Elsa
Marco stays for dinner.
I try to hide in my room, but I am ordered to the patio to eat with Marco, Alessia, and six of his men. The outdoor space is softly lit and lined with beautiful, fragrant flowers. Gentle waves crash onto the beach in a rhythmic soothing sound. The scenery would’ve been romantic under any other circumstances, but I can’t enjoy it. I pick at my spaghetti alle vongole, aware that everyone is surreptitiously watching me. Is the food poisoned? Are they all waiting for me to eat it, then keel over at the table?
Alessia tries to keep the conversation going, but Marco’s men are uninterested in talking, remaining silent, and Marco gives her one or two word answers. Finally, he looks at me. “Don’t care for the pasta, Elsa?”
“I’m just waiting for the poison to kick in.”
“Now, why would we poison you? You are much more valuable alive than dead.” He points to my dish. “Take a bite.”
“I’m allergic to shellfish.” It is a lie. I love clams.
“I have an adrenaline pen in the house. Go on.”
I swallow and look down. Is there poison in there? Probably not. If Marco wanted to kill me, I’d be dead already. I twirl pasta on my fork, add a clam, then bring it to my mouth. Goddamn, that is good. Garlicky and rich, with the perfect seasoning and hint of the ocean.
“If you start to feel sick,” Marco says with an arrogant lift of his brow, “please let me know.”
Asshole.
I ignore him and kept eating, suddenly starving. I guess being tied up and having a gun shoved in my mouth has really worked up an appetite.
“This is my nonna’s recipe,” Alessia says. “I make it for Marco all the time.”
“You mean when he’s here and not at home.” No idea why I have said it, but these people are not my friends. We aren’t at a dinner party where I am required to be polite. Fuck all of them.
Marco chuckles and puts his hand on Alessia’s thigh. “It is no secret that I’m married. My wife is aware of Alessia. It’s okay with her.”
“How progressive of you.”
“There is no such thing as monogamy in Italia, Elsa. If your father has never had a mistress, then he is careful enough to hide it from you.”
Talking about papà does no good for my mood. If papà was still alive, I wouldn’t be here. I would have never met Marcello and I would have never been kidnapped by his enemies. I would be happy.
“You should know that, Elsa so that you don’t expect a lot when you get married. Even Don Marcello definitely has women all over the globe who serve his needs. Women who take of him when he is away on those busy business trips he probably never tells you about. And why should he? You are just a distraction while he is Palermo. That’s why he didn’t hesitate to give you to me when I told him I had taken you. You should have figured out all that by now,” he gives me an evil predatory smirk knowing his words have hit the target he was aiming at. I know he is right.
Super. Life lessons from my kidnapper.
But I am too proud to accept defeat.
“I suppose Alessia is afforded the same privilege, then. What about your wife? Can she sleep around, too?”
His expression hardens, lips thinning into a cruel slash. I see the capo in that moment, the one who kills and tortures for a living. “It is not the same for women.”
“So much for being progressive.”
Everyone’s head swivels back and forth, watching us. Alessia appears horrified, but Marco seems amused. Mostly. “Did you speak to Viscuso this way? Not holding your opinions back?”
“I have a brain and I prefer to use it. Anyone who doesn’t like it can fuck off.”
Alessia gasps, while Marco’s gaze darkens, sharpened into something hungry and fierce. “You have a mouth on you. Perhaps you need a lesson in respect.”
Fear shoots along my spine. Shit. Why have I spoken so openly? And why have I used curse words? Does he see this as a challenge? That is a dumb question. Of course he does. Now he has to put me in my place in front of his men. “I apologize. I shouldn’t have spoken so rashly.”
“Too late.” He pushes back from the table. “Come. You are going to get on your knees and beg for forgiveness from every man here.”
What the fuck?
Beg for the forgiveness of these murders? Is he for real? Everything inside me wants to scream, No, I won’t do it. I have knelt in the past to Marcello during our sexy games . . . but those days are over. I bow to no man, not any more.
Except how can I refuse? Not following Marco’s order is like a slap in the face. He will have to punish me-and who knows whether this house has a dungeon? He would definitely throw me in a dungeon with no hesitation just to put me in my place.
We stare at one another. Panic and dread fill my mouth, drying it out. Will he relent if I ask for his forgiveness right now? Damn it, why do I always make trouble like this? All I had to do was sit and eat quietly, and I haven’t been able to manage it.
The moment stretches with the entire group waiting to see what I will do. I gather my pride and decide this would not kill me. I can endure a few minutes of humiliation to stay alive. Pushing back from the table, I start to rise-until a faint noise sounds and the soldier across from me falls back in his chair, a bullet hole in his forehead.
Oh, my God.