Page 9 of Sweet Revenge

But like Luca had said, I was a survivor. I’d find a way to survive, to make the man who killed my father pay for what he did. No matter what it took, I would see this through to the end.

Chapter Four

Luca

I stood at the window of my bedroom, staring out at the manicured grounds bathed in the soft light of dawn. Sleep had been elusive, my thoughts consumed by Adriana, the woman I had taken prisoner. She had crossed my family and harbored a vendetta against my father, Carmine. By all rights, I should have had her killed immediately. But something about the look in her eyes when she realized her mistake held me back, and I found I now wanted to keep her for myself. For how long and for what exact purpose, I didn’t know. Obviously, I couldn’t trust the woman, but something kept me from informing my father about her. Was I simply curious? Or was there more to it than that?

She was gorgeous, there wasn’t any question about that. I smiled remembering how, after I pulled her into my lap, her long brown curls had knotted themselves into a mess. She hadn’t even seemed to notice, unlike the other women who worked at the club who gave their appearance more attention than their souls. Conversely, Adriana’s hair as well as her spirit, were not only left free and unfettered, but were defiantly so. I’d never met anyone like Adriana Grimaldi. Or more accurately, Adriana Gorga. Her guts, her resilience, plus her devotion to her father intrigued me. Her love for him was something foreign to me. I had certainly never felt that way about my own father. All I had ever felt for Carmine Capuzzo was fear and a sense of duty. I was raised to be loyal to him, nothing more.

I fingered the velvet draperies as the image of my pretty mother came to mind. I’d always thought she’d seemed afraid of Carmine. She told me once that their marriage had been an arrangement to end a feud between their families. I remembered walking in on her and my father’s brother, my uncle Joseph, kissing once. After that, I never saw them again and was told they died in a car crash. Even as a child, I had wondered if my father had arranged their deaths. Carmine was capable of anything.

The memory of that day lingered in my mind. I was eight years old, playing with my toys in the hallway when I heard muffled voices behind the closed door of my parents' bedroom. Curious, I crept closer and peered through the small crack in the door. There she was, my mother, locked in a passionate embrace with my uncle. Shock and confusion had paralyzed me. I had stood there, watching, until they noticed me and hastily pulled apart. My mother had tears in her eyes, and my uncle looked terrified. They tried to explain, to comfort me, but I ran away instead. Two weeks later, they were dead.

Turning away from the window, I summoned my household butler, Alfonso. The older, silver-haired man entered the room quietly, his expression neutral as always.

"Good morning, sir. How may I assist you?" Alfonso asked.

"I need you to go shopping, Alfonso. There are some women's things in the suite where I put Adriana, but they are old and left over from previous…guests. I want you to buy new clothes for her. And tell the Cook to prepare a lavish breakfast for us. Have Adriana brought to me in the dining room when the food is ready."

Alfonso nodded, his lined face betraying no surprise at the unusual request. "Of course, sir. I will see to it immediately."

As Alfonso left, a sense of unease settled over me. I wasn't sure why I was going to such lengths for Adriana. She was my prisoner, after all. But something about her drew me in, made me want to know more. I was anxious to see her again.

When I entered the dining room, I saw that the Cook had outdone herself. The table was covered with dishes of exquisite food: golden-brown potatoes, fluffy quiche, glazed ham, an array of fresh fruits, warm rolls, and delicate pastries. There were steaming pots of coffee, an assortment of juices, and a selection of teas.

Adriana was already seated, wearing a pair of loose sweats that were a couple of sizes too big for her. I was surprised by how tiny she really was, how vulnerable. Despite the feast laid out before her, the plate in front of her was empty. She sat straight-backed and motionless, with her hands folded in her lap. I suspected in reality she was likely starving, and I wondered at her resistance to eat.

"Why aren't you eating?" I asked, sitting down across from her. "You need to eat to keep up your strength."

Adriana looked at me, her wide brown eyes defiant. "Why should I eat when you're keeping me here against my will? What are you going to do with me?"

I sighed, running a hand through my hair. "How many times do I have to tell you to stop asking questions? You don’t take orders very well, do you?”

She smiled. “Not from people I don’t owe my allegiance.”

I slammed my hand on the table, making the utensils jump.

“You should obey me, if you know what’s good for you.”

A cackle escaped her throat. “Only if I am forced.”

I growled in rage, pushing back my chair and going over to stand in front of her, tempted to slap her across the face for her impudence. Or lift her into my arms and kiss her so hard she’d forget how much she hated me.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked, fear flitting across her beautiful face. My anger extinguished at once, and I took a deep breath, returning to my seat. I placed my napkin across my lap slowly.

“I haven't decided yet,” I admitted. “I'm curious about you. Tell me more about this love you feel for your father. Why would you want to end your own life for vengeance on a dead man?"

Adriana's expression softened. "Giuseppe may not have done things right all the time, but he loved my mother and me unconditionally. My mother died of cancer when I was nine years old. She was the love of his life, and after she died, he was never the same."

I felt a pang of empathy. "You are lucky that your parents cared for each other so deeply. There was no love between my parents. Their marriage was arranged. I always wished for siblings to be honest, but I never had any. My mother was a good woman. I still miss her. She and my uncle died in a car crash when I was young. I often wonder if my father had anything to do their deaths."

Adriana looked at me. “And you believe that’s a possibility?”

I laughed, but there was no mirth in it. “I have reason to believe so.”

“I’m sorry,” she replied quietly.

“Coffee?” I asked, holding up the carafe.