“So you drugged me so that when you took me, it wouldn’t traumatize me,” I said as the puzzle pieces clicked together. When he didn’t agree, I looked up.
Domenico was silent, his teeth clenched. “You have it backwards. I took you because you were drugged.”
My blood ran cold, and I stared up at him. “Wait, you didn’t drug me?”
Everything I believed shifted.
His hard eyes locked with mine. “He forced my hand. If I didn’t do it, they would have eaten you alive, some physically and not just metaphorically.”
I was frozen in disbelief. “Who?”
“Roman.”
Roman? Roman, who always seemed too fragile and out of place? It didn’t make sense.
But Roman was the one who fed me that day. Before then, Domenico was all words and harsh grips, enforcing his dominance and superiority, but nothing more. And then there was the way he looked at me the last time I saw him.
“He rapes women, and when I saw the way you were acting, I knew what he’d done. He’s not above using any and all means to get what he wants.”
It was hard to process, to understand. Roman, the man who’d brought me blankets and sneaked me extra food. Who was always so kind and fragile but was really two-faced.
I felt violated in a totally new way, one that hit to the core. I trusted him. If Domenico hadn’t claimed me, what would Roman have done? “Did you want to…do that to me?”
He squatted down in front of me, his fingers knotted in my hair, and pulled back, making me hiss. “I already told you no. I may be harsh, rough. I fuck hard. Doing that to you? No. I want you willing to do anything for my cock. Begging for me to fuck you until you can’t walk. I want to ruin you for any other man, not ruin you for life.” His teeth dug into my bottom lip and pulled. “I did what I had to do to keep you safe. But make no mistake—I’ve claimed you as mine.”
“What if I don’t want to be yours?” I spat, even though my body reacted to his, my blood heating up at his closeness as it always did.
His fingers splayed out across my neck, eyes dark. “If that were true, why are you breathing hard and begging me to fuck you with your eyes?” His hand trailed down, squeezing my breast. “First, there were whispers—split her open, see what she looks like from the inside, tap that shit until she’s airtight—remember?” I shook my head. “Roman doesn’t think much of me, so he doesn’t always notice when I’m around.”
“Why doesn’t he think much of you?” I asked, trying not to seem as desperate for his touch as I was.
Domenico was the leader, and every man in that space gave him respect and didn’t question any order he gave. The way he interacted with Roman, their shaded words and tense atmosphere. There was history there.
“Because he is the son of Giovanni and Renata Ferrante, and he believes that makes him above everyone else. Like I said, I heard the whispers, the plans they had for you. I wasn’t going to touch you, but as they were talking, you began to change.”
“What did I do?” I asked, still in disbelief that Roman, quiet, sweet Roman, was really like that.
“Your lips were parted, and you shed your sweater so that you could touch your skin.” His fingers slipped around my nipple and pinched. “Your nipples were hard.” He moved his hand down to my waist and tugged on the waistband. The seam pressed against my clit, and I drew in a sharp breath. “And you kept pulling at your jeans, just like that. Little moans slipped out, and I watched you become more and more aroused while they devised a plan to share you. You don’t remember, but afterward I threatened anyone who touched you and shot the vilest one in the leg.”
I didn’t remember anything after he made me come and come again.
“You asserted your dominance.”
He nodded. “I was forced to. Roman doesn’t like that he has to follow my command.”
“Why is that?”
“Because he is a Ferrante, and above everyone in the organization who isn’t a Ferrante.”
There was more. A secret, but he wasn’t going to willingly give it up.
“What’s your last name?” I asked. I knew him only as Domenico or la Bestia.
“Mancini.”
“So you’re not a Ferrante, but he has to follow your commands?” Something didn’t quite add up. There was animosity between them—I’d felt it before.
We both had secrets, and I wasn’t sure if they would destroy us or set us free.
“He does.” He stood. “Go take a shower. I’m going to order some food.”
At the mention of food, my stomach rumbled. “I’ve been on the edge of starving for weeks.”
His jaw clenched again as he handed me my bag. I could barely lift it as I dragged it to the bathroom.
A shower. A real tub with real plumbing and temperature control. I didn’t care that we were in a shithole. It was an upgrade from no heat and no real shower.
I stripped off my clothes, happy to burn them the first chance I got, and stepped into the shower. The warm water rolled over my body, relaxing my muscles, bringing blood flow back to parts of my body that were cold to the bone.
And then I scrubbed. Weeks of dirt and grime were scoured from my skin, washed down the drain. Again and again, every inch I could reach until I was satisfied I was actually clean before doing the same with my hair. Then I shaved everything.
I was in heaven. I couldn’t remember a time when a shower felt so good. After three weeks of sponge baths and hillbilly half showers, nothing could beat it. Even better was the knowledge I would have clean clothes to put on when I got out.
Clean. Clothes.
Something so innocuous and simple—and so desperately missed.
When I got out, my reflection was a pale version of myself. I barely recognized the woman who stared back. Weeks of near starvation had adverse reactions. I’d lost a fair amount of weight, leaving me in an almost skeletal state, every rib showing.
Every part of me was too thin, including my face. Lack of proper nutrition had left my skin an off pallor. My eyes held a dull edge, as did my hair.
Sifting through the bag, I found clothes to put on, opting for a pair of yoga pants and a tank top—both of which were too big. After brushing through the rat’s nest that was my hair, I twisted it up into a bun, then gave my mouth the same kind of scouring I had my body.
“I look like death,” I said when I came out of the bathroom. While I looked terrible and was malnourished, at least on the outside I felt refreshed.
He clenched his jaw as he looked me over. “It’s to keep the girls alive, but weak.”
I nodded as I placed my bag on the bed. I needed something on my arms and some socks. “I just can’t believe the difference a few weeks makes.”
He stepped forward, his fingers lightly tracing the ink on my back.
“I saw these,” he said as he traced the gauzy-looking wings that draped over my shoulder blades. “But I could never get a good look at them.”
“Is that why you tattooed me? Because you knew I could take it?” The tattoo of his name was still healing, and I knew it would take some getting used to seeing it in my reflection.
“It didn’t matter if you could take it. It was another way. They all had to be reminded. Everyone needed to know that you were mine.” His touch was softer than I was used to. “Why wings?”