6. I own her

Angioletto's Pov

When I received a text from my father informing me of this meeting, I knew something was off. I knew it had something to do with my hostage, and now, I’ve confirmed my suspicions to be true.

Thirty minutes have I been here, still, there've been no words spoken, just the continuous rise in the tension radiating off of each person in the room.

Mio padre, his first son, Massimo, and his second son, Antonio.

“How have you been?” My older brother—Massimo questions, his eyes, as dark as the midnight, burning holes through my skull, reminding me that his question, as sweet as it might sound, is far from him merely inquiring about my physical state.

“Fine.” I simply answer, gaining a unified hum from all three of the men.

“Haven’t you been getting enough sleep? Your eyes are really sunken.” Mio padre further asks.

Completely aware that his question springs from a place of genuine concern, I answer in a soft voice. “Sto bene, padre.”

He nods. “What about Dumont Augustin, has there been any new information on him? Has his body been found yet?”

I let out an exasperated breath, rubbing my palms over my face. “There’s nothing yet.” I whisper. “I’m convinced that the man is still alive and well, but I’ve been too busy handling other things to put in any effort into seeking him out.”

Massimo sits up, his interest spiking. “Other things? Like frolicking around town with his daughter?”

I chuckle nervously. “What?”

“She’s not dead, is she?” It’s mio padre’s voice that thunders. I shudder, my stomach churns with a foreign sensation, my jaw ticking with irritation, but I don’t speak.

My silence and absentminded stare is all the answer they need but my eldest brother wouldn’t stop pushing it.

“Is she dead?!”

“No!” I roar. “She’s not dead!”

Antonio’s eyes collide with mine. His orbs hold understanding, support, and yet, he appears to be lost in thought. Confused.  

“Padre made his orders clear enough when he ordered her death.”

“I don’t want to kill her just yet, is anything wrong with that?” I finally ask, my irritation evident in my tone of voice. “Why do you keep questioning me in this manner? You want the girl gone, but I don’t, not now at least. I’ll rid of her when I’ve had enough fun.”

Laughter bubbles out of my brother—Antonio. “Fun?” It’s a question of mockery. “In what ways do you intend to have fun with a nineteen year old?”

I rage. “It’s not about sex!” 

“Then what is it about?” Mio padre intervenes. I fall silent.

What really is this about?

What is this about that for the first time since inserting myself into the crime society, I’m willing to defy my own father over a girl I barely know?

Why do I enjoy her company this much?

Why does the idea of her excite me the way it does?

Why have I allowed myself into this mess?

Mio padre continues speaking, his words void of any spiteful emotion—rage, Hate even. His words are soft and his voice, laced with concern. He’s concerned for me.

“You’re walking in the wrong direction, Angioletto and you know it. You think it, but you force yourself not to believe it.” He exhales a scanty breath. “A daughter of an enemy is an enemy. What do you think she’d do when she discovers the despicable things you did to her family?”

I don’t know!

I want to scream but force my eyes away from my family, my brain running in circles in an attempt to figure a way out of this.

“I don’t think she has a good relationship with her father.” I state.

“Nobody cares about what your thoughts are, Angel!” Massimo snaps. “We did not get this far by having sentimental thoughts. Be logical for once, dannazione!”

Antonio butts in. “It’s dangerous, getting too attached to a girl like that. She’s young and vibrant, bright even and I’d hate to see you dim her light because of. . .” He bites down on his tongue. “Just don’t get too carried away, Angel, si? Have your fun and take care of her as soon as you can. Get some sleep while you’re at it, you look a mess.”

Mio padre heaves out an exhausted breath, understanding clouding his orbs. “Son—”

“Papá,” I cut him off, my voice a trembling mess, my fingers dragging across my scalp. “I know how concerned you all are for me. I do, I really do.”

“That’s good. We don’t want you shattering completely when she finally decides to up and leave you.”

The implication of his statement settles in. My eyes brim with tears. First, Oceane had the audacity to threaten to leave me or kill herself if she’s unable to. And now, my family thinks the same thing.

With a shake of my head, I whisper, “she wouldn’t leave me. She belongs to me.”

My voice is unstable, shaky, unsure. Whom am I trying to convince? Myself or my family?

“You can’t own a person.” It’s Antonio’s whispered statement that wrecks me completely.

“But I own her. I saw her, she intrigued me, I took her, and now, she’s mine. She knows it and I know it.”

“Son—”

“I know!” I snap. “I’m getting distracted, I’m letting it happen again but I can’t help it. She makes me feel alive and I’m not ready to let her go. Not yet.”

We’re enveloped by a minute of uncomfortable silence before my father speaks up, his tone of voice smooth. Calm. “Okay. I trust you to make wise decisions.”

His words are an indication that the meeting has come to an end. So without minding the glaring eyes of Massimo, or the curious eyes of Antonio, I rise from my seat, bowing to my father as a show of respect.

And all I do is hurry into my car and drive with intent. I drive like a man chasing something of great value. The voices in my head are not allowing me a moment of peace.

She’ll eventually leave.

“If I can’t get away from a man like you, then I would rather be dead.”

“I’ll kill myself.”

“No. . .” I shake my head, desperate to rid myself of those dirty voices.

You suffocate her. 

“No. . .”

I slam my fist against the steering wheel, The inhale and exhale of my breaths, scanty, strained.

She’ll leave you. That taunting voice screams in my head. Again.

“She wouldn’t dare! She wouldn’t dare.”

The voice doesn’t relent. It continues to rip me apart on the inside.

Kill her and set yourself free from this misery, you know you want to.

With one last swerve, I bring my car to a stop in the underground garage, running into the elevator, heaving out short, shallow, and fast breaths.

My face looks horrific.

Maybe if I put in more effort into treating her nicely, just maybe she wouldn’t ever think about leaving.

Maybe if I wouldn’t be so mean to her.

Maybe if I practiced a little self control.

Shit!

She’s ruining my sanity but the thought of losing her is doing greater harm.

Shit!

Fuck!

The elevator dings, the doors sliding open, indicating that I’ve reached the penthouse. My legs move fast against the floor, my body becoming one with air.

I run into my penthouse and head straight for the room where I have my munchkin locked up in.

I kick the door open and run in. I’m quick to spot her petite figure crouched down in the far corner of the room. She’s folded herself up like a little ball, whimpering and shaking. I don’t make a move to get any closer fearing that my presence might scare her all the more.

“Bambina?” I breathe, “how do you feel?”

She doesn’t answer. She sniffles and sniffles again, shuffling, moving backwards as though an exit will magically appear. 

I take another step into the room. “I know I took it too far, munchkin.” Her whimpering loudens, causing me to tightly shut my eyes. Low in my throat, underneath my breath, a groan escapes me. “Please talk to me, baby, you know I cannot afford your silence.”

“You hurt me.” She finally croaks, her voice tiny, delicate and shaky.

“I know.”

She continues. “With your words and actions. My wrist hurts and I’m so scared.”

“I know, princess, and I regret my actions. I shouldn’t have locked you up in that dark room. What can I do to make you feel better?”

“I don’t know. . . I’m just so scared and so shaky and so jumpy.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

The softness of her tone when she answers almost draws a chuckle out of me. God, she’s so pure.

My fingers, delivering gentle strokes to her hair, I question. “Would you like some ice cream, baby?” 

A loud sob ripples out of her throat. “I haven’t had it in years.” She cries some more, leaving me confused. Is she crying because she perhaps hates ice cream? Or are these tears of joy?

Why are women so complicated?

When her sobbing dies down, I make the decision that ranks number one in all of the decisions I’ve made recently. I decide to give her an opportunity. To give her the freedom of choice.

To throw her a bone.

The words heavy against my throat, I speak. “That’s good, because I’m taking you to Paris for some Gelato.”

Silence.

Deafening, nerve wracking, anger inducing silence engulfs us and it’s with great restraint that I’m not screaming at her to say something.

I can’t see her in all clarity, but I know she’s startled. She would have never believed that I'd willingly take her to Paris.

“What? Paris? That’s. . .” Her words are cut off for a few seconds. “That’s my—”

“I know, my baby girl, I know. But we’re just going for some gelato. Be ready in ten minutes, I’m just gonna get the jet ready.”

We’re going for some gelato but I’m giving you an opportunity to get away from me. Although I’m praying hard that you decide against it.

You have less than twenty four hours to choose, Oceane. And if at the end of tomorrow’s afternoon your decision hasn't been made, I’ll take it that you’ve chosen me.

And I’m silently praying that you choose me.