Page 8 of Ruined

He reaches around from behind and his hand cups my jaw, his thumb rubbing over my cheek with what might be affection if it came from someone else. In Angelo’s case, it feels more like appraisal. I find my eyes leaving my face and moving to his visage as well. I’m searching his expression for some understanding of what he intends to do with me, what he wants to do to me. Does he want me to cry? Does he want me to be upset? When I look at my hair again, it looks to me like he did a good job. He wants me to look good.

“Cute,” he says, the word sounding alien in his deep, accented timbre. I cannot imagine Angelo Vitali calling anybody cute. The fact that I just heard him say it doesn’t make it any more imaginable.

I am still stricken with fear, still unable to move when he touches me. I chose fight out of fight or flight, but now I am in freeze mode. It’s not a choice. It’s a survival mechanism.

“What do you want from me?”

“I want you to do precisely what you’re doing, Riley. I want you to obey me. I want you to try very, very hard to do as you are told. And I want you to fail, because I want to punish you. I want to make you scream and cry. I want to find out who you are underneath the Fed. Underneath everything.”

I draw in a deep breath. “Why?”

“I think you’re interesting.”

He doesn’t know me. At all. I heard what he said to Bobby about me, that he felt something when I hit him. Is this how Angelo navigates the world? Like a shark, responding to charge and impulse, following his instincts, taking what he wants and consuming it fully, leaving the waters bloodied and churning?

Probably.

“You’re not resisting me, Riley,” he says. “You’re playing dead, and I know it. But there’s something inside you I felt when I caught you, something I will bring out and make beautiful.”

He’s so intense. Being in his presence makes me feel alive in a way I have not felt alive in a very long time. I took this job because I crave excitement. I get bored easily. I like danger. And frankly, I don’t have any loved ones because I’m kind of a complete fucking mess. There’s no way Angelo knows any of this, but when he catches my eye, it feels like he knows everything. It feels like he’s known me my whole fucking life, like he was there when I was nothing more than a few cells rapidly dividing in my unwary mother’s womb.

I feel connection. Raw. Powerful. Twisted. Toxic.

I stay quiet, not wanting to admit to any of these churning, compelling feelings. But he keeps his hand on my face, his fingers beneath my chin, his thumb on my cheek, controlling me. Making me look not just at myself with short blonde hair brushed to his liking, but at him, at the man I swore to hunt, and who ended up catching me.

“Let’s get you dressed,” he says. “Shower first, and then a new wardrobe for your new life.”

* * *

Angelo Vitali watches me undress, peeling off the remnants of my life before. I wonder what he thinks of me. I wonder if there is any spark of attraction in his dark gaze, or if that glint of excitement I detect is simply the enjoyment of a cat playing with a mouse.

I know better than to ask him for privacy. He would like it if I was humiliated and ashamed by his watching me. The best I can hope for is a thin illusion of indifference that might make him think I don’t mind.

Naked, I step into the shower. It is a large, luxurious space, and there are many soaps and oils and other skin treats present. I find myself lingering over each and every one of them. At home, I have soap, shampoo, and conditioner. Angelo has a full range of products sourced from the finest establishments.

“Take your time,” Angelo prompts when I shoot him a little glance, wondering if he will become impatient with me. Probably not. Angelo is known for his patience. He can wait years for revenge, and whatever it is he is trying to do with me is clearly going to take some time to achieve.

I feel very, extremely naked in front of him. But I also feel… it is hard to put words to. The closest I can come up with is free. He’s taken my hair, and my clothes, my privacy. He’s taken all the things I thought mattered, and yet I am still here, and still very much myself. Surprisingly intact, and very much alive.

It feels good to shower. I spent several days staking out Angelo’s place, and I didn’t get a chance to get cleaned up in that time. I didn’t want to lose an opportunity to gather evidence. Finding Angelo has never been the agency’s problem. Getting evidence, that’s been the hard part. I really thought I was onto something, following Angelo’s every move. But he knew I was there. I wonder how much misinformation I was compiling to feed my handlers before he took me.

I wonder if they have noticed I am missing yet. Part of me hopes they have and is dreaming of a rescue. But there is another part too, an older, deeper part that hopes they never come. It is a destructive beast that dwells inside me and is happy to meet its end inside these walls. There is something deeply wrong with me and being in Angelo’s custody brings it out.

When I get out of the shower, Angelo has attire waiting. I say attire. I mean a plain white shirt that comes down to my knees and smells of him, a faint scent of cologne about it even though it is clearly clean. I put it over my head to relieve myself of my nudity, but far from escaping Angelo with clothing, I find myself now wrapped in him, his essence and scent brushing against every tender, slightly damp part of me.

“We will have to shop for you,” he says. “You are rather small.”

Compared to him, everybody is small, and I don’t mean merely physically. Angelo is tall and broad and imposing, but he is not gargantuan. He simply has the sort of presence that makes me feel insignificant and simple in comparison. I am not a stupid person. The agency doesn’t train dunces. But beneath Angelo’s gaze, I feel simple.

Angelo ushers me out of the bathroom. I wonder what he will do with me now that he has me where he wants me. I know the greatest danger to me is probably the risk of him becoming bored and either torturing me or outright killing me. But how to hold the interest of an intelligent psychopath?

Fortunately for me, Bobby Vitali is not far away, and he is not in a good mood. My presence is an irritant he will not tolerate.

He strides down the hall, and when he is close enough for his dark, cruel features to have the most impact, he inspects me with a sneer on his face.

“She looks stupid.”

“Be nice,” Angelo purrs. “She doesn’t look stupid at all. She looks like she belongs to us now. She looks like she’s not she at all. In some quarters, that would be referred to as a disguise.”

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