Collateral (Collateral Damage 1)

I tug my face away, step backward. I need to focus. To watch him. To figure out his game.

His voice is harder when he continues. “But if you stand in my way, I will bury you too without a second thought. Do you understand?”

“My father was wrong about you, you know that?”

He cocks his head to the side.

“He said you were as much a monster as him, but I think you might be worse.”

His jaw tightens.

“But to answer your question, yes, I understand. I’m collateral damage. That’s all. I’ve never thought otherwise, Stefan. Not with him. Not with you.”

He studies me and I feel my eyes warm with tears. Something twists in me, squeezing me from the inside.

“Is it my pity you want, Gabriela?”

At that, I shove all those feelings down. It’s good he’s such a jerk. It makes it easier. And besides, I know how to shove feelings into a box and lock them up tight. I’m a pro. I stand taller for it and harden my eyes.

“I want nothing from you but my freedom. Let me be perfectly clear on that. And I want you to understand that I will never see you as anything other than my jailor. So, you go on about your business. You take your little revenge. You see if that brings you happiness or if it buries you right alongside my father.”

He makes a clucking sound with his tongue, exhales and shakes his head.

“I’ll see you tonight, Gabriela,” he says and walks out the door.9GabrielaI wait a full half hour before I go downstairs. I want to be sure he’s gone.

Miss Millie is humming to herself as she puts a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the table for me.

“Well, good morning, dear. How did you sleep?”

“Fine,” I snap, not meaning to snap at her, but still upset from my conversation with Stefan.

She looks me over, frowns. “You’ll be too warm in that. You should wear one of the sundresses.”

“I’m fine,” I say, although I’m already too hot.

“What would you like for breakfast?”

“Um.” I look at the table. “This is okay,” I say, seeing toast and butter. “Just some coffee if you don’t mind.”

“I’ll bring some cheese too, and homemade jams.”

“Thank you, Miss Millie.”

“You’re welcome, dear.”

I put my napkin on my lap, and I notice the knife beside my plate. I glance at the closing door which I assume leads to the kitchen and wonder if she’ll notice if I take it. Probably. But I decide I’ll take it anyway after breakfast. Although honestly, I’m not sure what I’ll do with it.

A few minutes later, she’s back with a fresh pot of coffee and a tray loaded with more food. I thank her and she leaves me on my own to eat breakfast.

I take my time and when I’m finished, I tuck the knife into my napkin and shove it into the deep pocket of my jeans. I’ll take it up to my room as soon as I carry my things into the kitchen in case Miss Millie counts the silverware.

There are no guards inside the house, I notice as I load as much as I can onto my plate. But when I go into the kitchen, I see that the men who’d brought me here yesterday and two others, including the one from last night, are sitting at the kitchen table having coffee and laughing which they stop doing as soon as I enter the room.

Most turn away, but the one from last night, his eyes track me as I walk to Miss Millie.

“Oh, you don’t have to clean up, dear,” she says when I reach her at the sink where she’s drying her hands.

“I don’t mind,” I say, setting the things in the sink. “I can wash—”

“Don’t be silly. Mr. Sabbioni has staff for that. You go and relax until the seamstress gets here.”

Relax.

Do they think I’m enjoying this? That this is some sort of vacation for me?

“Thanks,” I say, because there’s no point in saying anything else.

I walk back out, hoping someone else will wash the dishes so she won’t notice the missing knife.

I go straight upstairs and tuck the knife under my pillow before returning downstairs to the large living and dining rooms to the left of the front doors. They take up the entire space on this side.

The furniture is pretty, fitting with the house, the colors mostly muted. It all has a decidedly feminine touch and I can’t imagine it was Stefan who decorated the house.

There’s a grand piano in one corner and I wonder who plays.

I go to it, touch the polished surface, check out the fully stocked bar and make my way to the dining room.

A long oval table matching the one in the foyer is topped with a beautiful centerpiece with room for a dozen chairs. I wonder who eats here and think about the engagement party tomorrow night. What is he thinking with that? And is my father really going to fly to Sicily? He hates Sicily. The farthest south he ever goes is Rome.