Page 53 of The Sting of Love
The hallway is grand and beautiful. I could already guess that I was in a massive house from what I saw outside, but seeing more details of the interior décor is breathtaking. The walls are cream, and wrought iron chandeliers hang from the ceiling. It’s very gothic looking, definitely in keeping with the old European appearance that I adore. I’d love to paint it. What a shame I’m in this situation. There are several large rooms down the hallway and another set of stairs that goes up another flight. I’m tempted to explore, but I have to eat and realistically, I’m being held captive here. It’s not appealing in the least.
I walk down the stairs, and the aroma gets stronger. There’s a clatter of cutlery and a hum. It’s a man, but I’m not so sure now it’s Donny.
The thought of another man being here puts my nerves on edge, and caution grips me. It could be another mafia guy, someone Donny left here to watch me.
Carefully, I take my next steps, my heart racing as the humming gets louder. I recognize the tune. It’s an old jazz band tune. Something from the forties. It reminds me of my grandparents, something they would love. They were always dancing. The hum is almost soothing. It would be if not for my nerves and the anxiety that tightens my chest.
When I reach the kitchen door, I see I’m right. It’s not Donny. It’s an older man with thick silver hair and a large frame standing in front of the stove. He’s scrambling eggs that smell delicious. On the table is a feast comparable to what you’d find in a five-star hotel. There’s fried bacon, eggs, French toast, pastries, and three different types of omelets.
I stare, and my stomach grumbles so loud the man glances over his shoulder and smiles at me. Seeing his face and his eyes, I guess straightaway that he has to be Donny’s father. The resemblance is striking, but he carries an old school presence of authority that reminds me of a character fromThe Godfather.
Maybe it’s just me because my mind is working overtime and conjuring up all sorts of things. I’ve never seen anyone in the mafia before, much less spoken to anyone. There’s no doubt in my mind from the looks of this guy that he’s a mobster too.
“Buongiorno, Bellissima,” he says with a curt bow of his head.
“Good morning,” I say, remembering my manners.
He smiles, and his silver eyes light up the way Donny’s do. “I am Armand Caporetti, Donny’s father.”
“Hi. My name is Willow,” I answer. I’m sure he knows my name though.
“Hello, Willow. Are you ready to eat? I guessed that maybe you were a little displaced last night, so I put the food in the fridge should you want it at a later time.”
“That was you?” I ask, and he nods.
“My son said you liked omelets, so I hoped this would get you to come downstairs. Last night I made an old recipe my wife used to make.”
He seems harmless, but I still need to be careful. “What was it?”
“Ratatouille. Her version, though, with lots of cheese. If you want, we can have it for lunch. It’s quite tasty the day after, unlike some dishes.”
“Oh…” We stare at each other. He smiles while I just keep my eye on him because I’m not quite sure what to make of him yet. “Where’s Donny?”
“He left yesterday. I imagine he’ll be back as soon as he can. It’s quite a distance from the city.”
“How far?” I try to ask as nonchalantly as possible.
“Very far. It’s not walking distance. Please… sit,” he says, gesturing for me to take a seat near the cheese omelet.
I walk over to the chair and sit.
He lowers to sit opposite me and waves his hand over the feast. “Eat, eat what you want, and don’t hold back. You must be starving.”
I am, and on his word, I start to eat. I feel like a pig as I devour the food, scarfing it down unable to get it inside me fast enough.
I can sense him watching me out of the corner of my eye, but I continue eating until my head doesn’t feel light and the hunger that weakened me passes.
As it does and my brain absorbs the new energy garnered from the food, I think about what I’m going to say.
He’s watching me while he eats. I notice that he’s a slow eater. He cuts his food up real small too then takes small bites.
“Armand, I can’t stay here,” I say, focusing my gaze on him. “You seem like a nice person. You have to agree that this is wrong. I can’t be kept here against my will.”
He sighs. “My dear girl, I understand completely. I’m sure that you must understand too that being kept here is what is keeping you alive. My son seems to care deeply for you to protect you in this way.”
“Why would you say that? This can’t be right.”
“Sometimes a thing might not feel right, but it’s the only way. He’s left me in charge of taking care of you because I’m the only person he trusts with your whereabouts.”
