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Except it isn’t an ear-piercing gun. It’s a tool I’ve never seen before.
“Just a small cut,” he says as he slices into me.
I grimace as I brace myself. In comparison, there’s much less pain than what I had down there. He angles the tool, but instead of pulling the trigger, he shoves a lever. I can feel the thing forced under my skin, and now, I’m going to vomit. My body convulses, primed for this since that first cut. I can’t sit up, I can’t lean forward, but it surges up my throat.
“Fuck,” the executioner hisses. “Don’t choke on your own fucking sick.”
The tension in my arms and legs is gone, and I’m forced up as I spew vomit that just gets blocked by the belt gagging me. It has nowhere to go, and my eyes tear as I choke. I’m being roughhoused as the belt gets ripped from my face, and hard slaps on my back make the floodgates open. Sitting up has brought my skirts down, and my vomit catches in the bowl between my legs formed by the fabric. I heave, blinking at the blood seeping from my arm.
“Ah, fuck.” Franco groans from where he took a seat in a wingback. “You had to? Things were going so well, so clean.”
I shiver as my body still convulses, but I watch him from under my lashes, my vision blurry with tears.
“What the fuck did you expect,” I snarl when I’m eventually done.
He stands and drops his thick-bottomed whiskey glass onto a side table, and the clang echoes through the room.
“I expect my wife to stomach more than that. Best you work on it,amorina.” He waves at the executioner. “Finish her up and take her to her room. Guard her at all times.”
I follow every step as Franco leaves the library and blink in the direction of the grandfather clock. Time stood still for me, but it’s already past one in the morning.
“I must cover this,” the executioner says, and he takes my arm to wipe at the blood still running from my latest incision. A flat, pill-shaped object is nestled under my skin. He cuts someSteri-strips and closes me up, but I can already see it’s a botched job. This cut needs stitches.
Vomit stench is rife, and the executioner is affected like any other human being, looking a bit green. He steps away from me as soon as he’s done. The other men in the room avoid the circle of stench. To think vomit is going to be my saving grace.
“I’ll deal with it.” I gather my skirts, toe on my ballet flats, and pick up my tote where it I dropped it by the sofa earlier. As I stand, I keep the vomit neatly contained in my skirt. “You can wait outside my room. It’s on the villa’s third floor.”
It sounds as if there’s nowhere for me to go from there, except there is. I’m one step ahead of the game here. There’s no chance in hell these men have been at this house before. They can have no clue about the layout and the hidden passages.
The question really is if I can maintain my advantage.
16
GIGI
We’ve reached the third floor where several bedrooms are lined up along the corridor. I hiked those stairs as if everything hinged on me getting to the top floor, ignoring the echoes of pain from my arm to my lower belly. With the adrenalin and endorphins numbing me, it’s easier than I thought it would be. I glance down the grand staircase with its wooden balustrade circling down all the way to the cellars of this mansion that’s over two hundred and fifty years old. But it’s not the only staircase in the house.
“This is me,” I say as we reach my closed bedroom door. I glance to where another guard is standing sentry at the top of the stairs. Good.
The executioner leans past me, holding his breath, and swings the door open. As I scoot past him, I stumble, which isn’t new. I’m a klutz that way, but for the first time, it’s planned. I might even lean a bit in. The vomit flops and splatters in thick smears over his jacket and pants, then runs down to his shoes.
“Fuck,” he hisses. “You bitch.”
“Sorry.” I bite my lip, seeing every emotion playing over his face. If I weren’t Franco’s fiancée, he would have slapped me sohard I would’ve gone flying. “There’s a bathroom at the end of the corridor you can use.”
He huffs. Looks one way then the other, peers into the room that has a king-size four-poster bed and sitting area, the walls decorated with elaborate floral wallpaper. “I’ll be here in five.”
“Sure. Please…just some privacy for the shower. It’s en suite here.”
He doesn’t nod, only makes eye contact with the other guard, and lets me go in alone. I don’t bother to lock the door and strip as I walk to the closet, dropping the soiled dress to the floor. I have no time.
I run my fingers through the hangers of old clothes I’ve left behind through the years. I grab some soft wide-legged pants and a T-shirt, get dressed, empty my tote onto the bed, and head to the bathroom, cellphone in hand as I hook my empty tote across my chest. There’s a stash of sanitary products in the vanity’s drawer, and I stuff a napkin between my skin and my panties to cover the bleeding from whatever Franco did on my lower belly.
Someone still has to bandage it properly, but I’m not sticking around for that. I can’t look at it. I don’t want to look at it. I’m still on an adrenaline high from the library, and I need to tap into it for a while. I can’t crash now.
In the bathroom, I turn the shower’s faucet on and let it run. Instead of getting in, I open the hidden door behind the towel railing. White towels hide it at first glance, and it helps how the tiles line up to fool the eye. I crouch in, and before I close the door, I make sure the towels hang neatly.
With my cellphone’s flashlight on, I crawl along the dark tunnel that’s part of the antique metal roof structure. I gather the odd spiderweb and kick dust clouds up, but I can see where I’m heading. This was my favorite summertime game with Carla—coming over at night to read stories long after bedtime. Wehaven’t done this in more than a decade. Once I reach the other side and the entry to her bathroom, I knock softly five times.
