Page 16 of The Bonventi Secret
Tick.
It's maddening, a constant reminder of my dwindling freedom. I rub my skull pendant to relax myself.
What would Megan think when I don't show up for our study session next week? Would Jake - ugh, does that even matter anymore? The thought of them going about their lives, oblivious to my predicament, makes me feel like I'm drowning in an ocean of isolation.
My eyes instinctively dart around the room, cataloging every detail. The heavy oak bookends on the shelf to my right—they'd make formidable weapons if needed. A letter opener, its blade sharp, lies on the massive desk in the corner. I file away these details, my mind already formulating escape plans, no matter how futile they might be.
Overall, the room feels artificial. The sterileness of it all makes me ache for my comfy apartment, with its mismatched IKEA furniture and walls plastered with post-it notes full of Victorian literature quotes.
My palms are slick with sweat, and I wipe them on my jeans, leaving damp marks on the fabric. I should be in bed with Jake right now, nursing a boxed wine hangover. Instead, I'm here, waiting to meet the man who's stolen my future. The irony isn't lost on me – I've spent years studying literature, and now I'm living out some twisted, modern version of a Gothic novel.
The door we came through is the only way in or out, as far as I can tell. But beyond it lies a maze of corridors, each onepotentially leading to more of Enzo's men. And even if I could navigate them, where would I go?
I'm trapped. Like a butterfly pinned to a board, wings fluttering uselessly against the inevitable.
Suddenly, I hear footsteps in the hallway, echoing off the marble floors. My heart leaps into my throat, pounding so hard I'm certain everyone in the mansion can hear it.
It reminds me of Edgar Allan Poe's "The Tell-Tale Heart," the narrator driven mad by the sound of the old man's beating heart. But this is no work of fiction. This is my reality, and I'm terrified.
Gabriel, who had been pacing near the bookshelves, straightens up. I glance at him, noting the tightness around his eyes, the way his jaw clenches. He's anxious, and that sends me over the edge.
If my ruthless brother is nervous, what hope do I have?
The footsteps grow louder, closer. My mouth is dry, and I can taste the metallic tang of fear on my tongue.
Breathe, Livia,I tell myself. You've faced down mean foster parents, snooty professors, and cutthroat peers. You can handle this.
The door swings open.
A man steps into the room, and I know instantly that this is Enzo Bonventi. I've met him a few times in my life, but Gabriel had done a good job at keeping me away from him, from everything he does. The last time I saw Enzo was at least five or six years ago, but now he looks different.
He's very tall and fills the doorway with his broad shoulders. He's impeccably dressed in a tailored suit that probably costsmore than my entire wardrobe. His presence is overwhelming, dominating the space in a way that makes the room feel smaller.
Our eyes meet, and I feel a jolt of something. Fear? Anger? Or something else entirely? His blue eyes are piercing, assessing, like he's looking right through me. I want to look away, but I can't. I'm caught, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car.
"Livia," he says, his voice deep and smooth. "Welcome to my home."
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. My throat feels constricted, choking on all the things I want to say.
Enzo moves further into the room, his steps measured and confident. He doesn't look at Gabriel, his focus entirely on me. I feel exposed, vulnerable under his scrutiny.
"Was my jet comfortable?" he asks, as if this were a normal social call and not the beginning of my imprisonment.
I want to laugh at the absurdity of it all. Comfortable? Nothing about this situation is comfortable. I finally manage to find my voice, surprising myself with my tone. "Oh yes, absolutely delightful. Nothing says comfort like being kidnapped and flown across the country against your will.”
A flicker of something passes across Enzo's face before it's replaced by a mask of cool indifference.
He moves to the bar cart, his eyes never leaving me. "Can I offer you a drink? You look like you could use one."
I run my tongue across my teeth, suppressing an instant anger.You look like you could use one, I think to myself, what the hell is that supposed to mean?
But before I can spit out a sarcastic reply, Enzo's expression softens almost imperceptibly. "Or perhaps some water? The flight can be dehydrating." He pours a glass of water and brings it to me, his movements surprisingly gentle.
As I take the glass, our fingers brush, and for a moment, he almost seems like he is trying his best to comfort me. However, the moment is gone so quickly I'm not sure I didn't imagine it.
"I'm sure you have questions," he says, his voice calm and controlled. "Ask them."
A thousand things race through my mind, each more desperate than the last. But only one manages to escape my lips. "Why me?"
