When She Unravels: A Dark Mafia Romance (The Fallen Book 1)
When She Unravels: Chapter 22

The next morning, I waste no time before looking for an escape route from my new room. I can’t sit around here while Damiano decides what to do with me. His hot-and-cold act has to be some kind of a game. Why else would he treat me like garbage at dinner only to play doctor a few hours later?

I begin with the window. When my thorough examination doesn’t reveal any special wires, I conclude Damiano lied to me about it being alarmed, and I try to open it. It doesn’t make a peep, but the handle won’t move no matter how hard I tug on it. When I exhaust all of my arm strength, I decide to leave it alone for now.

There’s a flatscreen TV but no remote, and I can’t replace any buttons on the screen itself to turn it on. I briefly consider tearing it off the wall and tossing it at the window, but it won’t do anything to the steel bars on the outside. Why wouldn’t he leave me the remote? Maybe he’s hoping to torture me with boredom.

Minutes tick by slowly. At least I assume it’s minutes. There is no clock. The room is stylishly designed, but there’s literally nothing here. No clothes, no books, not even a pen.

I do my business in the bathroom. At least there’s a ton of toilet paper. I pop into the shower and stay there for a long time, trying not to give in to the desperation that’s simmering on the edges of my consciousness.

My clothes from yesterday are dirty. I sweated what must be the equivalent of a few buckets, so I really don’t want to put those back on. I give them a wash with an available bar of soap and hang them on the towel rack. With some luck, I might be able to put them on later today, but for now, I wrap the towel around me and return to the room.

I spend a long time turning over multiple escape strategies in my mind, but none of them make a ton of sense. If I had a knife or even a spoon, maybe I could start chipping away at the frame of the window. How long would that take? Long enough for Damiano to decide to send me back to my father after all. He said he wouldn’t, but I’m not naive enough to believe him. I wish I had something valuable to offer him, something that I could trade for my freedom, but he’s got more euros that I have cells in my body, and despite being the don’s daughter, I don’t have any information that would be valuable for Damiano. I already gave him everything I had.

I played my cards way too soon.

Eventually, my head starts to hurt from all of my fruitless scheming, so I scoot to the top of the bed and stare out the window. The sea glistens in the near distance. Even with that view to keep me company, it’s incredible how quickly boredom creeps in. My eyelids drift lower and lower. Looks like napping is about to become my favorite pastime.

Sometime later, I’m roused by three knocks on the door. I roll off the bed clutching my towel and creep to the door. “Yes?”

“It’s Martina. I-I brought you brunch.”

Is she going to open the door? She has to. There’s no other way to get the food inside. Maybe I can take advantage of it and run. I press my back against the wall and get into a ready stance, putting my weight on the balls of my feet.

“I’m not sure what you like, and Dem told me I can’t bring you any cutlery, so I got a croissant, cheese, some fruit, boiled eggs, and coffee.”

It sounds like an entire continental breakfast. My stance softens. Martina is trying to take care of me. What if I can get her to help me? And anyway, how far will I get wearing only a towel?

“Thank you,” I say as I step away from the wall.

There’s a soft click, and the door opens. Martina’s on the other side in a cropped T-shirt and a pair of jean shorts, balancing a tray filled with food on her palm.

I take the tray from her and step back. “This is very kind. I wasn’t sure if your brother was going to feed me.”

She takes in my clothes, or lack thereoff. “Do you want me to bring you something to wear?”

“That would be great.”

She nods. Behind her, I spy a huge security guard with a gun strapped to his waist.

Great.

Of course Damiano wouldn’t let her come up here on her own. I’m surprised he allowed her even with the backup.

The door shuts, and I eye the food on the tray. Everything looks delicious. I place it on the bed, tear off a corner of the still-warm croissant, and watch a bit of steam come out of the center. It tastes even better than it looks—slightly crunchy on the outside, and buttery soft in the middle. Did Martina bake it herself? It’s better than anything I’ve ever bought, even from my favorite bakery in Lower East Side.

She returns a short while later carrying a small stack of clothes under her arm. “You’re taller than me,” she says. “But I found a few things that should fit.”

“Thank you.” I take the stack from her. “I’m not picky.”

Her mouth curves into a shy smile. She glances behind her and gently nudges the door to the room to close it, but the security guard clears his throat before she finishes. “Door open, señorita.”

A flash of frustration crosses her delicate features, but it only lasts a moment.

“It’s okay,” I say. “They probably think I’ll maul you if we’re left alone.”

She blinks at me. “Will you?”

“No.” As soon as I say the word to her, I know it’s true. Unlike her brother, Martina is innocent, and I don’t want to pull her into our drama. She’s gone through enough already.

I squeeze the clothes closer into my chest. “Do you mind if I change?”

“Go ahead,” she says, starting toward the door.

“You don’t need to leave. I’ll just pop into the bathroom quickly. Then you can tell me who baked that heavenly croissant.”

Her face melts into a grin. “You liked it?”

“It’s the best I’ve ever had.”

Her bashful laugh follows me into the bathroom where I quickly swap my towel for a pair of underwear and a loose jersey dress that reaches my mid thigh. No bra. Martina is petite, so she probably didn’t have anything that would fit me in that department.

When I emerge, she’s sitting on the edge of the bed, nibbling on a piece of cheese.

“You remind me of one of my sisters,” I tell her.

“Sisters?”

“I have two. They’re younger than me, and I miss them. A lot.”

“Which one do I remind you of?”

“My younger sister, Cleo. Something about the upper part of your face, like the eyes and the nose. It’s hard to describe, but they’re similar.” I sit down on the opposite corner of the bed and reach for the last bit of that croissant. “She also really loves cheese.”

Martina laughs. “Who doesn’t love cheese?”

“People who can’t taste, clearly. When Cleo and I still lived together, she’d always put together these elaborate cheese boards with all kinds of nuts and jams. Her, my other sister, and I would bring it out to the terrace, sneak a bottle of wine out of my parents’ cellar, and watch the sun set over New York.” We stopped doing that after I got married. My sisters would invite me, but I made up excuses not to go so that I wouldn’t have to spend hours lying to their faces about how my marriage was going.

“I hope you see them again soon.” Martina’s voice is soft. “I’m sure Dem won’t keep you here forever.”

Even if he lets me go, chances are I won’t see my sisters, but there’s no point in telling her that. “Who knows what’s going on inside your brother’s head.”

She grows rigid. I can tell she feels uncomfortable talking about her brother’s plans for me. She’s probably worried she’ll betray his confidence by saying something wrong.

I give her a reassuring smile. “So I gather you like to cook.”

She seems momentarily relieved at the change of topic, then her face falls again. “I used to.” She traces the embroidered pattern on the comforter with her finger. “I don’t do it as much anymore, even though Dem asks me all the time.”

“He didn’t ask you to bake for me, did he?”

Blood rushes to her cheeks. “No. I just wanted to make something nice for you. I used to cook most of mine and my brother’s meals. Now, we’ve hired someone.”

“Why’s that?”

Suddenly, she stills her tracing and flattens her hand on the bedspread. “After New York, I lost interest in it.”

I see it then in her eyes. A hollowness filled with lingering pain. I’d bet my life it didn’t exist until she met Lazaro, and no matter how much I want to look away, I don’t allow myself to. This is what my husband does to people if he doesn’t end up killing them. He destroys them from within.

Just like he did to me.

Martina doesn’t deserve this. She’s just a young girl caught up in the cruel games of her brother’s world, and she must move past what happened to her.

I want to help her move on. I owe it to her.

The security guard is watching us through the crack in the door, so I don’t take her hand, but I move my fingers closer to where hers rest. She notes the movement and gives me a questioning look.

“Martina, it will get better,” I tell her in a low voice. “Give it time. You must be patient with yourself, but you can’t stop fighting.”

She squeezes her lips together and takes in a shuddery breath through her nose. For a while, she doesn’t say anything, she just shakes her head over and over again. I think she’s holding back tears. My heart trembles for her.

Finally, she whispers, “I convinced her to come with me. I—” Her voice cracks, and she scrambles off the bed. Before I even have a chance to utter another word, she’s already out the door.

The locks click into place. It sounds like a candle being blown out with a frantic breath.

I spend the rest of the day picking at my food and watching the ocean through the window. When the sun is almost over the horizon, the door opens, and it’s that grumpy security guard from earlier. He hands me a tray with my dinner and leaves without saying a word.

When I’m done eating, I decide to take another shower, and that’s when my day perks up. I notice that the showerhead is removable with five different settings, just like the one I had back in Lazaro’s home. If Damiano wanted to torture me by way of horrible boredom, this is a serious omission on his part.

I take the showerhead out of its holder, lean against the tiled wall, and point the spray between my legs. It takes me a little while to replace the right angle, but then I manage to do it, and dear Lord, it’s bliss. In a moment, I forget where I am and just focus on the soft pulses of pleasure radiating from my core.

It takes me right back to yesterday, when Damiano brought me to the edge and left me there. Damn that man. Being tied up and completely at his mercy shouldn’t turn me on, but it does. I remember how he thrust his thick fingers inside of me, how his hot lips brushed against the sensitive spot at the back of my neck. The contrast of him fully clothed and me with my shorts around my knees. He could have come around, lifted me by my thighs, and fucked me right there. I know he wanted to. Maybe be stopped when he did because he was about to lose control. I wish he did. I wish he’d finish me off and then fill me with his cum again. Afterwards, he’d leave me there, and I’d spend the rest of the day with his cum slowly dripping down my thighs.

The pressure explodes, and I bite down on my lip to keep the shout from coming out. Oh God. Waves of pleasure cascade over me, all the way from my head, down to my toes.

My legs shake as I step out of the shower, wrap a towel around me, and sit down on the toilet lid. When my breaths finally slow, I drop my forehead into my palms and allow reality to creep in.

I just masturbated to a fantasy of Damiano—the capo who’s keeping me locked up in his house—using me like a doll.

There’s something seriously wrong with me.

With that depressing thought, I climb into bed and flick off the lights. Maybe the shower head isn’t such a good idea after all. Tomorrow, I’ll have to work on replaceing another way to entertain myself while I wait for Damiano to decide what he’s going to do with me.

He never came to see me today. He may have called my father already, and I wouldn’t be any wiser. How much stock can I really put into his promises?

I toss and turn in bed until a restless sleep finally claims me.