Page 6 of Cruel Heir

Before I can pull away from the glass, the door opens suddenly, and I nearly topple out. A strong hand grabs my arm, and I look up at a tall, black-uniformed man, my cheeks flushing with embarrassment. He doesn’t say a word as he helps me out of the car, and I swallow hard, feeling that wave of fear again. His face is impassive, without a hint of anything that might give me a clue as to what’s going on. If he knows anything, or if he has any opinions about having brought a barefoot girl in a ballgown to his employer’s mansion, I can’t read them on his face.

“Am I supposed to go in there?” My voice is a raspy squeak, and I look towards the terracotta mansion, fear rooting me to the spot.

“I’ve just been told to bring you here.” His voice is flat, and I turn back to face him, desperation welling up in me.

“You could take me back,” I plead. “I don’t know if you realize where you took me from—my father is Don Fontana. He’ll pay you anything you want if you return me to him now. Please—I promise he’ll reward you—”

For a moment, I almost think I see him consider it. But almost as quickly, he shakes his head.

“Not worth the cost, miss.” The driver turns away, sliding back into the car. The finality of his words, the idea that anything my father could give him wouldn’t outweigh what this other man might do, sends a chill of pure terror through me. Who is this person?

The loose stones and gravel of the courtyard bite into my bare feet, and I wonder, for a moment, if I should simply run. If I shouldtake my chances with whatever is out beyond those trees, wherever we are, instead of walking into the trap that’s been laid for me.

Before I can decide, the heavy front door of the mansion opens, and a tall man in a dark suit steps out, silhouetted in the light of the doorway.

“Don’t stand there all night,” he says sharply, his voice cutting through the considerable space between us, as thickly accented as my father’s. He could almostbemy father, if I squint, though his hair is more white than grey, and he doesn’t have my father’s bearing. I’ve grown up all my life with staff, and I know the difference between the employers and the employed. If I had to guess, this man runs the household for whoever it is that owns it. “Everyone is waiting on you.”

What?I stare at him in confusion, still not moving, and I see his forehead crease with annoyance even from where I’m standing. “Miss.” His voice is sharp and cold, without the slightest compassion. I don’t get the impression that he feels any sympathy for me—and why would he? I doubt the man who kidnapped me is any kinder to his staff than he was to me, and I doubt they’ll care about the fate of a pampered and spoiled daughter of the mafia.

“You don’t want me to have to get security to bring you in.” There’s the slightest hint of softness to his voice then, a warning meant to let me know that as bad as things feel right now, they could still get worse. It’s what propels me further, makes me walk towards the steps leading up to the front door as the courtyard stones bite into my feet. The night’s chill has gotten deeper, and the skin across my chest and arms prickles, my fingers and toes beginning to numb again from standing out here.

At least inside, it’s probably warm.

It’s all I can do not to cry as I walk up the steps. I can feel my lips quivering and my eyes burning, and I clench my hands into fists in the fabric of my skirt. The white-haired man’s face is as impassive as the driver’s, and he simply gestures towards the open door. “Go on in,” he says calmly, and I look at him, everything inside of me rebelling against the idea of walking into that house.

“Please,” I whisper, valiantly hoping that one person might be willing to help. “Please don’t do this. I don’t want to be here. I’ve been kidnapped. Please help me. My father—”

The man looks at me sternly, almost as if he’s chastising me. “I know who your father is, Miss Fontana. It changes nothing. Please go inside.”

“No!” I gasp out, taking a step back. This is a nightmare. It has to be. None of it makes sense. “You don’t understand. I’m being forced—”

“I understand perfectly, miss. Please don’t make a scene. I’m sure you know how inappropriate that would be.” The white-haired man gestures towards the door again, his mouth pinched with disapproval. “Go inside, Miss Fontana.”

I realize, with a wave of crushing hopelessness, that he’s not going to help me. That he doesn’t care—or if he does, whatever orders he’s been given far outweigh it. There’s no chance that anyone here is going to betray their employer and help me escape.

I bite my lip hard, forcing myself to take the next few steps into the mansion’s interior.

I step into a grand foyer—the floor marble veined with silver, the ceilings high and vaulted. It’s reminiscent of the foyer in my own home—not quite as elegant, but close. It’s well-lit, and I see that it opens into a large marble-floored entryway on the main floor of the house, a large staircase to either side, leading up to the second floor. There are other rooms ahead, and on either side of me, the doors all closed with no sign of what might be behind them. The house is quiet and still, and the white-haired man walks up to stand next to me, gesturing towards the stairs.

“Follow me,” he says calmly, and walks towards the staircase on the left. There’s no question of whether I will or not, only that I’ll follow the command—a command given by a man who is certainly lower in station than I am. It feels hard to believe that earlier tonight, I felt like the closest thing to a princess I could imagine being—and now I’m standing here shivering and on the verge of tears in a strange home, compelled to follow this man upstairs to an unknown fate.

I think of how I compared my dress to Cinderella’s earlier, and almost laugh, pressing my knuckles against my lips to stifle it.A reverse Cinderella, maybe,I think as I follow the white-haired man up the stairs.

We go up to the second floor, and I follow him down a long hallway lined with framed art. He stops in front of a large door near the end, and opens it, gesturing for me to step inside. “When you’re finished,” he says calmly, “come back down to the main floor.”

“What then?” I force the words out from between my shaking lips, and he looks back at me, not a trace of that hint of softness that I heard in his craggy face.

“That’s not for me to say.” He gestures towards the door again. “Go on, miss.”

I know I have no other choice. I remember the blond man in the garden telling me that there was no point in fighting, and it makes me want to crumple into hysterical laughter—or sobs. I’m not sure which. I have no way out of this.

So I walk forward into the room. I hear the door shut behind me, and I look around, trying to make sense of where I am.

It’s a bedroom—a very nicely decorated one. It’s fully furnished—a wardrobe, vanity, desk, and bed—all done in hues of soft pink and gold, but it’s not the decor that catches my eye. It’s the uniformed maid standing at the edge of the bed—and the white dress spread across it.

“Oh no.” The words come out in a whisper, and I feel myself starting to shake my head. I press a hand to my mouth, backing up to the door, and I fumble for the knob. I can’t pretend that what I’m seeing is anything other than what it is—a white gown every bit as elegant and well-made as the one I’m wearing, the skirt stiff with embroidery and seed pearls, a drape of tulle laid out next to it.You will be mine. The reality of what’s happening here hits me full force, and my eyes well up with tears.

The door is locked. “No!”I cry out the word, yanking at the knob, turning and flinging myself at the door as I start to bang on it with one fist. All the terror that I tried to keep at bay in the car comesrushing up, choking me as surely as the blond man’s hand did in the garden, bringing hot tears to my eyes. “No, no, no—”

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