Page 52 of Trapped

I set the phone aside, the last message floating through the ether like a leaf on the wind. As the room spun around me, I drank more.We need to talk. Everybody knew what that meant.

I swallowed the last mouthful of alcohol, my eyes burning. A slideshow of ourrelationshipswept through my head in vibrant pictures. Our first dinner together. That date a few weeks ago, when we grabbed brunch at Paramount and went shopping on Charles Street on Beacon Hill. He’d dropped several grand on dresses for me. His teasing, soft voice when he called meprincipessa. Vodka couldn’t drown out the warmth of those memories.

My lip quivered and my hands shook.

I stumbled into his bedroom and stripped, slipping into one of his long-sleeved shirts. He always insisted I wear his clothes. His way of marking me as his, even when he wasn’t there to do it himself. Then I rolled up the sleeves and finger-combed my hair. The mirror reflected a vision of calculated beauty as I dabbed makeup on my cheeks. I had to look like I didn’t give a fuck, but I knew when he walked through the door, he’d see right through it. Just like when he sent me a single white rose with a note that said,You can’t hide from me.

Ididn’tcare. We weren’t supposed to stay together anyway. If he wanted to leave,fine, but not before I rubbed it in that he’d never have me again.

The latch on the door turned, and my heart dropped.

I dashed out of his bedroom and waited for him in the kitchen. His shoes clipped the flawless floor as he stepped in, his dark eyes narrowing as he saw me. I was the picture of nonchalanceas I leaned over the porcelain kitchen island in his shirt, a glass in my hand.

“What are you doing?” he growled.

I swirled the liquid in my glass with a flick of my wrist. “Wanna join me?”

His fingers brushed mine as he gently removed the glass from my hand and set it on the island with a decisive clink. His gaze landed on the empty vodka bottle I’d forgotten to hide. He didn’t even try to conceal his disappointment, his gaze scanning my face as though searching for me beneath the flush of alcohol.

“Principessa,” he chided. “The whole bottle?”

A pang twinged through me.

“How often do you drink like this?” he asked.

I shrugged. “I like to indulge. So what?”

He frowned. “An entire bottle though? You should be in the hospital.”

“I’m Russian. Drinking is in my blood.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Yeah? Maybe we should test that theory with something stronger.”

“Like moonshine?”

“Paint thinner.”

I hitched a grin. “Only if you join me.”

Santino leaned against the kitchen counter, no longer smiling. “How long has this been going on?”

I’d been drinking since I was twelve. It started small, sneaking out of school with friends and raiding Dad’s liquor cabinet, huddling with Luca outside family events, passing the bottle back and forth, and daytime drinking at bars. Pool halls. Slamming back shots.

“Principessa?”

The warmth I saw in his eyes scared me more than the need clawing at my brain. I reached for the glass, but he grabbed my wrist. He dragged me to the sink and seized a cup from the drying rack. Then he filled it with water and shoved it in my hands.

“Drink.”

I sighed. “I’m not thirsty.”

“Do it, or I’ll pour it down your throat.”

I huffed. Then I gulped down a mouthful. And another. When I’d finished, he refilled it. I pushed his hand aside, but my aim was a little off, and I ended up swatting the air.

Santino’s frown deepened.

I waved him off. “I don’t need a babysitter. I’m fine.”

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