Page 22 of Enzo's Vow
Gemma
I awoke to an empty bed, brittle hope blooming in my chest. A nightmare? Sitting up, I took in the masculine touches of the room, Enzo’s bedroom. Not a bad dream, but my new, unfortunate reality: married into the mafia, to a psychopath, no less. The sun streamed through the balcony doors, painting the room in a cheerful light that felt mocking. Another beautiful day, the very air of it promising a beachside honeymoon with Matthew, stolen from me…. My stomach grumbled. Starving myself to protest seemed fitting, yet I struggled to ignore the gnawing hunger pangs. Blame my Italian heritage and our weakness for food.
Enzo’s paling face when I’d gripped his gun resurfaced in my mind. Adrenaline fueled me last night. For those brief seconds, I readied myself to shoot him if he forced me. I had always known I could aim and shoot. But not at a person. Not until him. It was a darkness I hadn’t known I was capable of until that second. He bought my act the instant I turned the gun on myself. Suicide? Never. But I convinced him all the same. At least I got him to back off. I threw on a loose shirt and a pair of denims, the rough texture a stark contrast to the soft sheets. Stalking to the exit, I tried the handle, against my better judgement. I blinked when it turned with ease. Unlocked?
The same two hulking guards stood outside my door. “Morning, Signora Cammarata.” Scar addressed me, dressed in his usual black and attached earpiece. “You’re free to wander the house.” He gestured to the hallway. “Breakfast is waiting downstairs.”
Mrs. Cammarata?My new surname coiled my stomach. So Enzo extended my leash and allowed me to at least leave the room. Speaking of him… “Where’s Enzo?” What if I run into him at breakfast? Would he expect me, as his wife, to dine with him? I hoped not.
The shorter guard, Tapper, flicked his head. “Out for now. He’ll be back later.” He avoided eye contact, no doubt wary of me after I begged him to help me.
Off to perform some shady business, I bet, probably ordering a hit on someone. I scoffed.
Scar narrowed his gaze, assessing me peculiarly.
With a final nod at the two men, I left the room for the first time. The off-white and taupe color scheme added a modern touch. A floor to ceiling window framed the end of the hall. Through the glass, the terraced hillside stretched below. Manicured hedges and a pristine lawn led to a cliff’s edge. The sea glistened as if sprinkled with diamonds, and with it, the scent of salty air and sweet citrus wafted into the hallway.
Yesterday, driving back onto the property, the scent of lemon blossoms hit me first, then the sight of the groves, heavy with fruit. No idea how I had missed those the day I tried escaping.
The Strait of Messina stretched before me, clear waters reaching all the way to Calabria. Several men guarded the premises, and the two savage Dobermans trotted the grounds. No wonder he allowed me free rein in this gilded prison, since I retained no hope of leaving.
On the first level, classic furniture and frescoed ceilings provided an ancient charm in the large dining room. A beautiful prison, albeit a prison nonetheless.
One maid collected dirty breakfast dishes from the table. “Buongiorno, Signora Cammarata.” The maid seemed about my mother’s age. Her bright eyes lit her face as her plump figure waddled to the table. “Vuole mangiare qualcosa?”She frowned at my stiffened face, realizing I didn’t understand the language. “What do you want to eat?”
“Marmalade on toast is fine. Maybe a coffee too, if it’s okay.” I kept my smile for good measure in hopes the woman warmed to me. If I at least befriended the staff, perhaps one might pity my dilemma and would allow me to contact my parents.
“Right away, Signora.” She beamed, her strong Italian accent almost lyrical. “We have the bestmarmellata di limonein Sicily, made fresh with fruit from the groves.”
“Can’t wait to try it.” I sat at the head of the table. Once left alone with no more than the antique grandfather clock ticking away the seconds, I scrutinized the room. Mosaic tiles, hand carved table, provincial display cabinets… all antique in style compared to the rest of the modernized house. A vintage rotary phone sat atop a walnut hall stand. My breath hitched. A working phone, or part of the decor? One way to find out. Surging from my seat, I rushed over and snatched the receiver, the cold, dense resin pressing against my ear. Ah-ha, working! Clumsy and outdated, but it was still my only hope to hear my parents’ voices, to know they were safe.
The maid re-emerged, her gaze widening in horror. She plunked the breakfast tray on the table. “No, Signora.Mi dispiace… uh, sorry, but you no call nobody. Signore Cammarata gave strict orders.”
“Oh, but one quick call.” I softened my voice, holding up a finger. “I promise I won’t be long.” Stress was not good for eitherof my parents, especially Papa. I imagined neither of them got any sleep last night, worrying about me.
She snatched the handset and reinserted the brass handle back in the cradle. Her tight-lipped grin confirmed she’d monitor my every move.
So, Enzo won again. I clenched my fists. A swift hum vibrated up my throat as I returned to my seat. I bit into my toast. Although flavorful, the marmalade tasted like defeat. No, I had to try harder, had to get this woman to see my side. “Have you worked here long?”
She blinked, stunned I still conversed with her. “Fammi pensare,” she muttered under her breath. “Eh, five years now.”
Five years! Long enough to know what these people were about. My jaw flexed, making it harder to chew my toast. “And how many women has he kept locked up here, or am I the lucky first?” I gripped the espresso cup, the heat burning my palms, a small, defiant pleasure. Taking a sip, the bitter liquid warmed my chest, but did little to assuage the growing storm in my veins. Even though I tried for friendliness, my joke fell flat, sounding more like an accusation. The fact this woman remained unmoved I sat here, a prisoner, grated at my nerves and self-restraint. “How can you work for these people?” My voice was small, beseeching. “They’re committing a crime.”
“Per favore, Signora, I’m a simple maid. I don’t want no trouble.” She bolted for the kitchen. Her one escape.
I should’ve let the matter go, but desperate for an explanation, I followed her. Two other workers busied themselves. While one scrubbed at the dishes, another stirred sauce at the stove. Even the gardener walked through a backdoor, hedge shears in one hand, dabbing sweat off his forehead with a handkerchief.
A knot of anger squeezed my lungs. I couldn’t fake a smile even if I tried. None of them cared. The injustice of it all, being held captive while these people went about their lives, strucklike a physical ache. I choked back the sharp bite in my voice that threatened to erupt. “I don’t understand how any of you can stay quiet—knowing—knowingI’m here against my will. Am I invisible to you all? This is wrong, plain wrong!”
They all gawked at me as if I escaped a mental hospital.
How could they be so oblivious? “Do none of you have any heart? Doesn’t this bother you?” I hated the sudden wobble in my voice.
“You’re the last person to talk, considering who your mother is.” The venomous voice boomed behind me and quieted my outburst.
I faced Carina, my mother’s nemesis, her expression a poisonous glower. In her expensive skirt suit and heels, she resembled a mafia queen ready to strike. Not an unattractive woman by any means, but her thick liner outlined those cold, hard eyes. A woman capable of making people scream for mercy without blinking.
She caressed the triple-layered pearls around her neck, and her dark red lips slanted in distaste. “Now, eat your breakfast, or you’ll fight the dogs for your meal.”
