Elsa
We take a French leave then, nearly running out. Marcello drags me along hotel corridors without a word, his fingers clamped around my wrist like a vise.
“Marvelous show,” I hear someone say. A woman. Marcello stops, as if rooted to the spot.
Slowly he turns around, keeping me at his side.
In the center of the hall there was a beautiful woman with blond hair, wearing a short golden dress. Her long legs ended around the level of my first rib. She had gorgeous fake breasts and an angelic face. She approached us, kissing the Marcello.
“It’s nice to see you here, Don Marcello,” she says her eyes trained on me.
Her accent tells me she is British, and her looks suggests she has just left the catwalk at a Victoria’s Secret show.
“Elsa,” I introduce myself, offering her a hand.
She shakes it with an ironic smile, staying silent for a while. I know a leech when I see one.
“I’m Carlotta, Marcello’s first and true love,” she replies finally, not releasing my hand.
Marcello’s hand, still clamped around my wrist, grows sweaty.
“We’re in a hurry. Forgive us,” he hisses through clenched teeth, pulling me with him down the corridor.
Taking a look back, I see the blonde still standing in her place, with something like a smirk on her face.
“I just need a few words with you, Marcello,” she says. Marcello grits his teeth. He releases my hand and stomps back in her direction. Keeping his face carefully impassive, he says, “I have nothing to talk about with you, Carlotta.”
The woman smiles,”Don’t be a stranger, Marcello. You are lying to yourself again. Who is she?”
“She’s definitely no of your business. I have no time to waste on you.”
She chuckles and folds her hands infront of her small chest.
“You know my number. Call me when she fails. I know she will. She has disobedience written all over her features,” she smirks. She couldn’t be more write about my disobedience. Marcello’s jaw clenches.
He says something inaudible to her before he returns to me. He grabs my hand again and we walk away, getting into an elevator and ascending to the top floor. Quickly, Marcello pulls out his key card, opens the door, and slams it shut behind us. Without switching the lights on, he throws himself at me. His kisses are quick and hungry as his tongue slides into my mouth. After what happened downstairs, I was in no mood for that. I don’t react. After a while, Marcello realizes something is wrong. He stops, controlling himself, and flicks the lights on.
I straighten up, crossing my arms. Marcello sighs and runs a hand through his hair.
“Jesus Christ, Elsa,” he says, collapsing to a great armchair behind him. “She’s… the past.”
I keep silent for a moment, and he observes my reaction closely.
“I’m aware you had women before and you probably still have. That’s perfectly all right, and it’s absolutely none of my business,” I begin, my voice calm. “I’m also not going to ask you about your past or judge you.”
He glares at me from where he is sitting. I am in no position to say anything, when you come think of it. It’s not like Marcello is my man anyway.
I say nothing, staring at him and thinking about my feelings. Jealousy is weakness, and throughout the years I had learned to eliminate weaknesses of character. Besides, I don’t feel threatened, because I didn’t care about Marcello. Or, at least, that’s what I am telling myself.
“Say something, Elsa,” he hissed.
“I’m tired,” I reply, sitting in the other armchair. “Besides, it’s none of my business. I’m here because I have to be. There is nothing between us so there is nothing I can say about your ex-lover demanding some attention. This is not my world”
I know that what I have said isn’t the whole truth, but I was in no mood to talk about it. Marcello keeps his eyes on me for a long while, his jaw working rhythmically. I know my words have angered him. I just don’t care.
He gets up and heads to the door, grabbing the handle. He turns his head, sends me a cold look, and then opens the door.
“Excuse me!?” I call out, shocked. “Are you’re just going to leave me here on my own?” I storm in his direction. “You damned egomaniac…” I trail off when I see he is actually hanging the Do Not Disturb sign on the door. I stop, my hands hanging limply at my sides, staring at him.
“That dance today,” he says, approaching, “was the most electrifying foreplay I have ever experienced. That does not change the fact that I really wanted to kill that annoying little dumbass when I saw him touching you. He knows who I am.”
“I heard you can’t actually kill him,” I say, raising an eyebrow.
“Unfortunately, you’re right. A pity,” he replies, taking the last step toward me.
He wrap his muscular arms around me and hugs me. He has never done that before. Dumbfounded, I don’t know what to do with my hands. I put my face on his chest, feeling the thumping of his heart. He sighs, sliding down to his knees.
In that position, with his forehead nestled between my breasts, he grows immobile. I run a hand through his hair, stroking his head. He was defenseless, exhausted, and totally reliant on me.
Alcohol buzzed in my head, where fear was warring with a strange calmness.
I sigh and collapse to the rug next to him, feeling my eyes watering. I think about how wonderful it would be to meet him in different circumstances, where I wouldn’t be his prisoner, where all those threats and blackmail wouldn’t have happened, and-most important-where he wouldn’t be who he is.
“Make love to me,” he said gently, laying me down on the soft carpet.
My heart skipped a beat. I didn’t expect this and freeze, watching him through half-closed eyelids