Page 5 of Vicious Temptation

I sit back, with the feeling that I’ve won this round, in a battle that, twenty minutes ago, I didn’t even know I’d be fighting. But it feels good.

“Tell her to be ready at seven. Tomorrow night.”

3

BELLA

Ithought I would feel better once I got up to my room, behind a closed door and alone. But instead of feeling safe, like it usually does, the space feels small and tight and confined. The feeling scratches beneath my skin, only adding to that sensation of being trapped that my father’s news gave me.

The last thing I need right now is to be confined in a room, I realize, even of my own volition. I need to get outside. Some fresh air might do me good, I think, and I reach for the phone on my nightstand, quickly finding my thread of texts with my best friend, Clara.

Bella: Hey Clara. What are you doing? I need to get out of the house for a while.

It’s only a minute or two before my phone buzzes with a response.

Clara: Nothing much. Off work today. Where you wanna go?

I bite my lip, thinking for a moment. After my father’s derogatory comment about my photography, I’m itching to go out and take pictures, to remind myself why I love it so much. That I’m good at it, and it’s not just a pointless hobby.

That if I had the chance, I could make something out of it.

Bella: What about the botanical gardens?

Clara: Sure. That sounds great. Meet you there in a couple of hours?

My spirits lift a little as I text her back a quick yes. The prospect of getting away from the house and my father for a little while eases the panic flooding my veins. I take several slow, deep breaths, trying to remember the things my therapist taught me to calm myself down. To take deep breaths, picture colors, imagine something I can touch and smell and see. They don’t always help, but in this particular moment, my pulse does slow and my breathing starts to feel more even. I focus on the feeling of the denim of my jeans as I rub my hands over my thighs, the softness of my hoodie against my skin, the soft lavender smell of the room spray I use on my bedding. I keep repeating those deep breaths, focusing on the fact that I’m going to see Clara shortly and not on the fact that my father wants me to agree to another engagement.

Or the fact that I embarrassed myself in front of one of the most handsome men I’ve ever seen.

In the moment, I hadn’t thought much about his looks, but now the picture of him comes flooding back. He was definitely older than me by a decent bit—probably ten years or so, maybe a little more. But he was gorgeous, whoever he was. Dark hair, a little longer than what most men wear it, curling softly at the nape of his neck and the edges of his ears. A strong, clean-shaven jaw, straight nose, broad chest, and those eyes. I don’t think I’ve ever seen eyes that green.

And his hands?—

The moment I remember him touching me, the feeling of those strong, long-fingered hands gripping my upper arms, the momentary warmth and flutter in my chest that I felt at the thought of him vanishes. It’s replaced by a cold, icy flood of fear, chilling me thoroughly enough to make me shiver as I grip the edge of the counter. My stomach twists, nausea rising sharply up into my throat, and I try to take the deep breaths again. But this time, they seem to catch in my chest, getting shorter and shorter until I feel like I’m going to pass out.

I squeeze the counter, feeling the quartz edge bite into my fingers, and focus on that feeling instead. Not the way that, for a moment, he’d held me tightly in his grip, and I wouldn’t have been able to escape if he hadn’t let me go.

You’re overreacting, Bella, I tell myself sternly, looking at my flushed and reddened face in the mirror. He was a stranger, but someone who knows your father. Mafia. Not Pyotr. Not his men. Not Bratva. He wouldn’t have hurt you.

But I don’t entirely believe that. I didn’t truly get a sense of malice from that man in particular, but I don’t trust anyone any longer. Not even my father, who sent me to the Bratva in the first place. Who, it seems, started looking for someone new to pawn me off on while I was still bedridden, recovering from what was done to me.

I swallow hard, reaching for the faucet tap and yanking it, turning on a hard stream of cold water. I reach down, splashing it over my face again, letting the icy shock of it against my skin jar me loose from the revolving door of my own thoughts and awful memories. I scrub at my cheeks, washing away the tear stains, and splash more of the cold water over my eyes, hoping it will help with how red and swollen they are. My nose is red-tipped, too, and there’s not much I can do about it other than try to cover it up with makeup.

But I’m just going to see Claire, and she won’t care how I look.

I swipe some moisturizer over my face and pat on a little caffeinated eye cream under my eyes in one last ditch attempt to improve the bags underneath them, and go back out to rifle through my dresser. I swap out my loose blue jeans for a pair of nicer black ones, and find a soft, long-sleeved green shirt in one of my drawers that I pull on. It’s a size too large, especially after the weight I lost, but I’m fine with that. It feels like I can more easily sink into it, lose the shape of my body in the folds of the cloth.

Running a brush through my hair, I leave it loose, and go to pick through the jewelry sitting on my dresser. I don’t wear much—I have plenty of fine jewelry that I inherited from my mother, but I rarely, if ever, put it on. On the rare occasion that there’s an event my father has taken me to, I’ve picked one or two pieces out. I wore her sapphires and pearls on my wedding day.

I wish I hadn’t. Now I can’t stand to look at them.

I reach for a pair of opal studs that my father gave me for my sixteenth birthday and slip them into my ears, along with a rose gold cuff bracelet and a twisted, leaf-and-vine rose gold ring that I slide onto my right hand. I prefer understated jewelry, things that are delicate and pretty. I’ve worn these same few pieces every time I leave the house for as long as I can remember, and I’ve never really wanted to add to my collection. I’d rather buy new things for my photography, or books, or spend the money going somewhere interesting.

Grabbing my phone, I text the driver to meet me out front, as well as Jacq, my bodyguard. We don’t have extensive security here, just like there isn’t a large staff to run this house, but my father has always kept one bodyguard to follow me around if I leave the property. As far as the driver, I think it’s as much to limit my freedom as a sign of status. I have a lot more freedom than daughters in the higher-ranking mafia families, but letting me have a driver’s license and my own car would probably be a step too far in my father’s eyes.

Derrick, the driver, is waiting by the car when I come outside. It’s not anything particularly fancy—a black SUV with heavily tinted windows—but nice enough. He opens the door for me so I can slide inside, and I see that Jacq is already up front, in the passenger’s seat. He twists around to look at me as I slide onto the leather seats behind him, groping for my seatbelt. “Where are we off to, Bella?”

My father would have an aneurysm if he heard any of the staff call me by my first name. But I can’t stand being called Miss D’Amelio constantly, so I nagged Jacq to stop calling me that for years until he finally agreed.