Page 50 of Deal with the Devil
Maybe he was hoping I’d do something like stab him all along.
It gave him an excuse to punish me. For him to taunt me in this way.
“That’s right, Portia,” he says as if reading my mind. “I know all about your relationship with him. I know what he used to call you. I know you’re still holding out hope you’ve been wrong. That he’s some hero that will come rescue you. You’re going to be very disappointed. He’s never coming. You’re stuck with me now. And if you want me to make this as painless as possible for you, you better get with the program. This is the last time I’m telling you.”
The glass lifts from my throat and he shoves me back down on the bed. It takes me another second to push myself back upand turn over, but by the time I do, he’s stormed out of the room and slammed the door shut.
I lie there, my chest rising and falling in shallow bursts, eyes wide and heart still racing. I’m so shaken and terrified I don’t move for minutes to come.
Later in the night I’m back to not eating, but for different reasons. The first two nights it was out of protest. This time it’s because I’ve lost any possible appetite I could have.
I’m nauseous and sick to my stomach, unable to even sit still. It feels like any second Il Diavolo or some of his men will turn up and take me somewhere to put me out of my misery. They’re clearly planning on doing it soon.
It didn’t help that I stabbed him with the shard of glass.
I sigh as I plop down on the windowsill and stare through the iron bars at the dark grounds of the Bellucci estate.
The villa’s vast gardens sprawl out beneath a moonlit sky, bathed in a silvery stillness that does nothing to calm the jumbled thoughts inside my head. I’m not sure how long I’m sitting, staring out the window, when a sudden tap sounds at the door and makes me jump.
It’s quickly followed by something sliding under the crevice in the door.
What looks like a folded sheet of paper.
I hesitate, staring at it from my perch like it might detonate. My pulse flutters fast, warning me not to trust anything that comes from this house. But I find myself sliding off thewindowsill anyway, crossing the room to pick it up from the floor.
It’s a torn scrap from some sort of ledger or notebook. The message is written in black ink, scribbled with urgency, like someone didn’t have long to write. But it’s not the words that make my chest seize. It’s the familiar handwriting I’ve seen before.
If you want a chance to be free… tomorrow night. Ten p.m. Back terrace.
I reread it so many times, I start to question if it’s some sort of joke or trick from the Belluccis. Just another cruel taunt set up by Il Diavolo.
But am I really in a position to turn down any potential chance at escape?
My hands start to tremble at the thought I could make it out of here.
I don’t know what’s more terrifying—believing this note might be real or fearing it’s another one of his games. Another way to watch me squirm. To lure me into hope just to snatch it away again.
My gaze shifts toward the barred window again, but this time I don’t see the garden or the statues.
I see a clock ticking down to tomorrow night.
15
PORTIA
Ten p.m. comes and goes.
My stomach drops. I wait with bated breath for something to happen, gaze trained on the door. When the turn of the hour arrives and nothing does, I let out a deep breath and shake my head. How could I seriously think it was real and not some demented joke?
Il Diavolo probably left the note himself.
Probably got a huge laugh imagining me hopeful throughout the day, counting down the hours.
I drop my face into my hands and remind myself this is what he would want. He wants to break me mentally, emotionally, physically.
This is just another means of doing that.
I can’t let him get to me, no matter how hopeless this situation feels. A real chance at escape will come when I least expect it?—
