Page 62 of The Don

I rub my face against his shirt and wrap myself around his torso. In the back of my mind, I’m thinking that if I can just rub him the right way, this can all be over, except I have no idea what all this even is.

In the American movies, when the mobster gets kidnapped, sometime later, the cops find his body in a river or something. It can’t be that different in Italy, can it?

Apparently, it can.

We climbed into the back seat of that mobster’s car yesterday, and I thought that was it. Lorenzo’s pained groans were ringing in my ears, and I just knew that soon enough, Salvatore’s would join them before the day was over. I sat in the back seat, shuddering so hard my teeth were clacking together. The only thing that stopped me from screaming was Salvatore’s arms around me and Pedro’s constant yammering about Palermo like he was on the damn tourism board. Instead of like, I don’t know, throwing a bag over my head, he spent the entire ride pointing through the front window at local landmarks he didn’t want me to miss. It was weird and only got weirder when we arrived at our destination. Which wasn’t, by the way, like a prison or whatever, but a large villa with the most breathtaking view of the sea.

We’re in the middle of nowhere, and if we tried to run away, we’d probably get nowhere fast, so maybe that’s why Pedro seemed completely at ease, but I don’t know if that explains why he gave us a tour of the villa like it was a luxury hotel. I mean, it looks like one, but still.

I’d been numb with shock, but Salvatore behaved as if this was all very normal. As if there was nothing odd in what was happening at all. He even made sure to inquire about dinner since we’d never gotten to eat all the food we’d ordered. Dinner arrived. Salvatore tasted everything to make sure it was safe, and then he’d fed me, showered with me, and held me while I cried myself to sleep because the stress was too much.

And that was how I spent my first night as a prisoner. I’ve never had cause to wonder what being kidnapped would be like, but all the movies I’ve seen lied to me.

“We’re still here,” I groan, still rubbing my cheek against Salvatore’s chest.

“We are. Hopefully, it will not be for much longer.”

I sit up in bed a little too fast, and I feel queasy. I close my eyes, and Salvatore sits up next to me, rubbing my arms. “Bella?”

I shake my head quickly and then regret that. “It’s just morning sickness,” I say. “Or stress. Both?”

He presses his mouth against my temple.

“Did something happen while I was asleep?”

Salvatore pulls back.

“Why won’t we be here much longer? Did I miss something?”

I won’t pretend that I’ve ever felt as if Salvatore was an open book, but I have generally thought that I could ask him whatever I wanted and get an answer — some answer — until right now.

Salvatore keeps rubbing my arms and back, looking at me with those clear, penetrating eyes and what looks like a smile dying to break out on his lips.

Very weird.

“What’s going on? What—”

He shakes his head slowly, not telling me no, I realize, simply asking that I not ask him a question he cannot answer. Yet.

“When this is over?” I whisper.

“I will tell you everything. I will give you everything.”

“I’m going to hold you to that,” I tell him as fiercely as I can before I break into a loud yawn.

“Come, my love.”

Salvatore crawls out of bed. He’s wearing a long-sleeved button-down shirt and pants pajama set that matches mine. Since we didn’t have any clothes with us, I think it’s very nice that our hotel-prison provided the basics. I would have also liked a scarf for my hair since that Bantu knot twist out was already struggling, but I survived a night on cotton pillowcases. Although, if we get out of here and there’s an online survey, I have some suggestions.

But until then, I watch as Salvatore wears the hell out of the old-school pajama set, looking elegant and also somehow sexy. This might be the hormones talking. Or the stress.

Either way. “Where are we going?” I ask, pushing the covers from my body. I only wore the shirt, and the cool air in the room gives me goosebumps across my bare legs.

“The bathroom. You will feel better after a bath.”

This is not a dream because when Salvatore saunters around the bed, watching me, the heavy length of his dick swaying as he walks, confusion and fear give way to desire.

“Okay!” I practically scream, scrambling to my feet.

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