Page 21 of Ruthless Vow

“Put the blindfold on or I’ll leave you here in the pitch dark,” he says.

I’m not afraid of being left in the dark.

My father dealt with punishment harshly. A word of argument after a direct order, anything perceived as sass, got an immediate smack to the face. Never a closed fist, though, always open. Closed fists were body shots only. He was too smart to leave marks that a teacher might notice. I suppose I should be grateful for that much. Physical punishment would be followedby what he called “quiet time.” A span of time spent in a small, locked closet. Dark. No windows. No distractions but my own thoughts.

Maybe that’s all that he knew—how he’d personally been raised. How his father had dealt with perceived disobedience. Maybe not. Or maybe my father was just an asshole.

I had cried a million tears during those countless hours of being alone in the dark. And then I decided to make friends with the dark, to wrap it around me like a comforting blanket. I trained my mind to not focus on the present, but to wander off to interesting places created by my imagination. Fairy tale kingdoms and colorful landscapes full of adventures and treasures.

When Sofia came into the world, I was seven years old. For two years, my mother did her best to protect us from our father’s wrath. She took the brunt of his cruelty herself, which led to her dependence on alcohol—her own way of escaping to beautiful fairy tale kingdoms, I suppose. And then she left us forever. And it was just me and Sofia.

The last thing my mother ever said to me was that I should take care of my sister.

My father’s temper escalated after my mother’s death. He liked to blame me for being a difficult child who drove her to drink. Nothing I said in my defense helped, it only made it worse.

More time spent in dark places to think and dream. But now I had a little sister to protect.

As the years went by, I learned how to navigate my father’s moods, becoming an expert surfer on a variety of challenging waves. I didn’t talk back. I obeyed every command, every order, a dedicated soldier showing up to fight a daily, life-or-death battle.

I survived. My sister grew up without facing the worst of Bruno Moretti’s wrath. I became a perfect daughter. Quiet, obedient, and dependable.

Didn’t matter. My father never had a word of praise for me. He always found some lack to home in on, some failure to call to my attention. I was ugly. Too tall. Too stupid.

Though he still slapped me when the mood took him, there were no more dark rooms once I became a teenager. But I’d never forgotten them. They’d haunted my dreams for years like a familiar ghost.

Being Leo’s prisoner is much more nostalgic than I would have guessed. A chance to return to my fantasies, even if I’d never been and never would be a princess waiting for rescue from a handsome and brave prince.

“And there’s no toilet in here,” Vito says.

An important point. While I’m not afraid of being left in the dark, my bladder is about to explode. Under the circumstances, a toilet is an acceptable bribe.

“Fine.” I put on the blindfold.

The cloth is thick. I try to position it to allow some light to leak through, but Vito steps behind me and finishes tying the knot, much tighter than I would have.

I’m plunged into darkness. Vertigo swirls through me, maybe because of the lack of visual reference points, or maybe because I’m still experiencing the after-effects of the knock-out drug. Either way, I’m left disoriented, swaying on my feet.

“Don’t fall,” Vito says coldly as he takes my arm to steady me.

I’ve never had an in-depth conversation with him. In fact, these are the most words I’ve ever heard him speak. But up until this moment, we’ve been on a politely-nod-at-each-other-in-greeting basis whenever we ran into each other over the past couple of years.

Vito’s tone is currently less than polite. If it were menacing, that would make sense. But he sounds more sulky and put-out than threatening.

“You’re angry with me,” I say.

“No shit.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Why? You mean other than the fact that you betrayed us?” He sounds incredulous.

“There’s another reason?” I ask.

“Yeah. Because you drugged my ass on the boat. I puked for a whole day after I woke up.”

Bianca wanted to let the mercenaries run rampant and slaughter everyone on the yacht that weekend. Had I agreed to that, none of this would be happening. I would be free. Bianca would be pleased with me. And Sofia would be…

I don’t know. Safe? I can only hope that wherever she is, she’s safe. Knowing that much for sure would give me so much peace, I might be able to sleep through a whole night without waking up in a cold sweat. But Bianca has doled out information about Sofia like a toddler sharing candy—grudgingly and only after you beg for it.

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