Page 36 of Sin & Secrets

10

CASSANDRA

The next time I wake up, the sun is already past its peak.

I blink around my new room, registering all the details now illuminated in the light of day.

Besides the door Rocco entered through last night, there are two others in each corner. The walls are tall, decorated with intricate molding, and the wooden floor is intermittently broken up by thick carpet.

The entire space feels extravagant, and yet its neutral tones are impersonal. A guest room, perhaps?

How often does a Mafia don host polite company?

But my musings are cut short by a rasping on the door.

I have the urge to pull my bedsheets over my chest. “Come in?”

But it’s not Rocco who enters.

A tiny woman gently pushes the door open. There’s a tray of what appears to be breakfast balancing on her ample hip and a determined look on her surprisingly youthful face.

“It’s about time you get up, ma’am.” Her British accent catches me off-guard.

“You must be Donatella.”

“Charmed, I’m sure.” She unceremoniously drops her tray on my bedside table before hurrying to fling the curtains open. “Eat something, please.”

Bemused by her curtness, I examine the veritable feast she’s laid out before me.

“How long has it been since…” Since my so-called boyfriend signed me away to a mafia don. “Since I arrived here?”

Donatella has to climb onto the windowsill in order to reach the window latch. Her efforts are rewarded with a delightful breeze entering the room.

“Couple of days, give or take.”

My stomach rumbles in confirmation.

As if hearing it too, Donatella chastises me, “Eat.”

I don’t wait to be told again as I help myself to the pastries, jams, and fruit before me. I even enjoy the English Breakfast Tea, despite never having been partial to it before.

I focus on all the textures in my mouth, anything to distract myself from formulating a thought beyond satisfying my seemingly insatiable hunger.

When I finally lean back from my meal, it’s to find Donatella examining me.

Feline, I think, is the best way to describe her. I can almost imagine her tail flicking around in discontent. Only, she’s shaped more like a chubby little housecat than a panther or a lion.

“I should have woken you yesterday.”

I’m not entirely sure how to respond to that, so I just shrug instead.

“I’ll run you a bath,” she decides a second later, turning on her heel to approach one of the other doors in the room.

It reveals a large en suite. A free-standing bath sits with pride in the middle of the room, seemingly already stocked with more toiletries than I could use in a lifetime.

I slide off the bed to take a closer look. “What is this place?”

“Mister Moretti’s brownstone.” Donatella raises her voice over the sound of the running water.

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