Page 23 of Poison and Wine
“And if you fuck with me anymore about it, I’m going to be under yours with a sharp instrument,” I snarled.
“Okay,” he wheezed.
Jabbing my finger at him, I said, “Go get me a fucking whiskey and have it waiting for me after I finish my shower.”
Since he was fighting to breathe normally again, he bobbed his head in agreement.
Although I sure as hell would never admit it to him, Dare wouldn’t be the only one taking a cold shower tonight.
Chapter Seven: Caterina
It was the second full day of my captivity, and I had yet to leave the bedroom I’d been given. I’d barely left the bed. While Callum claimed the bedroom was ours, he had yet to share it with me. In fact, I’d barely seen him since the night he’d taken me. I’d continued to infuriate him by not speaking and refusing to leave the room.
Although there was a television and two shelves full of books, I lay in a depressed stupor the entirety of the first day. My only focus was on how to get myself out of my current hell. Shortly after breakfast yesterday I’d come to the realization that while I had no physical weapons to fight for my freedom, I did have the ability to put an end to the madness of this proposed arranged marriage.
Over the years, I’d read in many medical books how dehydration was an easy and painless death. Death wasn’t the freedom I’d envisioned for my life, but I knew I couldn’t bring myself to live a life that wasn’t my own. After everything I had been through, I couldn’t bring myself to obey a man. Even though Callum didn’t appear to be the monster Carmine was, I wouldn’t allow myself to find out.
Even after making my decision, I’d grappled with the moral dilemma of what I was doing in relation to my beliefs. But a part of me argued that I was sacrificing myself to the cause since I’d been stolen from the order and from my life of sacrifice. I spent much of the day praying for forgiveness.
It was now twenty-four hours without anything to drink, least of all to eat. While not drinking was difficult, the eating was torturous. The Kavanaugh brothers must’ve hired a cook because the food that was brought to me was five-star hotel level.
For lunch, I’d endured a bowl of mouthwatering Ziti on the bedside table. It had taken everything within me to refuse it, but I left it untouched. At dinner, a different maid from lunch appeared with a tray of roast chicken, rice, and vegetables. Once again, I fought my hunger and refused to eat. If I could’ve opened one of the windows, I would’ve tossed the food out, so I would’ve been spared the smell.
This morning after refusing a platter of scrambled eggs, Italian sausage, and French toast, I debated flushing the food down the toilet to avoid the delicious aromas. But I barely had the energy to make it to the bathroom, nevermind to haul a platter of food in there. I could definitely feel the dehydration setting in.
At a little past noon, my door burst open. I expected another maid with a platter, but this time Callum himself held a tray in his hands. Since I didn’t want to be in bed with him in the room, I forced myself to my feet.
“I was told that you haven’t been eating.”
When I didn't respond, he eyed me curiously before setting the tray down on the bedside table. “Are you fasting for a religious reason or something?”
“No.”
“Then why aren’t you eating?” When I didn’t answer, he crossed his arms over his broad chest. “Is there something wrong with the food? Like you’re a vegetarian or vegan?”
I was surprised he cared enough to even enquire about my reason. After a few moments, I finally shook my head. “No. It’s nothing like that.”
“Is it because you’re homesick for the order?”
I widened my eyes at his question. I never expected my captor to care if I was homesick. “If I tell you yes, will you let me go?” I whispered.
“Must we revisit this question again? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. You are not going back to the order. Ever.”
I swallowed down the cries rising in my throat. I hated myself for asking him to let me go again. Deep down, I knew he wasn’t going to change his mind. My future was tied to his now. At least he thought so.
“I’ll ask you again. Are you not eating because you’re homesick for the order?” Callum questioned.
When I apathetically shrugged, Callum huffed out a frustrated breath. “What is the fucking problem, Caterina?”
After I merely stared back at him, he shrewdly narrowed his eyes at me. “Are you protesting our impending marriage by not eating?”
“Maybe,” I whispered.
“That’s fucking ridiculous. We’re getting married. End of story.” He shoved the tray toward me on the table. “Eat.”
I glared up at him. “I thought as an Irishman, you would appreciate a hunger strike when you saw one.”
Surprise momentarily flashed in his eyes. I’m sure he thought an Italian capo’s daughter would have no idea about the Irish Hunger Strikes of 1981. What he didn’t know was my father insisted that my brothers and I know the history of all the warring families. I could quote Bratva, Greek, and Triad history as well as the cartels, along with the Italian enemy families.