Page 35 of Ruthless Boss

"Massimo isn't my father, and I'm not eight."

"No, but he'll burn it down when he finds out that a woman bearing the same last name as the family who wanted to kill his wife is under your protection."

I know the asshole is right. Massimo is obsessed with his wife and would never let anything happen to Amara—the idea that the family who tried to hurt her is still around doesn't sit well with him. Besides, I don't want Massimo or our father, who has been away from family business in practice but not in theory, to find out about this until I can fix the situation.

"I'll figure it out," I say before I end the call. And hope I’m fucking right.

20

Gia

“Five minutes!” Dante shouts from the other side of the door.

He let me use the bathroom and wash myself.

There isn’t a window in this bathroom, and the mirror over the sink has been removed—no sharp objects to use for a fighting chance to escape. I relieve myself and then slip into the shower, hoping the hot water that swirls around me will relax me and help me find a solution.

Jets of warm water flow down my body, and my wrists sear with the contact. My arms hurt—sore from staying in the same position, my hands cramping, but my wrists feel the worst. A latent throb steadily stabs at my pulse every few minutes, reminding me that I shouldn’t have pressed them so hard into the metal rings like there was a chance in hell they’d burst open.

I lather the body wash on myself, and the sensation gives me a temporary reprieve. What am I going to do?

I’m going to die.

“Two minutes!” he shouts again.

What’shegoing to do?

I close my eyes and let the powerful jets caress my shoulders, hoping to alleviate the kinks. I stretch my arms and legs, sighing, enjoying every moment. Then, an intrusive memory flashes into my brain.

Ciro shoves me into the mirror over the sink, and I hear the crackling sound of glass hitting the sink before I see the drops of blood falling from my forehead. The pain is acute, raw, like someone twisted a knife deep into me.

“Fucking bitch,” he says behind me, rage swimming in his eyes.

When he’s like this, unhinged and exuding contempt, I know it’s going to be bad. The smell of cheap perfume and alcohol swirls in the air, a dead giveaway that he’s been seeing a woman and drinking. I only hope she doesn’t have the same fate as me—I doubt it. Even to his lovers, he keeps up his good guy façade.

I’m the lucky one, the receiver of all the built-up frustration and self-loathing.

“You didn’t get dinner ready on time. Now I have to wait and be late for my meeting.”

I don’t know what kind of meeting someone like him would have on a Wednesday night. Especially now that he’s between jobs again, and I’ve been working double shifts at a café to get us through without letting his father know. He hates asking his father for money.

“I just got home,” I say in a low voice, avoiding an apology. He gets madder when I say I’m sorry for not fulfilling whatever expectation he has of me. “I can cook dinner really quick.”

He looks at me in the broken mirror, many pieces now missing from the frame and sparkling at the bottom of the sink. “You’d better.”

He releases me, and I wait for him to leave the bathroom before I sigh in relief.

I pray that he’s drunk enough to be stopped by the police and go to jail for a few days for driving intoxicated. Or worse, I pray for him to die. Drive himself off the road or into a pole.

“Gia,” Dante says, and I blink out of my trance.

I hate remembering all that the bastard did to me, and I usually shut down those thoughts quickly—I guess it’s harder when I have more time to think. Water still cascades from my hair down my body.

“Get out,” Dante says.

I turn off the tap, and he gives me a clean towel. I dry myself efficiently, aware that he’s watching my every move.

The memory of Ciro’s abuse is still fresh, even if I want to erase it forever. A part of me feels limp. Dead.

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