Page 17 of Cryptic Curse (Bellamy Brothers #7)

DANIELA

T hree years earlier…

My maid set a dress for me on my bed.

It’s new…and tiny and revealing. It’s candy-apple red, and the fabric shimmers as it catches the light. The plunging neckline and thigh-high slit promise lots of skin. Lots of my skin.

I stare at it, bile rising in my throat.

“Senorita Daniela, your father instructed that you wear this tonight,” Consuelo tells me, her gaze lowered to the floor.

Why isn’t she looking at me? Is she afraid I’ll see the pity in her eyes?

My hands shake as I reach for the dress, the glossy fabric cool against my skin.

Once I’m dressed, I stand in front of the full-length mirror, taking in the woman staring back at me. This dress is not me. The high heels are not me. The heavy make-up is not me.

This isn’t my life.

Except that it is.

Just then, my father enters my room without knocking.

“Ah, Daniela,” he says with an approving nod. “You look stunning.”

I can’t meet his gaze. Instead, I focus on a spot on the floor.

“Let’s go,” he says, offering his arm to me.

I take a deep breath before placing my hand in the crook of his elbow, and leave my room.

As we walk down the grand staircase, my father’s grip on my arm is firm, as if he knows I’ll run if given the chance.

That’s all I can think about.

Running.

Escape.

Especially when we reach the bottom of the stairs.

“Smile, Daniela,” my father whispers into my ear.

So I do. I force the corners of my mouth to turn upward, painting a picture of happiness that couldn’t be further from what I actually feel.

In the doorway to the parlor stands a man I’ve seen before.

One of my father’s colleagues. Diego Vega.

He’s tall with graying hair, probably in his fifties or sixties.

I’m only fifteen, but I know that doesn’t matter to him or to my father.

“Ah, Diego,” my father says as we approach the man.

Diego turns to look at us, his eyes lighting up at the sight of me. “Daniela.” He steps forward to pull me into a hug that lasts a little too long.

It feels invasive. Aggressive, even. I don’t like it.

“You’re even prettier than I remember,” he whispers into my ear before letting go.

A shiver of disgust passes through me, but I suppress it quickly. Over the years, I’ve become a master at hiding what I really feel.

“Thank you, Senor Vega,” I say as I force myself to meet his gaze.

“Come into the parlor, Diego,” my father says.

Senor Vega follows us into the lush parlor, his polished shoes silent against the thick Persian rug that stretches wall to wall.

The air smells faintly of vanilla and coffee.

Velvet drapes in deep emerald spill down from ceiling-high windows.

Crystal decanters filled with liquor sit on a walnut sideboard.

No doubt Senor Vega has already filled his glass from one of them.

Every surface shines, every detail curated for opulence. But beneath the gleam, something feels off. Like the room is holding its breath. Like it’s witnessed too much and said too little.

Like it’s about to witness something more.

Something vile.

I swallow.

“I’ll leave you two to get to know each other,” my father says.

“Papa…”

But he leaves the parlor, closing the door behind him.

I swallow again.

“Senor…” I begin.

But he grabs me.

I close my eyes, expecting him to kiss me.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he slides the dress from my shoulders and exposes my bare breasts.

My heart hammers against my chest, but I force myself to remain calm.

“Senor Vega,” I say. “I’d appreciate if we can keep things respectful.”

He laughs—a cruel, harsh sound. “Respectful? Is that what your father told you to say?” He reaches out again, but I step back, maintaining the space between us.

“I’m not here for your entertainment,” I tell him, pulling my dress back up.

“On the contrary,” Vega says. “You are here for exactly that.”

Then harsh hands on my breasts, strong fingers twisting my nipples until I cry out in pain.

I’m pushed against the back of a chair, my dress up against my waist.

My underwear in shreds on the plush carpeting.

And then Senor Vega inside me.

Stretching me, hurting me. Pumping himself into me violently.

“Stop it!” I scream.

But Vega doesn’t stop. He only laughs, his breath reeking of alcohol and cigars.

Pain sears through me as he continues his cruel assault. My vision blurs from the tears stinging my eyes, but I bite my lip to keep from crying out again. Somehow, I know giving him that satisfaction would be worse than the pain.

When it’s over, Vega pulls his trousers back up, leaving me trembling on the carpeted floor. He looks down at me with a triumphant glint in his eye before swaggering out of the room.

As soon as he’s gone, I pull myself up from the floor, my limbs shaking. The pain is still raw, but it’s subsided to a dull throb that pulses in time with my heartbeat.

I look around the room, at the torn remains of my underwear strewn across the carpet.

A sick feeling wells up in my stomach as I leave the parlor, stumble up the stairs to my bedroom and into my en suite bathroom, throwing up until there’s nothing left but dry heaves.

I take a shower afterward, scrubbing my skin raw to scrape away the feeling of dirty hands on my body.

I put on loose pajamas and curl up on the bed, drawing my knees to my chest. I stare at the canopy of the bed that was once my mother’s. A tear slips down my cheek, wetting the silk sheets underneath me.

Why did this happen?

Aren’t fathers supposed to protect their daughters?

“Mami,” I whisper into the silence, wishing more than anything that she were here with me. She would know what to do. She would know how to make it stop.

But she’s dead. In the ground.

And I’m on my own.

* * *

Present Day…

I’ve been thinking about Hawk Bellamy for the past three days. I didn’t text him again, nor did I respond to his drive safely and heart emoji that he sent me the night I drove home after we kissed.

Today is my first day of culinary school, and I’m trying to focus.

The class is called “Culinary Foundations,” and we’re set up with partners in front of tiny kitchenettes as our professor, Chef Charleston, describes how to prep the kitchen before cooking begins.

“In order to create, one must first prepare the area,” Chef begins. He moves with practiced ease as he organizes the workspace in front of him. “A cluttered kitchen is like a chaotic mind. You should always start clean and organized.”

He clears the surface, placing each tool and ingredient in its specific place. He talks as he works, explaining each step in detail.

“Now, safety. Knives are not toys. They are essential tools in our craft and must be treated with respect.” He picks up a large chef’s knife and demonstrates the proper grip.

I glance at my partner, a burly guy named Jordan who grins back at me. I can’t help but return the smile, feeling some of my nervousness dissipate.

The class continues like this for the next few hours, Chef Charleston explaining and demonstrating while we follow along at our stations.

We learn about the importance of mise en place , the practice of having all your ingredients chopped and measured before you start cooking.

We learn about the different types of knives and their specific uses, and the correct way to hold a chef’s knife for maximum control.

If I’m being honest, I’m bored to tears. This is all stuff I had already figured out on my own.

Jordan turns out to be a friendly partner at least. He’s patient and easygoing. He’s been working in a restaurant for a few years now and wants to expand his culinary skills. He effortlessly chops an onion, his eyes watering slightly.

His eyes widen when it’s my turn to chop. I used to chop onions at home in Colombia all the time. My father’s chef was allergic to them, so they were my domain.

“Wow. And I thought I was an expert chopper,” Jordan says.

“Cooking was the one thing my father let me do at home in Colombia,” I reply.

It’s not exactly the truth.

The truth is that once I turned fifteen, I read cookbooks under my covers and bribed my father’s chef with smiles and a few blowjobs—turns out I’m pretty good at them—to let me help in the kitchen.

I learned to hate the taste of dick.

But every one of my father’s friends and associates, including his chef, wanted my mouth on their privates.

My cheeks warm at the memory, a sharp contrast to the coldness I feel inside. I wonder if Jordan would be so friendly if he knew about my past. If he knew what I’ve done. What’s been done to me.

“Hey, you okay?” he asks, concern etching his features.

I nod, forcing a smile onto my face. “Yeah, just thinking.”

He gives me a warm grin. “Don’t think too hard. It’s only our first day.”

I laugh at that, grateful for his easygoing nature. It seems like everyone in this strange new world is so much kinder than the one I left behind. The thought makes something tighten in my chest.

We move onto knife safety skills, and then a workshop on cleaning and safe food handling.

While I understand that the basics are important, I helped prepare an enormous dinner for ten a few nights ago. I created recipes, fused cuisines, and it was a rousing success. I had Star Bellamy’s help, of course, but I did a damned good job regardless. I already know all the basics.

As much as I was looking forward to today, I’m ready for our lunch break.

Plus… I haven’t been able to get Hawk Bellamy out of my mind—his kisses…and what nearly happened between us.

What should I do?

He still doesn’t know everything I’ve been through.

He’d probably run away screaming if he did.

Hell, I wanted to run away screaming myself.

I’m here now, doing what I’ve dreamed of for so long.

And my father—who thought nothing of pimping me out to his associates—is dead and buried.

Good fucking riddance.