Page 7 of Daddy's Little Mafia Princess
Chapter 3
Clara
I wake up slowly, groggy. My head aches, the dull pounding under my skull excruciating. My mouth tastes horrid, and I don’t recognize the room. The soft white bed cradling me in inches of memory foam is comforting but not my own. My appreciation for the softness vanishes the minute I roll over. I can’t turn over, not all the way. Partway onto my side, an unyielding tug on my leg stops me. The metallic clink is unmistakable as I ease myself up to look down my body. My ankle is chained to the bedpost.
That should have snapped me straight to clarity, but it didn’t. I lay on my side, confused, drowsing in and out of wakefulness until I collapse back on the mattress.
Where am I?
The room is huge, palatial, at least twice the size of my bedroom. There’s a counter—is that a bar?—a dresser, a walk-in closet, and an open door to a luxury bathroom I can’t reach because of the chain. The bed is soft, a four-poster, with deep-blue velvet curtains. The side table has a lamp I can’t reach, and every time I blink my eyes, the shadows on the walls get longer.
Sunlight pours in through the partially covered windows. Every time I close my eyes, the shadows change position on the ceiling and walls, crawling across the room. Sometimes I watch it, sometimes I sleep, but every time I open my eyes, something is different. Like the chair that appears beside the bed. Or the glass of water with partially melted ice, weeping condensation onto the coaster on the nightstand. At one point, I swear a woman bends over me, trying to coax my head up, so I can drink without choking.
I wake again, and a man is sitting in the chair, regal as any businessman in a three-piece gray suit. His shoes shine, his hands look clean, and his big boxy fingers fold on his knee as he waits patiently for me to awaken.
“Miss Jamison said you were coming to,” he says friendly enough. “I thought perhaps it might be time for us to talk.”
I try to lick my lips, but moisture won’t come.
“Viktor?”
He inclines his head. “I’m glad you remember. I wasn’t sure I’d made that much of an impression at yesterday’s brunch.”
“Are the others dead?” I rasp, desperately needing a drink. My voice betrays how dry and scratchy my throat is.
Standing, he comes around the bed to collect the glass from the nightstand. Helping me sit up, he brings the water to my lips. I try to take it from him, but he refuses. In the end, I give up and let him hold both me and the glass. With my hands cradled around his, I sip the cold water.
“Everyone is alive and well,” he assures me. “Including your father.”
Startled, I ask, “Why? Why would you do that? You know he’s going to come after you.”
“Your concern is touching but completely unnecessary.” He smiles and sets the glass back on the nightstand.
I shake my foggy head. “You have no idea what he’s capable of.”
“Oh, I promise, of the two of us, he should be far more concerned about what I’ll do to him. You remember the brunch? I made him an offer, and we came to an agreement. You in exchange for my money. My restaurant, his casino. We shook hands on it. Was there any part of that you found ambiguous?”
I blink at him, my stomach sinking and tightening.
“I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t know they were coming until I was back in the banquet hall, and they walked in. I didn’t even know what our breakfast was about until I heard you talking.”
He held up his hand. “No, I know. A proper princess never knows what the king is plotting. Especially not where her well-being is concerned.”
My father hasn’t made my well-being a consideration in years, but I don’t bother telling him that. The scars I wear will.
He sits down on the edge of the bed, regarding me with a half-smile that makes my stomach blush. I don’t think I’ve ever been so aware of a man. It’s like James all over again but different. He’s sitting so close, I can feel his hard body against my thigh.Mythighistouchinghisbutt!
“Unfortunately, Princess, there comes a time in every woman’s life when she has to grow up.”
“What does that mean?” I pry my attention off his butt and try to keep up with the conversation, but it’s hard. The rush of heat that was in my stomach is now burning in my face.
“You’re Italian. You know whatfuitinameans, don’t you?”
Fuitina? I blinked.
“Yes. My mother told me that was how my grandmother and grandfather met. But that was in Italy. That’s not even a thing here.”
“It’s not really a thing in Italy anymore, either.” He shrugs. “Not since 1981 when they abolished Article 544, no longer allowing rapists to escape the consequences of their actions.”
