Page 20 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
“Sasha. Sasha!”
Sleep drags me under until finally, there’s just…nothing.
6
Adelina
I sit like a doll as I’m pulled and poked, my hair tugged into shape and my face layered with makeup I wouldn’t usually wear. An older woman grabs my jaw roughly to swipe lipstick over my mouth. I feel like a whore, Enrique’s whore.
He evidently thinks I can’t be trusted to get myself ready for his stupid party. The team of women he sent up here aren’t exactly friendly, and they aren’t asking my permission to do anything. I decide to simply breathe and go with it. This is what Enrique wants. And that’s why I’m here, to play into his desires. A Trojan horse, a wolf in sheep’s clothing. The problem is, he doesn’t only want a sheep. He wants the wolf, too, simply so he can tame it. I must walk a fine line between the two, and now, I will be forced to take my act public long before I’ve perfected it.
Finally, the women all up and leave as if working on some invisible cue. I release a heavy breath as I’m alone once more.
Pushing to my feet, I slowly move in front of the mirror. The reflection of a girl I don’t recognize stares back at me. Her dark hair is swept up off her neck, a few loose strands spiralling around her face. The blood-red dress clings to her body, dipping dangerously low between her breasts. And a pinched waist flares out to a skirt layered in silk and netting that stops just above her knees. I notice the thick straps carefully cover the mark below my collarbone. He wants to mark me, but I guess he managed to rein in his psychopathic tendencies long enough to realize how bad it might look publicly.
What’s most alarming though is my face. I look perfect, like a doll, with bright-red lips and perfectly chiseled cheekbones. But beneath the layers of makeup, my eyes are sad, haunted even. It’s all a veneer, and if I look hard enough, I can see beneath the shimmering glamor to the grieving, desperate girl beneath. The knock on the door makes me jump, and I watch in the mirror as it swings open behind me. One of Enrique’s men—that I don’t recognize—stands with his hands clasped in front of him, waiting. None of them ever seem to look at me, but rather through me. He’s wearing a black suit with a matching shirt beneath, and it seems apt. After all, it feels like I’m walking to my own funeral.
On a deep breath, I close my eyes and turn around, striding toward him. With a twist of his body, he steps aside as I pass and closes the door behind me.
Though my stomach churns nervously, and my hands tremble, I’m sure to walk with purpose and keep my head held high. Enrique will have invited a lot of the mafia elite here, and I refuse to let my father down in front of them. I am a Ricci. I am a lion, even if I’m temporarily chained.
The man never speaks, and I stare at his back as I follow along obediently. Every fiber of my body wants to rebel and refuse to play along with this farce of a party, but I can’t. I have to swallow Enrique’s sick little games and go along with this spectacle like a puppet dancing on strings. Biding my time. Waiting.
I hear the hum of the party long before we reach the wall of glass at the back of the house. The second I step out onto the patio terrace, I want to crawl into a hole. It’s all so…Enrique. Obnoxious. From the string quartet to the enormous marquee that sits pride of place on the emerald-green lawn beyond the pool. A bar sits next to the marquee with an ice sculpture of what looks like a naked woman on the end…at an engagement party.
Glasses tinkle and people laugh, and the entire scene irritates me because they’re either blissfully unaware of what a farce this entire thing is, or they simply don’t care. And then slowly, one by one, they fall into silence, their attention fixating on me. My breaths falter, and I clench my fists to stop them from trembling. The sharp sting of my nails biting into my palms roots me once more, and I move forward on unsteady legs. My ankle wobbles on the ridiculously high heel, and I’m scared my leg is about to snap. I stare at the steps before me, terrified I’ll break my ankle if I attempt them in these stupid shoes. That’s when the crowd parts, and Enrique appears. I loathe him, but as he ascends toward me and holds out his hand, I’m a little grateful. My fingertips slide over the rough callouses of his palms before thick fingers close over mine. My eyes focus on the floor, and I hold my breath under the hundreds of sets of eyes I can feel crawling over my skin. The guests begin to clap as we descend towards them together—mafia royalty in their eyes. I’m now thankful for the makeup because my face is burning all the way to my hairline.
