Page 34 of The Beast Who Bought Me
“Get rid of that,” I tell her.
Rosa purses her lips. “But you have a guest.”
“I have a prisoner.”
The lips purse harder. The woman could crack walnuts with that expression.
I take my seat, watch her bring over my coffee. “It’s the one I’ve been preparing for,” I tell her. “You’ll send food down in the dumbwaiter, like we talked about.”
I know I’m gonna get pushback here, based solely on the mulish look on her face. “The dumbwaiter is broken.” I don’t believe that for a second, but her voice carries that edge that means she doesn’t like what I’m doing. “So unless you want me carrying food down to your basement?—”
“You don’t go near the basement. You hear me?” No one knows what’s down there except me. And now the Clemenza, I guess.
I plan to keep it that way.
Rosa doesn’t look at me, but I can tell she’s pissed by the way she clatters a few dishes together. And still she pushes. “Then you’ll have to bring your guest up here to eat.”
“Get Vito to fix the dumbwaiter today. What the hell am I paying him for?” I grab the extra plate from the end of the table and pile it with food, ignoring Rosa’s disapproving stare.
She’s been with me long enough to know when to stop pushing. So I’ll let it go, this disrespect. She did good last night, when I texted her from the Obelisk as soon as I realized what was happening. She got that meal cooked and set out, just like I asked, despite the late hour.
But I feel her judgment following me all the way to the elevator.
CHAPTER 14
CALIGULA
The whirof elevator machinery jolts me from a light doze. I slept restlessly, no better than when I was on the street. I sit up groggily, slowly, strangely weighted down?—
Oh. The collar he put on me, heavy around my throat. I’d almost forgotten.
Light floods the basement. I wince, throwing a hand up to shield my eyes.
“Good morning, golden boy.” Damiano steps out of the elevator carrying a tray. My first reaction is to make some cutting remark, push back where I can, but my stomach seizes with sudden, desperate hunger as the smell hits me. Eggs, bacon, toast. And coffee. Hot, black coffee.
My mouth waters so hard it actually hurts.
“Thirsty?” he asks.
“Hungry.”
He sets the plate on the side table next to his throne and takes out a water bottle from the mini-fridge I’ve been ignoring all night, cracking it open. “Drink this first.”
He hands me the bottle, and I drain half of it immediately, not realizing how parched I was until the cool liquid hits my throat.
“All of it,” he commands, settling into his chair with a steaming coffee mug of his own. There’s a second mug, too, which I assume is meant for me. I finish the bottle under his steady gaze, but then he gestures toward the metal toilet in the corner. “Go.”
Heat stings my cheeks. “I don’t need to?—”
“What’s rule number one?” He’s using the tone of voice that I’ve already figured out means he’s not fucking around.
Well, this is a new low. And considering my recent trajectory, that’s saying something. Still, I shuffle to the toilet, the chain dragging behind me, acutely aware of his eyes tracking my every movement, and manage the logistics of pissing through the golden cage at last. I take my time washing my hands, trying to slow down whatever is happening here. But Damiano waits patiently until I can’t string it out any longer, and then points me back to the bed.
“Now you can eat,” he tells me. But when I reach for the plate in his hands, he pulls it away. “Did I say you could feed yourself?”
My stomach clenches with more than hunger this time and I stare at him mutely.
“Hands behind your back.”
