Vinny draws back—I see him from the corner of my eye, though I’m already staring far beyond him. I don’t dream of astage this time, just a man. One with piercing, blue eyes and rich, black hair and the scorch marks of Hell on his soul.
“What did you say?” When Vinny grabs me by the chin, forcing me to meet his gaze, I don’t hesitate to repeat it.
“It says...Dante.”
He slaps me so hard that I see double, and I’m left clinging to the side of the mattress. When I right myself, I leave a stream of blood against the white comforter, but I barely feel the pain with my mouth humming beneath the lasting vibrations of the devil’s name.
“Dante.”
Vinny strikes me again—this time with his fist, I think. The blow knocks me sideways, disrupting the neatly made bed under me. The room is spinning. My lungs ache with every breath I take.
“That’s his name? That motherfucker,” Vinny asks, and I assume he’s referring to the man in the video. “Dante. I will find him, Lynn. I will kill him slowly. I’ll have you play something nice while I do it. And then...” He cradles my jaw in his hand, digging his nails in so deeply that I groan. “Then I’ll fuck you senseless in a puddle of his blood.”
He shoves me down and strolls for the door, wrenching his pants back up as he moves. “Dinner is at seven,” he tosses over his shoulder, his voice smooth and suave once again. “I expect you to be dressed and presentable. Don’t you fucking dare be late.”
There isno maid in my cage to help me dress this time. I have to force myself to crawl from the bed to the wall and climb upright, clinging to a windowsill for balance. My old wardrobe is a forest of unfamiliar silks and satins, but I settle on a black dress that seems “nice” enough for the occasion.
Dinner.In Vinny’s world, meals are a formal affair.Struggling to remember the old routine, I stagger into the bathroom, and I bathe myself without glancing in the mirror. My left arm won’t bend the way it should, and I have to wrangle my hair the best I can with only one hand. I brush it flat and settle it against one shoulder—the closest to tying it back as I can manage.
Then, clinging to the countertop, I douse my skin in his favorite perfume. I clean the dirt from my nails. I pinch color into my swelling cheeks and neatly arrange the dress around my broken frame.
The whole while, I imagine the million different ways I could kill Vinny. A steak knife through his chest. A bottle of wine against his skull. The soup dish. The silver cheese platter. A wine goblet. Each fantasy is more gruesome and grisly than the last, but none of them contain the violence someone like Vincent Stacatto deserves.
“Miss?”
I flinch at the sound of knocking on the bathroom door. Gino’s accent plays a terrifying melody as it echoes off the marble flooring and elegant cream walls.
“Yes?” I force myself to croak out in response.
“Mr. Stacatto requests that I remind you that dinner will be ready within ten minutes.”
I frown. Vinny doesn’t send reminders. If I’m late to this meal, it would only serve to give him more incentive to devise the cruelest torture imaginable to punish me. Regardless, I shut the faucet off and tuck a wayward strand of hair behind my ear.
“I’m coming.” I stand and limp over to the door on bare feet.
When I open it, Gino’s stoic expression is what greets me from the other end. But something isn’t right... Maybe it’s in the hand he’s extending toward me, the palm held toward the floor with his thumb tucked against it. I stare at the appendage for I don’t know how long.
Gino knows the rules—unless they have changed so drasticallywithin the course of the few days I’ve been gone. No one touches me except Vinny. No one.
“Miss,” he prods when I don’t move. “Mr. Stacatto is waiting.”
I consider walking past him—a little over a week ago, I would have. Now, I think it’s the thrill of subverting Vinny’s wishes that makes me reach for his trusted thug’s hand, but before I can touch him, he slides his palm above mine, and I feel something against it that’s tougher than skin.
“The toast,” Gino says, lowering his voice. “Make sure you offer to pour the glass.”
He turns away before I can fully process his words. When I blink, he’s already heading across the bedroom and out into the hall. When I follow him, I realize for the first time that we aren’t in the hotel suite. The furniture is the same—the layout of this room is nearly identical to my old one—but the hallway curves around a row of closed doors and opens at the mouth of a grand staircase rather than a living area.
A house?
“Mr. Stacatto regrets that he didn’t have the time to give you a tour of his wedding gift,” Gino explains as we descend the staircase that deposits us into a spacious entryway.
My gaze longingly drifts over to the door, but I’m not stupid enough to move toward it, and Gino doesn’t even seem to entertain the thought of me running.
He guides me down an expansive hallway and into a grand dining room, where Vinny is standing at the head of a long table draped in a pure-white tablecloth. Silverware marks exactly two place settings, and a bottle of wine sits between them. I can smell food cooking. Meat. The scent serves as a brutal omen that matches the ferocity in Vinny’s charming grin.
“Good evening, Daniela,” he croons to me before reaching into his pocket and withdrawing a single object, which he tosses onto the table.
I know in an instant what it is: a woolen cap, like the kind thatmight hold back a mop of unruly, black curls from brilliant, blue eyes. It’s Espi’s, and my heart turns to stone in my chest.
