Page 22

8
Serafina
I wake to soft light filtering through heavy curtains. My mind’s foggy, caught in that hazy limbo between sleep and awareness, and for a moment, I’m unmoored, grasping for where I am. My body's sinking into a bed that’s too plush, too foreign. I groan, pushing my eyes open. The room smells of lavender and polished wood. For a moment, I’m adrift, my mind grasping for place.
The ceiling looms high, carved with swirling patterns, and the walls are draped in muted gold silk. I blink up in confusion. This doesn't look like my room. Not my old bedroom in Papa’s house, not the dorm at Yale, not even the sterile hotel rooms I’ve crashed in over the years.
Panic seizes me. I don't want to be in that place again.
I'd awoken in a strange place six years ago after my flight from Yale. It was after I'd gotten the news of my mother's death. Papa had sent a jet for me to come home for her burial. I don't know how I got through the flight, but somehow, I managed to sleep through it. Only to awaken sometime later in a strange room.
Only, it wasn't a strange room. It was my old bedroom from before I went to Yale. Panic had gnawed at me as I remembered why I was there. It was for my mother's death. I'd sobbed until I was inconsolable. That was the last time I remember crying.
After the burial ceremony, I'd left the room with its belongings and moved to another room, because I'd always associate it with a bad memory. Ever since, I'd always hate to wake in a room I'm not familiar with.
Now, I look around in despair, transported back to that time. It's quiet, too quiet. My memory from the day before is hazy. I can't seem to recollect a thing. Has someone died?
Where am I?
Then it hits me. I'm in mynewhome. That home being Enzo’s manor, and by implication, my prison. I bolt upright as my chest tightens, threatening to squeeze the life out of me. I do breathing exercises. I inhale sharply, and exhale slowly, counting to hundred in my head. Lolita would be proud of me.
Little by little, I feel my quickened heartbeat begin to slow down, the dread falling away. I force myself to face it.
I’m Serafina Rossi, now Mancini by name, and I’m in my enemy’s house, married to a man whose touch last night burned me alive. The memory of Enzo—his hands, his mouth, his cock—floods me, unbidden. My thighs clench, heat pooling low despite my hate. I shove it down hard. I won't think of last night. Ever. It had been a lapse in control. I certainly can't allow it to happen again.
He'd told me to start last night while he went about his business. The nerve of him to think he can order me to do anything. Was he expecting me to head into his bedroom and lie naked, in wait for him? The vision the thought presents has me gripping the sheets.
In disgust at myself, I lift the silk sheets, my nightgown whispering against my skin like his hands had. A soft knock snaps me out of it, and I tense, praying it’s not him. I’m not ready to face those dark eyes and that smug, satisfactory smirk. Not after I screamed his name, my body betraying me on that table.
God.
“Yes?” I say tentatively.
The door opens and a maid slips in. Her steps are light and her eyes are downcast. She’s young, maybe in her late teens, withauburn hair tucked under a cap. Her accent is thick, but I make out her words perfectly.
“Good morning, Signora Mancini,” she says. Her voice is timid. She's carrying a tray with a silver teapot. The title rouses discomfort in me, but I don’t correct her.
“Good morning…” I let my voice trail off.
“I’m Giulia, your maid.”
“Hi, Giulia. Call me Serafina.”
She nods in earnest, but I already know she'll stick to the title.
Her eyes are still downcast. “May I draw your bath, Signora?”
Not one for idle chit chat, I see.
I nod, studying her. She’s nervous, hands trembling slightly as she sets the tray down.
“How long have you worked here?” I ask, my curiosity getting the better of me. I have to make an effort to put her at ease. She blinks, surprised.
“Two years, Signora.”
I tilt my head. “E Enzo? He treats you well?”
Her cheeks flush, and she hesitates. I don't know if it's from my half-baked Italian, because I'm sure my English accent leaks through every time I make an effort, but I manage anyway.