Elsa
“You like to leave with a bang, don’t you?” I hear Gabrielle saying and pushing a pill under my tongue. “Now, now, Elsa, calm down.”
My heart is pounding like crazy, but soon it starts slowing down. Then the door to the room swings open and Marcello barges in, with the gun stuck behind his belt.
He kneels by my side and stares at me, his face a mask of fear.
“Did you kill him?” I ask in a whisper, praying that he didn’t.
“No.”
I breathe out and turn onto my back.
“I only shot off his hands. He won’t be touching you again,” he replies, getting up and passing the gun to his assistant.
“I want to go back home. Can I?” I ask, trying to stand up. The mix of the pill with the alcohol makes the whole room whirl. I swayed and fell back to the pillows.
Marcello holds me in his arms and hugs me. Gabrielle opens the door, through which we go to the back office, then to the kitchen, and finally to the back exit. There is a limo waiting there for us. Marcello steps in, still holding me in his arms. He places me in a seat and covers me with his jacket. I fall asleep huddling against him.
I regain consciousness back at the Mansion, hearing Marcello fighting with the laces of my boots, swearing like a sailor.
“There’s a zipper on the back,” I whisper, my eyes half-closed. “You didn’t actually think anyone would be able to tie those shoelaces each time…”
Marcello raises his eyes and sends me an angry look, pulling the boots from my feet.
“What did you think, coming dressed like a…” He trails off.
“Finish the sentence,” I growl, irritated, instantly awake. “Like a whore, you mean. Isn’t that what you were going to say?”
Marcello balls his fists. His teeth are clenched, and the muscles of his jaw work.
“You like whores, don’t you? Isn’t Lucia proof of that?”
His eyes grow empty-devoid of emotion. I stop talking, pursing my lips and waiting for a reply. Marcello doesn’t speak, but I can see his knuckles whitening, his fists squeezing tightly. Finally, he shoots up and sits astride me, his legs around my hips. He grasps my wrists and lifts my arms above my head, pinning them to the mattress. My chest starts heaving frantically as he brings his face close to mine, and then thrusts his tongue inside my mouth. I moan, writhing beneath him, but I am not going to fight him this time. I don’t want to. His tongue pushes inside me, deeper and deeper and harder.
“When I saw you dance…” he whispers, pulling away from me. “Fuck!” He drops his head, hiding his face in the crook of my neck. “Why do you do this, Elsa? Are you trying to prove something to me? Checking my limits? I decide what they are. Not you. Or maybe you want me to take what I desire? If that is so, I’ll do it.”
“I was having a good time. Wasn’t I supposed to have a good time?” I ask. “Now get off me, I need a drink,” I add.
He raises his head, sending me a surprised look.
“You need what?”
“A drink,” I repeat, crawling from under him as he loosens his grip and falls to his side over the mattress. “You’re getting on my nerves, Marcello,” I mutter and walk over to the table, pouring myself a glass of amber liquid from a carafe.
“Elsa, you do not drink spirits. And after taking your medication and all the champagne you’ve had at the club, this is not a good idea.”
“I don’t drink spirits?” I ask, raising the glass. “Watch me, then.”
I tilt the glass and down it in one gulp. God, it tastes bad, I think, wincing. My dislike of spirits doesn’t stop me from pouring myself another glass. Plodding to the terrace, I turn my head and send Marcello a look. He is watching my little show with his head propped on his arm.
“You’ll regret this, girl!” he calls out when I leave through the door leading outside.
The evening is wonderful-the heat has dissipated, and the air seems fresh. I sit on a long sofa and gulp down another sip of my drink. Sometime later, as I finish it, I feel drowsy and sleepy. My head swims. I usually don’t drink spirits, just like Marcello said. Now I know why. The spinning in my head makes walking difficult-not to mention finding my way through the door. I squeeze one eye shut, focusing hard to appear in control of my body, intending to go back to bed. As gracefully as I am able, I stand up and grab the doorframe. Marcello could be watching. An instant later I realize I am right-he is lying in bed with a laptop on his legs. He is naked, not counting the tight-fitting boxers. God almighty, he’s too beautiful, I think as he raises his eyes and looks at me. My drunken brain is suggesting that I slowly drop my clothes, and leave him to himself. I take a step forward, fiddling with the shoulder strap of my dress, letting it slip off. The dress slides down my body and lands on the floor. I want to smoothly raise my knee and disappear into the bathroom, but at this point, my legs have another idea. My right ankle gets tangled in the dress, while my left foot steps on the fabric. I fall to the carpet with a yelp and burst out in nervous laughter.
Marcello materializes above me, taking me tenderly in his arms and laying me on the bed, checking if I had hurt myself in the fall. When my hysterical giggling finally dies down, he sends me a worried look.
“Are you all right?”
“Take me,” I whisper, pulling off the last elements of my attire. As the white lace thong slides down to my ankles, I lift a leg and snatch the piece of underwear between two fingers. “Take me now, Don Marcello!” I cross my arms behind my head and spread my legs wide.
Marcello sits still, staring at me in his intense way, and a slight smile illuminates his face. He bends over me and kisses me lightly on the lips, covering me with the duvet.
“I told you it was a bad idea for you to drink more. Good night.”
His reaction flusters me. I attack, lifting an arm to slap him again, but either I am too slow or he is too fast-he catches my wrist and ties it to the pillar of the bed. Then he jumps on the bed, and before I know it, I am strapped to the bed, thrashing wildly.
“Let me go!” I yell.
“Good night,” Marcello repeats, leaving the room and turning off the light.