Page 21 of To Hell

I’m not going back. Not alive anyway.

I would rather end my life than go back to the cruelty of the Bratva.

I strut up the staircase, returning to my room to think about the things I will need.

While the timeframe may be short, I have already started to think about a design I want to make for him. He dresses simply yet stylishly, and that is what I want to give him. When he walks into the event, I want him to command all the attention to himself.

I stop in front of my bedroom, noticing that there is now a toned light at the far end of the hallway. I push the door to my room open and step in. What are… My eyes immediately fall to the things on my bed.

At first, I’m stunned to my bones and incapable of functioning. After that, my brain jams back into place, and I’m almost squealing as I scuttle to my bed and start to pick the things laid out on the mattress one after the other.

Sewing tools. Fashion magazines, tapes, sketchbooks, and pencils… I inhale the sketchbook and clasp the magazines to my chest.

He got them for me.

I chuck the remaining items he got me onto one side of the mattress and flip onto the other, enjoying the sensation of sharing my bed with working tools.

It has been so long.

I sniff, shaking my head as if to cast my haunting past away. I have long learned how to forget.

This will do.

I smile, lifting the things in my hands and kissing them.

I can make do with this life for now. I know it’s not much. That it’s uncertain, but I can try to do right by him. I can follow his instructions and make the most of the luxury he is offering.

I can hone my skills again, even if it’s only making outfits for him. Or does he want me to start making clothes for people, too? Could that be what this is about? He wants me to be his personal servant, so I do the same thing I did for the nightclubs, only this time, I will have better and high-paying clients.

Whatever the case. I sit up and open the men’s fashion magazine.

I chew on my pencil and let the idea of the suit I had thought for him begin to take better shape in my head. He has the strong build of a model. And he walks like one, too.

I will need his measurements, though. Will he even let me touch him?

I collapse back into the mattress as the mental picture of me getting up on a stool to measure him flashes through my mind.

I want to feel the crease in his scars and see how far they reach. Will he allow me to measure him without his shirt on? How would he respond if I lightly touched his skin with my finger and pretended to measure his powerfully buffed arms?

I swallow, my skin prickling from the wispy heat of my bedroom. The thought of letting my hands follow the curves of his tummy makes my pussy throb.

Although he scares me, I find myself pulled to him in a way I cannot articulate or express.

I tighten my legs, dreaming of how he would punish me for tempting him when he hasclearly drawn the line—tying my hands with my measuring tape, flipping me so my face is against the wall, and taking me from behind.

In my fantasy, he spanks me a little, and he fucks me hard. No mercy.

I clear my throat and shamefully flip through the pages of the magazine to douse the heat my imagination has stirred. I know none of that is likely to happen. Ettore doesn’t look like a man who goes back on his words.

I make notes as I flip through fashion trends, picking out the details that inspire me. Later, I will sit with them and see how I can create something from them.

I flip over to the next page where a name immediately captures my interest.

Valerie Moore.

I sit straight on my bed, then decide against it as I scoot to the floor. I have been working like this for the Bratva anyway.

I read the information at the bottom of the page where her name is mentioned. It’s an ad for her fabric store, which she is putting up for sale.

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