THE MANSION

CHAPTER 2: 

The mansion was not a house. It was a kingdom made of darkness and marble.

We drove for almost six hours from Rome to Sicily. I fell asleep somewhere after Naples, my head against the cold window of the Rolls-Royce, wearing Damien Vitale's suit jacket that still smelled like him. When I woke up, his hand was still holding mine.

I pulled away instantly.

He didn't say anything. He just looked at me with those cold grey eyes in the dark car and said, "We are here."

I looked outside.

I had seen rich houses before on TV. I had seen villas in Rome when I delivered food to rich customers. But I had never seen anything like this.

The gates opened automatically - huge black iron gates with a golden V in the middle. Vitale. The driveway was so long I couldn't see the end. On both sides, there were perfectly trimmed cypress trees and stone statues - angels with broken wings. The whole place was lit by soft yellow lights, but it didn't feel warm. It felt cold. Like a beautiful graveyard.

And then the mansion appeared.

It was three stories high, made of dark grey stone and white marble. It had tall columns like a palace in ancient Rome, huge glass windows, and a balcony that wrapped around the second floor. It looked like a castle from a movie about rich people who kill for fun.

Which, I realized, was exactly what it was.

The car stopped. The two men in black suits opened our doors.

"Welcome home, Mrs. Vitale," one of them said, looking at me.

Mrs. Vitale. The name sounded foreign and terrifying.

Damien got out first, then held out his hand to me. I didn't want to take it. But when I looked at the two guards, I knew I had no choice. I placed my small hand in his big one and let him help me out.

His jacket was still around my shoulders, almost falling to my knees because I was so small.

"Don Vitale," the guard said in Italian. "The house is ready. As you instructed."

"Good," Damien replied in Italian, then switched to English for me. "Elena, this is Luca."

The guard who had opened my door stepped forward. He was younger than I expected - maybe 30, tall, with short brown hair and a short beard, warm brown eyes, and a kind smile. He was handsome in a normal way, not scary like Damien. He was wearing a black suit too, but his tie was loose.

"Luca Romano," he said to me, extending his hand. "Right-hand man of this cold bastard here. And you must be Elena. Don't be scared. He barks louder than he bites. Most of the time."

I didn't know if I should shake his hand. I was still wearing Damien's jacket.

Damien's hand tightened around mine. "Don't touch her, Luca."

Luca raised his hands and laughed. "Possessive already, boss? You just met her four hours ago."

"She is my wife," Damien said coldly. "No one touches my wife."

Luca looked at me and winked. "See what I have to deal with? Come, I'll show you inside. You must be tired."

But Damien didn't let go of my hand. He pulled me toward the massive double doors himself.

Inside, the mansion was even more overwhelming.

The entrance hall was huge - the ceiling was at least twenty feet high, with a giant crystal chandelier that sparkled like a thousand diamonds. The floor was black marble, so polished I could see my reflection. On the walls, there were oil paintings of old men who looked like Damien - same grey eyes, same cold face. Vitale ancestors.

It was beautiful. And it was the loneliest place I had ever seen.

"Your house?" I whispered.

"Our house," Damien corrected. "For one year."

A woman in a black and white maid uniform appeared. She was older, maybe 50, with kind eyes. "Don Vitale, Mrs. Vitale. Dinner is ready if you - "

"No dinner," Damien interrupted. "She is tired. Take her to our room."

Our room.

The maid looked at me with pity. "Yes, Don. This way, Mrs. Vitale."

But again, Damien didn't let anyone else touch me. He kept my hand and led me himself up the grand marble staircase. My cheap slippers made a soft sound on the marble. His Italian leather shoes made no sound at all.

We walked down a long hallway. Every door was dark wood, tall and heavy. At the end of the hallway, there was a double door that was bigger than the others.

He opened it.

"This is our room. Your room for one year."

I stepped inside and my breath caught.

The room was bigger than my entire apartment in Rome. The floor was dark wood with a huge cream carpet. In the middle, there was a king-size bed with black silk sheets and at least ten pillows. There was a fireplace that was already lit, even though it was summer. There were floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the Sicilian sea and the mountains. There was a walk-in closet that looked like a boutique, and a bathroom that was made of all white marble with a bathtub that could fit three people.

And it smelled like him. Sandalwood and smoke.

"This - this is too much," I whispered.

Damien closed the door behind us. The sound echoed.

He took off his tie and threw it on a chair. He looked tired now, more human.

"House rules," he said, his voice low. "Listen carefully, Elena."

I hugged his jacket tighter around me.

"Rule number one: You do not leave this room without my permission for the first three days. You need to understand you are not in Rome anymore."

"Rule number two: You do not enter my office. It's the room with the black door at the end of the east wing. If you enter it, I will punish you."

"Punish me?" I asked, my voice small.

He looked at me. "Rule number three: You do not talk to any man in this house except me and Luca. If a guard talks to you, you don't answer. If you smile at a guard, I will fire him. If you touch a guard, I will kill him."

My eyes widened. "You are crazy."

"I am possessive," he said, like it was the same thing. "Rule number four: At night, you sleep in this bed. With me."

My heart started beating fast. "I - I thought this was a contract marriage! You said - you said you wanted revenge, not - not - "

"I said you will be my wife in name," he interrupted. "A wife sleeps in her husband's bed. Don't worry, Elena. I don't want a scared little girl. When I touch you, it will be because you want me to touch you."

He said it so confidently, like he already knew I would want him.

"And rule number five," he continued, walking closer to me until I had to look up at him, "never try to escape. The mansion is surrounded by 20 kilometers of my land. There are guards with dogs. The sea is full of sharks. And even if you escape Sicily, I will find you. I always find what belongs to me."

I was shaking. Not just from fear now, but from anger too.

"I am not a thing! I am not yours!"

He smiled. That cold, dangerous smile again.

"You signed the contract, Mrs. Vitale. You are mine. For one year."

He turned and walked to the bathroom. "Take a shower. There are clothes in the closet. They are yours. I had them prepared. Your old clothes - throw them away. A Vitale wife doesn't wear rags."

And then he closed the bathroom door, leaving me alone in the huge, cold, beautiful room.

I stood there for a long time, hugging his jacket, crying silently.

I looked at the bed. I looked at the window. I looked at the closet.

Curiosity won over fear. I walked to the walk-in closet and opened it.

I gasped.

There were at least fifty dresses - red, black, white, emerald green, all designer brands I had only seen in magazines: Gucci, Prada, Valentino. There were shoes - heels that cost more than my yearly salary. There were jewelry boxes. Bags.

And everything was in my size.

How did he know my size?

I touched a red velvet dress. It was soft.

I felt dirty. My hair was still wet from rain, my uniform was dirty, my feet were sore.

I decided to take a shower. I locked the bathroom door that connected to the main bathroom - thankfully there were two doors.

The bathroom was like a spa. There was a rain shower and a huge bathtub. There were expensive soaps that smelled like roses.

I took off his jacket and my old waitress uniform and stood under the hot water for a long time, washing away the dirt of Rome, the smell of the diner, the tears.

When I came out, wrapped in a huge white towel, Damien was in the room again. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing a black t-shirt and black pajama pants now. Without his suit, he looked younger, but more muscular. His arms were covered in tattoos - a large cross on his chest, a rosary on his forearm, and a name on his wrist.

Isabella.

His mother's name.

He was holding a glass of whiskey and looking at the fireplace.

He didn't look at me at first. Then he did.

His eyes traveled from my wet hair, to my bare shoulders, to the towel that barely covered my thighs. His jaw clenched.

"Elena," he said, his voice low.

"What?" I clutched the towel tighter.

"Come here."

"No."

He stood up and walked to me. He didn't touch me. He just stood there, looking down at me.

"You are beautiful when you are scared," he said softly. "But you will be more beautiful when you are not scared of me."

"That will never happen," I whispered.

"We will see."

He reached past me and took something from the closet - a silk nightgown, black. He handed it to me.

"Wear this. Sleep."

"I want to wear my own clothes."

"Your own clothes are in the trash. Wear this or sleep naked. Your choice, Mrs. Vitale."

I snatched the nightgown from his hand and ran back into the bathroom to change.

The nightgown was black silk, with lace on the chest. It was too revealing. It showed my cleavage, my legs. I had never worn anything like it.

When I came out, Damien was already in bed, on the far left side, reading something on his phone. He had left the right side empty, with a pillow between us.

He looked up. His eyes darkened when he saw me in the black silk.

"Good," he said. "Now come sleep. I have a meeting at 5 AM."

I walked to the bed slowly and lay down on the far right edge, as far away from him as possible. I pulled the black silk sheets up to my neck.

The bed was too soft. Too big. Too cold.

We lay there in silence, two strangers in a huge bed, with a pillow wall between us.

After a long time, I thought he was asleep. I turned my head to look at him.

He was awake. Looking at me.

"Why do you look at me like that?" I whispered.

"Like what?"

"Like you hate me and want me at the same time."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he turned off the lamp.

"Sleep, Elena. Tomorrow you will understand everything."

But I couldn't sleep. I was in a mansion in Sicily, in a black silk nightgown, next to a Mafia Don who bought me.

And then I saw it. On the nightstand, next to his side of the bed, there was a small silver frame. I picked it up carefully.

It was a photo of a beautiful woman with long dark brown hair and hazel eyes - exactly like mine. She was smiling, holding a small boy who looked like Damien.

On the back of the frame, written in faded ink: "Isabella and Damien, 2005."

My blood ran cold.

The woman in the photo looked exactly like me. Exactly.

And I remembered what Luca said earlier outside: "The Don's mother was killed by her driver fifteen years ago."

My father was a driver fifteen years ago.

For the Vitale family.

Oh my God.

My father didn't just owe money. He killed Damien's mother.