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Matteo left me hanging, and I didn’t see him for the rest of the day. I was left to my own devices, and reminder: I don’t have any. I ate all my meals alone, and the crew didn’t engage in any conversation with me beyond pleasantries. Whenever I wanted to go explore, someone was on hand to block my way. I was allowed to see Burley, but even though he let me stay for five minutes and check his wounds, he made it clear that Matteo wouldn’t tolerate me ‘hanging out’ with him.
I had too much time to think, which isn’t always a good thing. I waded through everything I’ve seen Matteo do, his reactions, his choices, and I’ve concluded that this mission of his with me, with the guy he killed yesterday, were orders he was fulfilling. Orders from his dad, the Don.
Which means that auctioning me off is maybe not what he wants, but he’ll go through with it to wrap up the business he set out to do. The Don won’t let him off the hook if he doesn’t comply; he will only send someone else to finish me off. I’m still torn, uncertain what to do. I want to push Matteo’s buttons so that he finally succumbs to me, but I also don’t want to reach the auction’s final destination.
It’s a risk I’m going to take, praying all the way that nothing goes pear-shaped.
We’ve entered the Cannes marina and docked. The captain dealt with immigration control earlier. I saw that fake passport of mine in the officer’s hand. We seem to have the all-clear, and soon I’ll have the opportunity to jump and run, but then I spot Stephano walking down the marina, coming to meet us. Two men are in his vicinity, suited, with avatar sunglasses. Bodyguards.
I rather enjoyed the relative freedom being on the yacht gave me today. Nobody breathed down my neck.
Matteo comes to stand next to me, staring down at his brother with an expression I can’t read.
“Hey,” I say, suddenly even more nervous. He doesn’t acknowledge me, and it’s as if a cold wind comes from him. “Matteo?”
“I’ll speak to Stephano.”
“About what?” I ask, but he ignores me again as he goes to the bar counter where a waiter has been on standby since lunch.
I watch as he orders a double shot of whiskey, my annoyance with him budding. I want to say something, but a woman in high heels who waves at me as she hurries along the dock draws my attention.
“Ciao!” she calls out, with a smile and a wave. She’s so focused on me, where I’m standing at the railing, that she bumps into Stephano as she rushes past him. He steadies her with a hand on her elbow but their interaction is swift and already she’s homing in on me again.
She has long, lush dark hair, golden bronzed skin, and legs for miles in a summer dress that fits her like a glove, showing off some serious cleavage. Her sunglasses are pushed up on her head and she is smiling widely at me.
This, I realize, with equal amounts of dread and hope, isn’t part of Matteo’s plan. The woman deftly pulls off her high-heeled sandals before she boards the yacht, clearly used to everything as if it belongs to her.
Matteo comes to stand next to me and leans in to watch her. “Fuck.”
“Who is that?” I ask, but I already have my suspicions.
“Gigi Trapani. Must be.”
At last, another woman to converse with, or not.
Matteo waves at Stephano to come on board, just as Gigi’s face appears from the boarding stairs.
“Ciao, cousins! All the way from America!” She opens her arms as she strides towards us, ready to embrace.
“We’re not cousins,” Matteo mutters as he intercepts her, so she can’t engage with me first. “Gigi?”
“Si, Gigi Trapani, my dad told me he has important guests on the yacht and that you will be cruising here. I was already in Cannes so when the captain let me know you were arriving in the marina—” She breaks off, her smile wavering as Matteo makes no attempt to pull her close in an Italian-style, familial greeting.
“Matteo Scalera,” he introduces himself, stretching out his hand to block any closer contact. He doesn’t include me in the introductions as Gigi takes his offering and gives it an uncertain shake.
I sense in my gut Matteo’s cold greeting is about to backfire. Gigi’s gaze flicks to me, then to my hand where I’m still clutching the railing and the massive bling on my fingers. “And your wife?” She looks at me, and then her eyes swerve over my body, taking in the dress, the straps of the gold bikini that peek out at the neckline, the golden flip-flops on my feet. Her clothes.
But that’s not what’s giving her pause. Her gaze homes in on the abrasions around my wrists where I was bound to the speedboat. I didn’t cover them up, wanting them to heal in the sun. The bruise on my thigh is also visible as this dress of hers is so short. At least the slap I got to the face didn’t turn into a bruise for her to stare at.
I watch Gigi’s face transform as she smells a rat. Then she takes a step closer to me, but Matteo blocks her with his arm.
“Cara,” she says in a rushed tone as she slaps—actually slaps—Matteo’s hand away. “Are you held against your will? Have they hurt you?”
If she knew what I know she wouldn’t be slapping at Matteo. I’m so caught off guard at how quickly she summed up the situation that I’m gaping like a fish.
“Gigi—” Matteo warns with a firm hand on her shoulder, but Gigi shrugs loose just as Stephano appears on the deck.
“Need some help there, Matteo?” he asks casually, not realizing he just stepped into a shitstorm.
