Sucking in a breath of fortitude, I turned to stare directly at the Beast. His bluegreen gaze was all shadows, hard, unrelenting. Despite the fear creeping in my belly, I kept staring, hoping he would give me something, a small crack in the stone that was his face. More lights passed through the window, rippling across his rocky face. Still, his countenance didn’t change.
I sighed and turned away.
He was asleep next to me.
For a moment I’d hoped he was going to leave me alone, because when we got back to the penthouse he’d dropped me off in the white bedroom and left, shutting the door behind him. I slipped out of his coat and changed into the most coverage I could possibly find, which wasn’t much. I compensated by climbing into the warm, fluffy white bed. I closed my eyes, hoping I’d get to sleep alone, and then the door burst open.
The Beast stood in the doorway, chest bare and in some kind of silk sleep pants. I steeled my gut to prepare for his next round of torturous games.
But he’d just fallen asleep.
Watching his breaths rise and fall, I decided I had never felt such pure hatred for someone before. The loathing was corrupting me. It was making me think things I didn’t think were possible. I hated him for making me do things I didn’t want to do. I loathed him for making me question if I wanted them. I actually envisioned pouring boiling water on his face and liking it. It wasn’t a fair trade; because of him my soul was boiling.
I hadn’t thought I was capable of such hate. In the past when people spat hate, I felt badly for them. Now I understood, and I understood because of the Beast.
My papa was becoming a distant memory to me now, my love for him like the city lights disappearing in the distance from the town car. I could faintly see it, faintly remember why I’d agreed to this torture, but it was fading fast, replaced by darkness.
It would be so easy to kill him right now, too. I could end all of this. His bare chest rose and fell, and all I’d have to do was take a knife and stab him there. I saw, too, that he did have scars; quite a few of them. They were somehow elegant looking. Whereas most scars were harsh and puckering, his looked like fine cursive.
I curled my fist.
That was so fucking unfair. I wished just one thing about him would be ugly.
Why don’t I take a knife and stab him in his psychotic heart? Why don’t I?
I’m going to.
Before I could second-guess myself, I carefully slid out of the sheets. He stirred some, which gave me minor heart palpitations. I froze in place, my hand on the bed but my body ready to go, until I was certain he was sound asleep. When his breathing steadied, I opened the doors and walked down the hallway toward the kitchen. I started running as soon as I was out of earshot, ignoring the terrifying paintings and entirely skipping the room where I’d lost a piece of myself.
Why was this house so big? It was like Pan’s Labyrinth.
I reached the kitchen but a room beyond it caught my attention. A faint yellow poured into the house, almost pulsing with warmth. Taking a breath, I glanced over my shoulder. I couldn’t have much time before the Beast awoke, yet I found my feet carrying me toward the mystery room.
My breath left me on a long, surprised exhale. It was a library, a true and real library. From the floor to the ceiling, books lined the shelves. There were more books than I’d ever seen in my life, even more than the community library.
I glanced behind me at the immaculate kitchen, white countertops glowing eerily from the nightlight. I took another step inside the library. Plush red velvets, dark shiny woods, and thick rugs decorated the room. It was very at odds with the rest of the house.
The room felt like a haven. If I could just steal one or two books, I could transport myself away from my hell. I tiptoed farther inside, running my fingers along the books. Most were paperback or plastic covered, but some were leather-bound. The room even had a spiral staircase. A freaking spiral staircase. I gazed up at the ceiling in awe.
What kind of monster read this much? A second later the answer came to me: a dangerous one.
I swallowed, trailing my fingers. I paused, my hand resting on buttery leather. The spine had no name. I pulled it out, hazarding a glance over my shoulder at the door. Still no sign of the Beast. I quickly opened up the book.
This journal belongs to Sofia De Luca.
A journal? I flipped the stiff, yellowing pages until I found words.
I feel so very, very alone. My new husband Dario is uninteresting and mean. In the fashion of all the De Luca men, he has taken my last name so that the De Luca name does not die out. I believe he resents me, and the bruises on my body are testament. Mama says I cannot see Alessio anymore. She scolds me for even starting it in the first place, saying that if he does not know better then I must. Women have to be smarter, she says. The risks are too great if we were ever to be caught.
She gave me this journal to write in. She said her mama gave her one when she was married and it will keep me sane. I have nothing to lose anyway. I was planning to kill myself. I might kill myself anyway, but we’ll see.
I stopped reading, flipping quickly through the pages. Some were torn out and the journal was only halfway filled. I flipped to the back, and on the flap of the journal was scribbled Rules. My eyes widened and I read.
The Pavoni Code
r /> The Pavonis have a strict code that we all must follow. Every child is taught it as soon as they can speak. It’s five-pronged to symbolize the original Don and Donna and their four children. Everyone is taught the code differently, though. Some are taught it as a religion while others, like me, are taught it for what it really is: a rule book.
The first prong is Family. Those taught the code is a symbolic holy thing think the first prong means once you’re in the Family, you’re always going to have a family, and someone is always going to have your back no matter what. Mama says that the real truth is though technically any Italian can join, you’re never gonna find anyone but a De Luca in charge or a Pavoni at the top. It’s why the men don’t mind giving up their names when they marry us.