Page 9 of The Mafia’s Fiancee

Chapter 4

Emma

I had just enough slackin the chains to walk from my bed toward the window without reaching them. My bathroom remained out of reach. So did the door. Of course, he wouldn’t let me have access to any means of escape.

When I ran away, at seven, he found me and kept me chained for two weeks. He had the maids bring me food and water. And every four hours, he’d have the guards unlock me so I could go to the bathroom. I was given an hour each night to bathe.

All while chained.

As soon as I was alone, loathing my father and my situation, I stared at the thick metal shackles on my wrist and ankle. If telepathic forces were real, I would’ve burned through the thick bands, melting the hard steel by the sheer heat of my fury. Since that couldn’t work, I had to keep it trapped in. Bottling it in and letting it fester until I could stomach the gnawing, churning anxiety that pulled on my soul.

How long will he keep me captive this time?

What is he going to do?

Will he try to unleash his rage on me again?

I gently rubbed the soreness on my scalp. No blood showed. I checked once the door was slammed shut on me. Red, swollen flesh remained raised, angry and disturbed, but he hadn’t actually yanked out my hair. Rubbing my upper thigh didn’t ease the pain there, from his kick, and I didn’t dwell on how painfully my cheek throbbed from where he hit me.

This wasn’t my first time. Over the years, especially before I ran away only to be caught, he beat me. Never a full-on thrashing. Just a hit or slap. A kick or two. Here and there, he’d use his power and strength on me to smack me into submission.

To stop complaining about not having a mother.

To shut up me from asking why I couldn’t have friends.

To prevent me from admitting that I didn’t like him.

After he chained me for two weeks, I got the lesson that no child should have—the one that drilled in how loveless my life had to be. It was the crux of my suffering that honed me into the quiet, placid child who wouldn’t speak up or protest. His actions had culminated into reforming me to keep all that crap inside. To fume silently. To loathe him in my mind.

Once the death sentence of my arranged marriage was announced, when I was thirteen, I sank even further into myself. Projecting an icy personality, devoid of smiles and happiness, was the easiest way for me to live. Like that, I was confident he could assume he had control over me.

Over time, I got more freedom. I proved that I was a docile shell of a person, and I was allowed the liberty to travel as I pleased, usually with Krista and guards behind us. Krista got it. She knew how shitty life was. I’d earned her friendship when I helped her get out of a punishment of a beating. Her father, a capo, told the cook to whip her for “overeating” and getting fat. She wasn’t. He was delusional, just like my father. From that day on, though, when I bribed the cook to pretend he was whipping something, I had an ally in Krista.

Hours passed and in the isolation, I worried about what had happened to her. She was so sick after being drugged at the Marchese party that I wondered when she’d notice that I was gone. But I didn’t concentrate on her as much as I did Luke.

He knew I was missing. He witnessed my father’s men whisk me away.

I had to know where he was. What he was doing. And if he was in danger. My only solace was in spinning my ring around my finger. This slim band of metal that housed a small but breathtaking gem was my reminder. It was a token of how deeply he’d fallen for me, and how severely I’d caught feelings for him to, to defy what I knew was expected of me. I’d broken so many unspoken rules by telling Luke that I’d marry him.

And now look at me. Look at us. We were separated, and I had no idea of how long my father would try to keep me here.

Luke couldn’t rescue me. Not here. He was the strongest man I knew, the hardiest fighter, but even he couldn’t take on a crew of Giordino men. Guards and soldiers lurked within the mansion, and plenty served as highly trained watchmen on patrol.

It all seemed so hopeless. I felt fucked, locked up with no phone to contact anyone. No weapons for defense. My phone and purse were back at the condo.

I hate you. I stared at the metal and wood crest hung up above my door. The Giordino crest of arms was many generations old, and I loathed every single ancestor who’d paid liege to it. All of them. They’d all collaborated to ensure the Giordino name meant power, but it was a force that trapped me, one of their own.

I hate—

The door opened, and as I lowered my gaze to the person who entered, my hatred morphed and molded into a braided twist of outright malice.

“I see your father wasn’t bluffing about having you back where you belong.”

Antonio entered, like he had all the rights in the world to invade my privacy. He didn’t. Not at all.

“Fuck you.” I was in no mood to play nice. He was a vile man, and I’d treat him as such.

“Oh, such anger,” he taunted. With a flick of his hand, he gestured for the guards to let him enter without backup.