Page 41 of Capo

Fourteen

Luciano

My captive blossoms. She’s being fed. She’s clean and smells of peaches. She has sweet curves again, an ass I can grab, her breasts coming back to their mouthwatering selves. With her renewed energy, the delicious defiance has returned to her gaze, even though it’s gone as soon as she has pulled the shirt over her head. She plays games. She’s still plotting. My demise, I assume.

One late night the shirt stays on and I raise an eyebrow as I look her over. I’m just about to tell her to get the fuck out of it when she speaks.

“Salvatore.” She swallows so hard I hear it. “I need—” Chewing on her lip, she shuffles her feet and inhales raggedly.

“Get fucking to it. I’m not a patient man.”

“I need something to do. Please! My insides itch. I need music, books, I need to work out. I’m going crazy. I don’t know why I’m here, and I don’t even know how long I’ve been here—”

“Three months, four days and,” I glance at my wristwatch, “about nine hours.”

She gasps, and then tears well up in her eyes. “If you give me something to do, I’ll consider your proposal,” she blurts out.

‘Consider’. Bullshit. She tries, but she can’t hide the deceit in her voice. “It’s not a proposal. You will bend. Now get out of that fucking shirt and stand with your back to me.”

Chloe gives out a hoarse sob, then she grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, throwing it before my feet. “I’ll never, ever give myself to you. You’ll have to rape me, over and over, and every time you do, you’ll hate yourself a little more. In the end your self-loathing will spill over on me and you’ll see me as the source in your fucked-up mind, and you’ll kill me.” She looks me straight in the eyes. There’s an unwelcome twinge in my chest at the dark desolation, and yet fiery determination in her otherwise so clear blue gaze. “And I’ll welcome death, Salvatore. I’ll never welcome you between my legs. The only thing I look forward to is the day you kill me.”

She looks away, presenting her battered backside. The swelling has abated during the day, but the bruises, in various shades, get new additions every night. A black haze of rage fills my mind, clenches around my soul and my whole being. I grab her upper arm in a vice grip and yank her with me to the other side of the room, toward the Saint Andrews cross, snapping the shackles into place. Wrists and ankles. I forget all about her pleasure, about my plan, about making her plead for me to take her. She pleads for me to kill her. I’ll show her death. I’ll fucking show her merciless pain.

My pulse roars in my head as I let loose the nine-tailed whip on her. She screams until her voice breaks, then she writhes and whimpers, but she doesn’t speak, doesn’t plead. When I break her skin, when fresh blood glistens on her battered back, I finally stop. We both breathe heavily. She hangs limp, unable to stand on her feet anymore. Her wrists are angry red and chafed.

“Fuck!” I roar and throw the whip across the room. I’m not turned on. Not in the least. I punished this girl the way I punish everyone who tries to fuck me over. Like I punished the doctor. Like I punish the people who cross me, the people who defy me.

My head spins as I stagger out of the room. With sweaty hands, I call Ivan. I have no idea what time it is. I didn’t check. I don’t care.

“Sir?” he says groggily, clearing his voice.

“Take care of the girl,” I growl.

“Take—Shoot her?”

“No. For fuck’s sake. Are you brain dead? She needs some fucking care. I-I can’t.”

“Yes, sir. Is she in your room?”

I sneer and disconnect, heading straight for the liquor cabinet. It feels as if my stomach content will make an appearance as I pour a tumbler full of whiskey and drain it. Then I refill, grab the bottle and escape to the now-empty bar at the other end of my mansion. The rooms are silent, these walls witnesses to parties, laughter, screams, and blood.

You’re a monster.

I’ve heard that so many times. I’ve always reveled in the epithet. Tonight, I am a monster. It’s not just a word. Tonight, I’ve become someone even I didn’t see coming.

I don’t go to her the next night. I fucking can’t. I can’t look her in the eyes. I’m sick, and she knows it. I don’t want to see her profound knowledge that something in me is broken beyond repair. I’ve shown her too much and she’s way too clever for her own good.

I bury myself in work. It’s business as usual. Day after day passes. Ivan gives me funny looks that I avoid, but the elephant in the room grows bigger with each passing moment.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “Sir… the girl…”

“Give her something to do.”

A brief look of surprise crosses his features. “What do you mean?”

“Books, music, a TV. Let her fucking into my gym.”

His eyebrows shoot up but then he nods. “Is she to stay in your room?”

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