Page 22 of Beloved
This wasn’t my first time being locked inside a cell.
Once during college, I’d been captured by a group of Turks, tossed in a disgusting underground cell that could rival any hell. I’d remained there for almost three weeks before I’d been found, the men who’d taken and incarcerated me tortured and killed.
I’d known why at the time. My father had stripped the Turkish mafia of power, all but tossing them from Russia, killing several in the process. Only having had a single guard with me at Cambridge, I’d been an easy target.
But they’d underestimated my father’s power.
And his wrath.
Then there was the limited jail time endured in Sardinia, a cakewalk in comparison.
This felt completely uncharacteristic, my ambush and subsequent kidnapping something done out of revenge, but for an entirely different reason. I’d awakened in this hellhole, stripped of my clothes and all personal effects. I’d been beaten and left for at least a couple of days before someone had finally arrived with a single bottle of water, a bucket, and a pair of pants and boots.
From there, I’d been told in very crude Russian that I was to work the vineyards, which was a clear indication I hadn’t left Sicily. Or if I had, it was country with similar topography. What I’d yet to figure out in the days after my incarceration was the purpose.
To say the treatment was highly unusual was an understatement.
Marco was an issue; his cruelty would be used against him.
Since I was still in Italy, there was a chance I’d been discovered. Although given how many guards I’d seen, my guess was there were more outside the perimeter. And even with Kirill’s guidance, neither Mikhail nor Stash would know the right decisions to make on instinct.
For now, I was fucked. But maybe with the girl’s help, I’d discover a way out.
Even now, as I scanned the periphery of the land I was working, other than the building where I was kept, I’d seen only a couple of others indicating a processing facility for the grapes. But this had to be located in or near an estate. Typical for vineyards in the area.
While there were other workers, not one of them had dared speak or even look me in the eye. And at the end of the day, theyeither went home or to an employee residence. Yet I could tell they were little more than indentured servants.
I’d calculated steps, placement and counted the men I knew were guards in my plans of escape. While the cinderblock prison I was in seemed as if it had only been used once for the purpose of incarceration, I’d found nothing useful inside, nor could I squeeze from the tiny open space considered a window.
And the door itself was at least three inches of thick wood. In my weakened state, there would be no way for me to break the lock holding me hostage.
That hadn’t meant my brain hadn’t been active, planning for when to make a break for it. What I hadn’t counted on was the woman who’d appeared like a vision, a sweet angel accompanied by a dog.
A golden retriever.
Seeing her had felt as if I was hallucinating until her dog had planted her two huge paws on my chest. And then I’d looked into her eyes. They were so black, dark as onyx yet in the sunlight they had had a bluish glow that added to the surreal moment.
Rafaela.
Even whispering her name, the syllables were like soft velvet sliding across my tongue. I wasn’t a man prone to anything but lust and only for a few hours or minutes at a time.
Yet there was something very special about her, a volatility while carried through extreme resilience. The filthy thoughts running through my mind I should consider abominable. With her demeanor and dress, her unblemished and absolutely flawless skin, she was far too young for me.
I was many things in this world, and I’d enjoyed doling out cruel and inhuman punishment often to satisfy the devil in me. However, as much as my vile mind would enjoy it, I refused to satisfy my body’s needs by defiling an innocent girl.
But her kindness and generosity had fueled a deeper need that shocked a man whose limited emotional states were often tossed aside. She was obviously someone of importance by the way the prick of an Italian had reacted.
But she’d defied her position, standing up against his brutality. Very few women in her situation would dare do so.
What I couldn’t do was place my trust in her in case I was completely wrong about her identity. I was no fool. It continued to trouble me that no one had tried to interrogate me. They knew who I was and had no interest in information.
Including about Don Pollizi.
It also didn’t make sense that he’d encourage our arrival to break the deal by imprisoning me. No one would dare allow him to share in any of the Chertov regime’s business.
That left either an act of revenge or betrayal.
Even that was difficult for me to process.
