Page 16 of Stolen Bride for the Don

ANDREA

Every time I’ve tried to hit him since he captured me, he always evades it, so I’m not expecting the slap to land. I’m shocked when a loud crack fills the air. It’s not quite as depicted in the movies, where the person’s head turns with the slap, and it hurts like hell. My palm is left stinging.

His eyes go so light; they’re almost translucent as he stares me down icily. His gaze is so cold that I swear the temperature in the room actually goes down a few degrees.

“I’m going to let you get away with that just once. Don’t you ever try it again.” His quiet words scare me more than a raised voice could, but I raise my head defiantly, not wanting him to know how rattled I am.

“I was going to unlock this door and give you a tour of what is now your home, but I can see that despite our conversations, you’re not ready to cooperate. You’re going to remain locked in here until you’re ready.”

No.

“Hudson, I–”

“That’s enough. I have some things to attend to. We’ll continue this conversation later.” He spins away from me. I trail after him forlornly as he walks out. Our gaze meets one last time. I shiver as the door closes in my face and locks. And fuck, if I don’t feel like I have just lost something precious.

He’s not a good person, Andrea. He kidnapped you! Is this what Stockholm syndrome feels like? I feel terrible for the rest of the day and find it hard to concentrate on the books I’ve pulled off the shelf. At some point, I make my way to the closet again and study it closer than when he was beside me.

There’s a small vanity with a mirror and stool. Some products are on the vanity, and I approach it cautiously. I pick up the first item and sigh when I see it’s face moisturizer, the exact same one I use daily at home. Next to it are my toner, sunscreen, body lotion and even my face oil.

I should be creeped out by this, so why am I getting a melty sensation in my belly? Fuck, there must be something wrong with me. I perch on the vanity stool and draw open the first of two drawers. It houses a blow dryer, straightener, and curling iron, as well as a brush. I’m not even surprised when I open the second drawer and see my usual hair products.

What am I going to do with this man? I’m in the process of going back to the bedroom when I pause. How exactly was he able to find out what products I use? Even the way the items are arranged in the vanity is the exact same as in my bedroom at home. Was he somehow able to correctly guess my home pin without tripping the alarm? And then what? He rummaged through my things? No. No way.

Then again, I remember him unlocking my car with his key fob. He had to have been watching me for a while before he kidnapped me…because what are the fucking odds? I’m a little uneasy with that thought, but the melty sensation only continues to grow as my thoughts spiral until I’m convinced my stomach is nothing but goo. I need a fucking therapist.

I wait anxiously for Hudson to bring my food, so I can ask him the questions bubbling at the back of my throat; but he doesn’t show up. Instead, my food is brought to me by a woman around my age with blonde locks pulled into a severe bun. She has sparkling brown eyes that remind me of Dad. She introduces herself as Diane, the housekeeper.

I briefly debate asking her to help me get out of here, but I quickly dismiss the idea. I really don’t know the man, but I know enough about the infamous Massimo Moratti. I try to stay abreast of all criminal activity in New England, given who my family is. I know he won’t take lightly to a perceived betrayal.

Diane congratulates me on my impending nuptials after she drops the tray of food on the bedside table. Then she leaves. Does she not find this weird at all? Who kidnaps a woman and then proposes marriage? I’m still not even completely sure how Hudson imagines this whole marriage thing going down. I would ask him, but he doesn’t show up for dinner, either. Is he really that pissed at me?

The next morning, I wake up with a raging headache. The sun has yet to rise, which is unusual for me, and I stare at the ceiling blankly. I’ve been locked in here for four days now; and in all those four days, I haven’t had a single drop of caffeine. I roll to my side, tucking my knees into my chest in hopes it might help me shake off this constant lethargy.

Honestly, I’m surprised that I made it this long without coffee considering the way I consume it every day…depend on it, really. At first, I was so agitated that I wasn’t even thinking about my addiction–because let’s just lay it all out there: three cups before I can do so much as mutter a word in the morning isn’t just a habit anymore. Then I refused to eat or drink anything Hudson brought to me, which leaves me caffeine deprived with a headache to prove it.

I lick my lips, but my mouth is dry; so it doesn’t make much difference. “Damn it,” I mutter as a shiver racks my body. I glare at the door. There’s no way to leave this room and demand a cup of coffee from the staff. With however long Hudson had watched me before he kidnapped me, shouldn’t he know that he has to feed my addiction if he wants me to be even remotely pleasant?

I don’t know how long I stay huddled under the covers, but it’s enough for the sun to rise and for activities to begin in the house. I can hear soft footsteps and muffled voices.

Eventually, I hear the door becoming unlocked. I burst out of bed with a whirl of energy and stomp to the door just as it swings open. Diane starts when she finds me right on the other side of it. We watch each other uncertainly for a few seconds.

“Where is that motherfucker?” I demand irritably. She blanches, tightening her grip on the tray. I take advantage of her surprise and dash out of the bedroom.

“Miss, no!” Diane’s voice chases after me as I rush down the hallway. I don’t even pause when I reach the top of the stairs and fly down. I know I can’t make it out of here, not if Hudson is really Massimo Moratti, and I’m starting to believe he is. But I needed to get out of that room. My goal isn’t even escape–the threat to my family is a constant reminder of why I’m still here–I just know if I spend another second in that fucking room, without my coffee too, I just might go crazy.

I meet a startled man as I reach the base of the stairs. He’s tall with shaggy brown hair and baby blue eyes. “M-my lady?” he stammers. I don’t answer him, but as I turn around wondering where the direction of the front door is, I notice a big wooden door slowly creeping open.

I don’t even stop to think and just rush for it. The door keeps opening, and I prepare to push past whoever is behind it…but no one is. I drop my gaze and skid to a halt when I see the huge black dog from my first night here. A cane corso. I know with certainty because my father has always favored the breed, which means I also know how deadly they can be as trained protection dogs. My heart flies to my throat as I start to shuffle blindly backward. “G-good dog.”

His head cocks to the side as he studies me. “We’re good, right? You’re a good dog. The nicest dog.” He keeps walking toward me, his steps sure and smooth, making me gulp. I rack my brain as to how to handle this situation. I remember an article saying not to be scared around dogs–or animals in general–because they can sense it.

“Maximus!” I chance a quick glance to see the shaggy haired guy from earlier. “STAY.”

The dog, Maximus, keeps approaching, and I keep backing away until I hit a wall; only then does the animal sink to its haunches in front of me. He’s so big that the tips of his pointed ears reach my waist. Gulp. His tongue lolls out in excitement; it looks like he might jump me.

“M-maximus, sit,” I command. He woofs once and does as I say, but only for a second. He jumps up again, and I shoot my hand toward him immediately. He extends his furry face to sniff my hand; then he licks it with his large, rough tongue.

“Oh.” I breathe. “Good dog.”

---