Page 9 of The Don's Proposal

I don’t know how long I sit on the bed before I decide to move. Without a doubt, I’m sure there’s someone on the other side of the door waiting to see if I will break the rules.

I’m not sure I want to deal with the consequences.

Very little is in the room, showing hardly any life. There is a dresser with four empty drawers. The room has an attached bathroom containing a few folded-up white towels, but the shower lacks shampoo or soap. One look at the knobs tempts me to clean up. I feel disgusting.

Catching a glimpse of my appearance in the mirror, my breath catches.

Eliza put so much effort into making me look good, but her hard work has gone to waste. My mascara stains my lower eyelids, and my eyeliner mixes well with the black specks.

My eyes lower, and I look at the dark mark left on my skin. As I graze my throat with my fingertips, I feel the heat emanating from the wound Santino inflicted. It’s more than just a hickey; he has left a dark bruise just above my collarbone. My eyes linger longer than they should, and I apply a slight pressure and wince as the pain radiates against my skin.

Getting too distracted by taking in the mix of dark colors, I jump when there is a knock on the door.

Santino doesn’t seem like a man who knocks and waits for permission to come inside. Rather, I’m sure if he were the one on the other side, he’d barge right in without any warning.

Completely in the unknown, I drift toward the opening of the bathroom door and hover behind it, just in case whoever it is is someone I don’t want to see. I stand a chance at locking myself into the bathroom before they can get to me.

However, with its flimsy appearance, I highly doubt that this flimsy door can withstand any force. Its lightweight structure and worn hinges make it far too vulnerable to provide any real resistance.

I don’t tell them to come in, because I don’t want them to. If I am forced to be here against my will, then I’d rather be alone.

Unfortunately, the person turning the handle is not on the same page as I am. The door opens, and a woman appears. Her brows knit together, and her lips curve into a thin line, revealing the frustration etched into her weathered face. Rather than feeling bothered by me, she’s pausing to say something to her right. Probably a guard. The sound of another voice, much deeper than her own all but confirms my suspicion.

“If Santino has a problem with this, he can tell me himself.” She clicks her tongue before looking my way.

She tries to offer a warm smile, but even her best efforts at politeness can’t mask the grimace that spreads across her face as she takes in my appearance more closely.

As the woman steps deeper into the room, the person she was talking to appears at the doorway. He is just another angry-looking grunt, this one with a gun in his hands. A full machine gun. As if she needs an audience, he watches me carefully, expecting me to do something dangerous here.

I wouldn’t harm a butterfly, much less an elderly woman.

Unlike the man with the gun, she carries herself with no hint of fear. Her chin is held high, her shoulders squared. In her arms, she has clothes and a few things on top. I can’t tell with the distance separating us.

For a moment, she glances at the mattress, and her nose scrunches. Can she tell what we’d done?

No, I don’t want to know.

She continues to move, claiming a seat on the edge of the mattress. For a solid five seconds, we stare at each other in pure, uncomfortable silence. When I don’t move, she pats the seat next to her.

“Let me see you, child.” She hooks her finger in my direction, demanding feeling back into my legs.

I am hardly a kid, but I guess in comparison, there must be a good fifty or so years between us.

Emerging cautiously from the bathroom, I step forward. To my knowledge, no one here cares about my safety. For all I know, she might be hiding a blade under that heap of clothes, planning to use it against me.

“Sit,” she orders once more when I’m within reach. As soon as I’m settled next to her, her hand is already on my face, tilting my jaw around as she examines me. From the squint of her eyes and the knit of her brow, I can’t imagine what she is thinking about. “My son has never been known to play with his victims. The fact that you’re here, moving with free will, is nothing shy of a miracle. Though, I know I raised him to be more gentle than this.”

Her son? Miracle? Either I’ve gone mad, or this woman has.

I’m back on my feet, pulling away from her warm touch. Unlike Santino, she doesn’t chase after me when I put distance between us. My heart thunders against my chest, and I jerk when she brings attention to the clothing in her grip.

“You two made quite the scene. I had to see for myself to see what is so special about you.” She sets the clothes down next to her hip. “Why don’t you get cleaned up, and we can get you fed, hm?”

Her offer is crazy enough to leave me bewildered and confused.

Is this some sort of test? Did Santino send his mother my way to lower my guard? Is this his first wave of trying to make me break?

I try to convince myself that to be the truth. However, the warmth behind her gaze, a look only a mother can give, makes me want to believe her.

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