Page 11 of Mafia Mistress

Chapter Four

Francesca

I screameduntil my throat ached, raw from the strain. It made no difference. The door remained closed, darkness all around me. I was locked in and no one was coming to save me. Oh God. I couldn’t survive it.

My throat was dry and my lungs burned. This was my worst nightmare. Caged in below ground, where no one would find me. Was there even air down here? Chest burning, I fell to my knees. How long would it take to suffocate? A few hours?

I could feel hysteria edging out the plain old panic in my mind. The therapist I saw for my claustrophobia had said to breathe and to count to one hundred, that remaining calm was the key.

I closed my eyes and began to count.

I tried to focus on the numbers, on the rate of my breathing, but the musty air reminded me of where I was, of who had imprisoned me. How many men had died in these walls? Has Ravazzani killed anyone here?

Of course he has, Frankie. He is the capo of one of the most legendary mafia clans in Italy.

Were there ghosts in this dungeon?

Oh, fuck. I curled my hands into my palms, nails digging deep into the flesh. It stung but I welcomed the pain because it reminded me that I was still alive. I wasn’t dead yet. He would retrieve me eventually. I had to marry his son, after all.

Bitterness filled my mouth. By the time they let me out of here, my mind will probably have snapped. I’ll be stark raving mad by then. I gave a hollow laugh. Maybe then he would send me back to Toronto, declare me too unfit to wed the precious Ravazzani heir.

Or maybe he would just kill me.

I rocked back and forth and tried not to think about that. How has this become my life? Two days ago I was an eighteen-year-old woman with a boyfriend on her way to a prestigious college. I planned to study botany. Something with plants and science where I could be outdoors. Now I was locked in a dungeon in Italy, being forced to marry some mafia prince I didn’t want.

Tiny claws skittered across the stone and I froze. Oh, my God. What was that? A mouse? No, it sounded big, more like a rat. I curled up as tight as I could, holding my shaking knees to my chest. I hoped Ravazzani found my rat-eaten corpse. It would serve him right, the asshole.

My brain must have checked out at that point, because I don’t remember anything else until strong arms lifted me off the ground. A warm muscled chest met the side of my face and I didn’t fight. I couldn’t. I clung to my rescuer, desperate for escape.

“I am so sorry, signorina.”

The voice was new, one I didn’t recognize, but I didn’t care. Someone had come to save me, thank sweet baby Jesus. And it wasn’t Fausto Ravazzani.

He began carrying me up the stairs. “My father can be a real bastard sometimes.” The words were spoken quietly, as if he were speaking to himself.

“You are Giulio.” I hiccuped into the rough skin of his throat, tears still leaking from my eyes.

“I am. You must be Francesca Mancini.”

I nodded and tried to burrow closer into him, desperate to purge the lingering cold from my bones. “Th-thank you for rescuing me.”

“You never should have been down there in the first place. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy.”

“Your father….”

“Has a temper. And you stabbed him with a pen. Not that I am excusing his behavior.”

We reached the top of the stairs and the wide expanse of stars stretched overhead in the dark sky. The knot in my chest loosened and I dragged in my first real deep breath since getting off the plane. I could smell dirt and grass, a balm to my ragged nerves.

You’re okay. You aren’t locked in any more.

“You can put me down,” I told him through my chattering teeth. “I can walk.”

“Forgive me if I don’t believe you. You were practically catatonic when I found you a few moments ago.”

I was? I sighed and rested my head on my arm. “I don’t do well in small spaces.”

Giulio cursed in Italian. “I apologize, Francesca. I would like to think he wouldn’t have put you there had he known….”

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