Page 11 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
The moment he leaves, I relax and open the box. The smell of cheese and greasy meat greets me, making my mouth water. The dog sits patiently at my side as I wolf down scolding hot food. When I’m full, I take pity on him and give him a slice.
“Don’t tell anyone,” I whisper.
At least I have one friend here, even if he does just want my pizza.
The next few days are a blur of mundane routine and the four walls of my temporary bedroom. The hostility in the penthouse creeps around me, threatening to strangle me when I’m not looking like a virtual nest of vipers. Nothing is familiar, and there’s not a trace of warmth or friendliness here. The isolation is worse than any loneliness I’ve ever felt, in fact, I’d rather be alone than forced to remain here with these people. So, I stay in my room.
The maid stops by with food, but I’ve lost my appetite. It’s a freefall into a kind of depression I’ve never experienced. Not having heard from Gabriella or Daddy hurts and adds to the darkness. I know I’m here because they’re trying to protect me, but I can’t help but feel betrayed, abandoned. And then, of course, I feel like a sulky child. I imagine my father’s disappointment; I can almost see him shaking his head and hear him telling me he expects better.
I roll onto my back on the bed and release a long sigh. The sun is just starting to set, painting the room in a range of orange and pink tones.
There’s a knock on the door before it opens. Margo pops her head through the gap, offering me a bright smile. “Good morning.” She steps inside with a child propped on her hip and a bowl in her free hand. She places the steaming dish onto the bedside table, and I sit up, feeling awkward.
“Margo, you don’t have to bring me food.”
She waves her hand through the air. “You’re too skinny. You need to eat.” With that, the child leans away from her, reaching for the bowl. “Not for you, monster.” She smiles indulgently at him, and he giggles.
He focuses on me with the most beautiful, deep-indigo eyes I’ve ever seen. If he were an adult, I would think they were contacts. Margo places him on the bed for a moment, and he crawls away faster than I would have thought possible. She scrambles after him, making me laugh.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
“Dante. He’s a terror.” She says the words while staring at him like an indulgent mother. “Just like his father.”
“Nero?”
She nods and rolls her eyes. “The boy’s bound to be a little devil.”
I try not to laugh. Margo introduced herself as the housekeeper the day I arrived. She brings me food and dotes on me the best she’s able, but she talks about Nero as though he were her son and Dante a grandson.
“Anyway, eat that porridge!” Her expression is stern as she dares me to defy her orders and scoops Dante off the bed. She sweeps him out of the room as he kicks and squeals in protest.
I peer over at the steaming bowl of food. The smell is almost more than I can handle and makes my stomach roll, but I feel bad turning down her food. Picking up the spoon, I scoop up a mouthful and then another until I’ve eaten enough to hopefully not offend her.
Dragging myself from the bed, I go to the bathroom and look at my reflection. Bloodshot eyes stare back at me, and I can feel the judgment from the girl in the mirror. Sort yourself out. You shame the Ricci name.
I turn on the shower and strip out of the tank top and pajama pants I’ve been wearing all day. The scalding water washes over me and soothes tense muscles. I try to let my scrambled thoughts wash away with the dirt. And when I’m done, I admit I feel better.
I dress in a tank top and a pair of jeans before leaving the bedroom. Every step I take is laced with hesitation as I peer around sheepishly, unsure if anyone is even here. Silence reigns throughout the penthouse. Yet, when I reach the kitchen, I hear the low thrum of music blaring somewhere. Following the sound, I meander down a corridor that I haven’t explored before now. The cool marble chills my bare feet as I go in search of the source coming from a doorway at the end. I knock once with no response, so I test the handle. It gives way, and the door inches open, revealing an elaborate home gym. Sasha is in the centre, driving his fists into a punching bag. He wears nothing more than a pair of shorts and tape around his knuckles. Every strike he lands is full of raw power; each blow deliberate and measured. I can’t help but stare. His body is a weapon, every muscle honed to a purpose. Sweat clings to his chiseled form, and the droplets find their way into all the channels and divots of his muscles. He’s savagely graceful…beautiful even. It’s a shame he lacks any personality.
