Page 18 of Mafia Bride
“On the tears of our Lady of Carmel,” Armando says. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you while I’m here.”
Why do I believe him, except that I need to? He might be the one to shoot my zia, or deliver me to the church, but if I don’t believe him now, I’ll lose all hope of salvation.
So, I let myself be drawn by the moon, and step inside.
Behind me, the deadbolt sounds like a gun cocking. This room is too small. Too dark. Too confining. The big window that stretches across the wall is a lie. A tormenting tease of freedom.
I’ll die in this room. I can feel it. In the middle of the night, a man will unlock the door and come in. With a steely weapon or efficient hands, he’ll send me to join the rest of my family. My parents. My sister. I’m the last, and then there will be none.
It’ll be messy, bloody, I can see it all happening on the bed. I can feel the squeeze of hands around my neck.
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” I whimper. He never would have let this happen. He would have fought it with the last of his life.
“Calm down. Calm down. Calm down,” I whisper, the words barely catching air from my lips, plummeting to the ground like dead baby birds. “Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.”
What would Scarlett say?
Just thinking of the best friend I’ll never see again constricts the muscles of my heart. But she’d tell me to breathe. She’d tell me to look at it from another angle. She’d tell me to find my silver lining.
“Where’s the fucking silver lining here?” I ask the moon, but she just stares at me with an eye older than humanity.
The window wall overlooks a pool. The rectangle glows turquoise and the patio furniture around it matches the modernity of the house, as does the stocked bar off to the side. It was begging to be enjoyed. It would be gorgeous and absolutely perfect if it wasn’t the view from my jail cell.
There has to be a misunderstanding here, that’s all. The hulking men, the invisible guns, the locked door. I came willingly. I got in the car. I did what I was told.
After they rape me, will they say I came for it willingly?
I shudder. My first sexual experience will be forced, and they’ll say I wanted it.
“Get your shit together,” I snarl to myself.
What’s the first thing they do in the movies, when someone is kidnapped or held against their will?
Explore and survey the room.
Find assets.
Find points of escape.
This house feels entirely too large and too new for Santino.. It’s scrubbed and modern, but the furniture’s straight up old country. There’s a reason, but there also might be a space to slip through.
Santino doesn’t like the house. If he did, he would have matched the furniture. So, maybe he doesn’t know it as well as he should. Maybe I can find a way out that he can’t see, but I have to calm down.
I rest my head against the glass and breathe. I will be free. I will escape. It may take time, but I will escape. The moment I stop saying these words to myself is the moment my life is over, and it’s not over yet. I turn and face my prison.
My eyes have adjusted, and now the light of the moon is more than enough to see what I’m dealing with. The furniture is straight out of Napoli. Curved, deep reds and golds, heavy and wooden. Poor Nana’s idea of hand-carved, gold-painted, rich people things. The illusion of wealth, Zio used to say.
The bathroom is stark white with a shower, tub, and toilet. A new toothbrush sits on the vanity, and when I see my face in the mirror, I shut the light before I freak myself out.
Queen-size four-poster bed against one wall with damask bedspread and silk canopy. The rolltop desk in the corner doesn’t hold anything weapon-sharp…or anything at all. I open the dresser drawers, expecting them to be empty, but they’re full of clothes.
Nice pieces I could never afford, judging by the tags, but the style is nothing like I expected. Or would have chosen. It’s not archaically Italian, but it’s not flattering. Boxy. Marmish. Bloomers and blouses.
Holy shit. I’m not the first. I lose control of my body, hands shaking, losing the strength in my legs, I almost collapse, until I see a tag hanging from the armpit of a bathing suit.
I realize the underwear is still boxed and the socks are still bunched in threes with plastic hooks atop the cardboard wrapped around them.
I throw open the closet door, and a motion-sensor light flicks on. It’s huge inside, and like the drawers, contains rows and racks of things I’d never wear, all new, all expensive, all in my size.
