m his prize, his trophy. He won’t be handing me back to my family anytime soon. Not when he enjoys looking at me as much as he does.
Growing up, I was always told I was beautiful. Honestly, I never saw what everyone else did. I never found myself extraordinary. If anything, I considered myself to be a little plain. I didn’t have my mother’s or my sister’s flowing red hair, the kind that pulls every eye in the room the moment they walkin. I didn’t have the mischievous glint the twins wear so proudly, or their sly, knowing grins. I was neither strikingly tall nor broad like Marcello or Jude, who command attention without even trying.
I was just… me. Plain, quiet, forgettable me. And I was fine with that. I never liked being in the spotlight anyway. But now that I have Matteo’s full, unwavering attention, I can’t help but wonder if being ordinary was ever really safe at all. If the shield I hid behind was ever enough to keep the monsters away.
“Your silence is deafening,” Matteo mutters from behind me, causing a shiver to run down my spine.
“You want me to eat, so I am. Am I also expected to carry on a conversation with my kidnapper? I must have missed that part in the hostage manual.”
His chuckle is warm and low, and I hate how the sound actually eases the tension in my body. It’s almost as if it’s suffering from Stockholm Syndrome. Like my body is ignorant to the fact that this man wants to hurt me and everyone I care about.
I hate that most of all. Maybe even more than I hate him.
Still, I can’t deny there is a familiarity in his voice that speaks to the dark recesses of my mind. I hadn’t realized how similar Matteo’s voice is to Raffaele’s. It took me a few days to notice. And even though I’ve sworn to despise every Donato until the end of time, my body hasn’t quite caught up to my disdain.
It still remembers how a similar voice used to make it shine.
How it made me breathless.
How it made me pant and writhe with need.
Yes. I might hate my body’s visceral reaction to his voice most of all.
“You’re looking flushed. Are you getting sick?” he asks, worry creeping into his voice as he hurries toward me and reaches out to press a hand to my temple.
I slap it away before he touches me.
“I’m not sick,” I snap, getting up from my seat and putting as much distance as I can from him. His forehead creases, his dark eyes assessing me to make sure I’m not lying. “Stop staring at me like that! I told you I’m not sick. Unless you count being sick to my stomach in having to see your face every second of the day.”
And there it is again.
Every time I hurl such cruel words in his direction, he looks like a lost little boy, as if he can’t understand what he’s done to deserve it. It’s almost as if each hateful remark stabbed him right in the chest, and he forgets how to breathe through such pain.
Scratch that. I hatethislook most of all.
Because it’s a lie.
