Page 30 of Bianchi

We walk down the hallway in silence, passing a man with an automatic weapon who stands guard at a door. I divert my eyes until we pass him, taking in the paintings that hang on the opposite wall. When he’s behind us, I turn to look out of the floor-to-ceiling windows that make up the other wall. Orange light spills through and onto the heated white marble flooring as the sun sets, reminding me of how long I’ve slept for.

At the end of the corridor, Daniele pulls me to a stop. I rest my hand on my fluttering stomach as I take in the intricate gold design of the double doors in front of us. Quietly, I blow out a breath, pushing down the nerves of the unknown as Daniele opens the doors. He steps back, giving me an unobstructed view of the room.

I gasp. The beauty and grandeur is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. There’s a fairytale element to the space. With the ceiling and nearly every wall being made entirely of glass, it’s like being outside but protected from the elements. This would be a beautiful room to hold a wedding in. Woah. Where did that come from?

My eyes bounce around the room, finally coming to rest on the large table that takes center stage. At the furthest end, Romeo sits with three other men. Two I recognize from the night of the shooting. It’s hard not to remember the guy who barely contained his disgust at my presence. What was the other one’s name? Leo. He showed the women in. Their presence sends a frisson of awareness skating down my spine.

Dark thoughts consume me, playing out in my mind. Does Romeo need an audience to kill me? Is that why I’ve been brought here? Or are they going to… Fear takes hold of me, wrapping around my throat like an old friend. The need to escape is more prevalent than ever.

I flinch when Daniele’s hands rest on my shoulders, and he urges me forward. Refusing to move, I bear down, pushing back into him.

The conversation between the men halts and I’m aware of their focus turning toward me. “Sit, Aurora.” Romeo's voice is a cocktail of impatience and empathy. When I remain where I am, he adds, “You’re eating with us. Nothing more.”

Daniele exhales heavily before he cups my elbow and forces me in the direction of Romeo. A snarl echoes around the room from the other end of the table and Daniele drops my arm, holding up his hands. Romeo’s lip is curled up at the corner and there’s a cold hardness in his eyes.

Romeo pushes out the chair next to him, inclining his head for me to sit. I slide into the high-backed chair, refusing to lock eyes with anyone. Power hangs in the air, and a desire to make myself as small as possible overtakes me. I fiddle with the material of the T-shirt pooled in my lap, needing something to distract me.

Daniele takes the seat next to me. He’s barely in the chair before the tantalizing aroma of tomatoes teases my nostrils. I wrap my arms around my waist, trying to muffle the loud and garish gurgling sounds being omitted from it.

When a bowl of minestrone soup is placed in front of me, I close my eyes, subtly inhaling the tangy tomato scent. It's been at least four days since my last meal. I’m so hungry, but I won’t eat. I stare at the contents of the bowl, the sound of cutlery clanging against china calling for me to pick up the spoon and have just one taste. My tongue darts out, swiping over my lips. Water from the shower hasn’t really been cutting it, and the longer I look at the bowl in front of me, the less I remember why I’m not eating.

Because you want some semblance of control.

Right, and I guess it’s one way to die. Although doesn’t it take months to die from starvation?

“Everybody out.” It’s a booming and growled demand that forces my attention from the bowl in front of me. Daniele, Leo and the other guy—whose name I don’t know—stand, grumbling as they walk from the room. My focus shifts to Romeo and his cousin who remain. They’re staring at each other, a silent conversation going on before Romeo pointedly says, “You too, Massimo.”

I stand with him, my hand pressing into the table to steady myself as I stumble from my chair. Romeo’s fingers wrap around my wrist and I pray that he can’t feel my racing pulse. He holds me steady, even when I tug my arm, trying to break out of his grip.

“Sit, Aurora.”

I drop back into the chair defeatedly and it’s only then that he releases me. Folding my arms over my chest, I ready myself for whatever he’s going to demand I do. I know that I won’t like it, but I’ll do it if it means I get to go home.

Romeo takes hold of the underside of my chair. The sound of wood scraping on wood is loud in the otherwise quiet room as he turns me toward him. The muscles in his arm strain under the weight and I watch, transfixed at the sight of his veins bulging. With his legs on either side of me and the heat from his body winding around us, I gnaw on my lower lip and fight the desire pooling in my core.

“Eyes up.”

My head snaps up, and when I realize what I’ve done, my eyes shoot daggers at his arrogant face. God, I’m a fucking puppet and he’s the master. He chuckles like he knows the power he holds over me, before turning his attention to my bowl of soup.

Carefully lifting the bowl, he swipes a spoon up from the table and runs it over the top of the red liquid. I expect him to lift it to my mouth, but he puts it in his own, pulling it back out clean. When his tongue darts out, I follow the movement as he wipes up a drop from the corner of his mouth.

I shouldn’t want this man and yet my pussy throbs like it craves to be filled by him again. Well, that is never going to happen again. Crossing my legs, I shift in my chair to ease the ache and to put some space between us.

Romeo’s voice is throaty, his attention on the soup when he asks, “Why are you not eating, bellissima?”

Brushing off my wholly inappropriate thoughts about what I want him to do to me, I inspect my nails, pushing for an air of nonchalance when I reply, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He huffs out a laugh before dropping the spoon into the bowl and leaning back in his chair. “Really? I have it on good authority that you’ve not eaten any of the meals Alma’s prepared.”

Apparently, Alma is a snitch. Why does he care anyway? Crossing my arms over my chest, I jut my chin out and hold his gaze. The lie falls from my lips with ease. “I don’t know who told you that, but you’ve been misinformed.”

The corner of his mouth lifts and the challenge in his cobalt-blue eyes is clear. “Okay, so eat the soup.”

My response is quick. “I don’t like minestrone.”

“Everyone likes minestrone.” The way he says it is so matter of fact, like whatever he says goes. I suppose in some ways it does, you don’t become a man of his ranking by pandering to others. Romeo scoops up a spoonful of soup, holding it up and leaving me with no choice. I lean forward, closing my mouth around it. At the first hit of tangy tomato on my tongue, I close my eyes and moan. My stomach gurgles, demanding more. I look at the bowl and then to Romeo expectantly.

He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “Don’t like minestrone, eh?”

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