Page 32 of Cryptic Curse (Bellamy Brothers #7)

DANIELA

I wake up with a jerk when my phone alarm goes off.

I think I slept. Maybe. I woke up a lot, thinking about the orgasm that Hawk gave me.

It was amazing.

I’m still warm all over from it, yet I’m also chilled.

A strange sensation, to be sure.

Because intermingled with thoughts of Hawk are thoughts of the note taped to my door yesterday.

Hawk promised to get security on me.

I thought I was done with all that. Done with having to fear for my life. For my body.

Here in the state of Texas, I thought I could live a normal life.

Apparently not.

Normal life just isn’t in the cards for me.

I get out of bed, shuffle into my bathroom, and turn on the shower.

One look in the mirror tells me the truth. My eyes are bloodshot.

I didn’t sleep.

Except that I did, off and on. But not enough to actually count.

If I hadn’t gotten that wonderful orgasm from Hawk, I probably wouldn’t have slept at all.

I run my brush through my hair, and then I step inside the shower, letting the warm water pelt me.

Hot water.

What a blessing.

I used to look for the blessings in little things back in Colombia to distract me from the horrors I endured nearly every night.

Hot water. How many people in the world don’t have it?

I may have been subject to rape and the occasional beating, but at least I had hot water.

Food.

We had a great chef, and I learned a lot from him.

Even though I had to blow his giant smelly cock on occasion.

And even though my father kept me on a strict diet during those years—I had to look perfect for his friends, after all—sometimes Chef would sneak me extra.

When he was in a good mood, or when I’d given him particularly good head.

And even when he didn’t, I always had enough food to sustain me.

Food.

A blessing.

And now I have more than ever.

Clothing.

A blessing.

I didn’t always like the clothes my father picked out for me, but I had plenty of them, and when I wasn’t doing his bidding, I could dress how I liked. Comfortable sweats and sweatshirts.

Clothing.

A blessing.

And shelter.

Colombia had its share of homeless people, beggars on the streets.

But no matter what else happened in my life, I always had a roof over my head. When the weather was cold, I had heat. When the weather was warm, I had air-conditioning.

I had a built-in swimming pool for my use, as well.

Shelter.

A blessing.

And now I have this perfect little apartment in Vinnie’s house that he lets me use.

With plenty of food, plenty of hot water, plenty of clothing.

Such blessings.

So even if I need security twenty-four-seven, and a vaguely threatening note shows up on my door every now and then, I won’t let it break me.

Not this time.

I step out of the shower, wrap a towel around me, and squeeze the water out of my hair.

I dress more casually today.

Yesterday I wore a silk button-down blouse and dress pants.

But most of the others showed up in jeans and more comfortable clothing.

Not a bad idea. We were on our feet all day, and my heels—even though they weren’t that high—were uncomfortable.

Today?

Walking shoes.

A pair of loose-fitting boyfriend jeans, and a soft cotton T-shirt.

Today, I will be comfortable.

I fix myself a quick breakfast, pack another basic lunch of a sandwich and fresh fruit, and then I go into the main house to see Belinda before I leave.

She’s in the kitchen, eating a bowl of oatmeal with brown sugar and cinnamon.

“Hey, Bee,” I say.

“Dani, hi,” she says. “School again today?”

“Yeah.”

She beams. “I had so much fun last night with you and Hawk. Playing Texas Hold’em for cheese balls.”

I smile. “I did too, sweetie.” I kiss the top of her head. “I have to go, but I’ll see you tonight at dinner, okay?”

She nods. “Have fun.”

The drive to the school isn’t long, about twenty minutes. Traffic isn’t bad because I’m going against it. The culinary school is located on the edge of our suburb.

I park my car, grab my purse, and head inside.

Jordan is already there at our station.

“Hey, chopper queen,” he says.

I give him a friendly wave. “Hi, Jordan.”

“Guess what we’re doing today?”

“I couldn’t possibly,” I say.

“We’re learning to chop vegetables.”

Seriously?

A whole lesson on vegetable chopping? Something I could do in my sleep?

“Okay,” I say.

He pats me on the back. “Yeah, you and I will be bored stiff, but that’s all right. We’ll show these others how it’s done.”

I sigh. “I wish there were some option to skip these beginner courses.”

“You mean like proficiency exams?”

“What are proficiency exams?”

“Like when you go to college, and you want to test out of certain requirements like a foreign language, for example. You take a test showing you already have competency in it, and then you get out of taking those required courses.”

I blink. “Oh. Right.”

How could I know that? I didn’t go to college. I never went to school once I hit puberty. I had private tutors. And before that, I went to private school.

Jordan looks at me sideways. “How old are you, Daniela?”

“Eighteen.”

“Right out of high school,” he says. “I guess that explains why you don’t know about proficiency exams.”

I fake a smile. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I thought you were older,” he says.

“Nope. Barely eighteen.”

He grins. “Barely legal.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I don’t reply.

“Don’t you want to know how old I am?”

“Okay, how old are you?”

“Twenty-nine.”

Twenty-nine. That’s the same age as Hawk.

Again, I don’t know what to say. So I say nothing.

“So when should we hit that water park?” he asks. “This weekend?”

“I’m busy this weekend,” I say.

His face falls. “Oh.”

“I’m… I’m watching my little sister,” I say. “Except she’s not really my little sister. She’s eleven, and she lives at my house.”

“An eleven-year-old needs a babysitter?”

“Yeah.” I drum my fingers on the counter. “She’s been through…some stuff.”

“Oh, I see. Well maybe you could bring her along. Eleven-year-olds love water parks.”

“I’d love to go, but not this weekend, Jordan. But Gina and Lavender might want to go.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not interested in Gina and Lavender.”

“Why not? Gina’s absolutely beautiful, and Lavender… Well, she’s cute if you can get past the purple hair.”

He sighs lightly. “Maybe I’ll ask Gina.”

“I think she’d like that.”

Thank God, Chef Charleston enters then, clad of course in his chef coat and hat.

He stands at the front of the room like he owns it—which, to be fair, he kind of does. His apron is spotless, his knife gleaming under the fluorescent lights, and when he speaks, the entire kitchen falls silent.

“Today,” he says, holding up a fat yellow onion like it’s the crown jewel of the produce world, “we’re going to talk about respect.”

Respect?

“For your vegetables,” he clarifies. “For your mise en place . For your knife. And most importantly, for your fingers.”

A couple people chuckle. I don’t. I nearly cut my finger off a few years ago with one of the knives in our kitchen in Colombia.

Chef steps behind the stainless-steel table and sets the onion down in front of him. “First rule—your knife is an extension of your hand. You treat it like one. You don’t wave it around. You don’t leave it in the sink. You don’t cut angry.”

He makes a clean slice through the onion, top to root, like it’s nothing. “Stabilize the vegetable. Always. Roll-away veggies are traitors.”

We all nod. Some scribble notes and others tap on their iPads.

I don’t. I already know how to chop vegetables.

“Second rule,” he says, peeling the outer layer with practiced speed, “your claw grip. If I see a single fingertip sticking out, I swear I’ll replace your carrots with concrete.”

He demonstrates—fingers curled, knuckles forward, blade gliding against them with surgical precision. “This grip saves you. It might feel weird at first, but so did walking.”

Someone sneezes in the back. Probably from the onion. No one dares say bless you.

Chef glances toward the back. “Nothing to be worried about. I have a little sensitivity to onions myself. I usually have my sous take care of them for that reason.” He frowns.

“Anyway. Third rule—uniformity. No one cares how fast you chop if your brunoise looks like it went through a paper shredder. Precision over speed. Always.”

He turns the onion and begins to mince, each piece nearly identical. It’s hypnotic, the rhythm of it. Chop, scrape, reset. There’s something almost soothing about the way he moves.

“Your cuts tell a story,” he says. “Sloppy dice? You’re lazy. Ragged edges? You’re rushing. Perfect cubes?” He looks up, eyes scanning the room. “That means you give a damn.”

I swallow hard and glance down at my cutting board, where a green bell pepper is waiting for its fate. I’m not worried.

I can chop the hell out of anything.

My vegetables will always tell the right story.

If only my life could do the same.

* * *

Three Years Earlier…

I stand in front of the mirror, heart thudding. The dress my father gave me is very grown up—soft black satin, short enough to feel bold, but not too short. I smooth it over my hips and turn sideways, pretending not to check myself out but totally doing it.

The room smells like hairspray and vanilla lotion. My playlist is on shuffle—every song making me want to spin in circles. Tonight feels big. Like something’s about to change.

I swipe on lip gloss and pull my hair into a half-up twist I’ve practiced a dozen times. It’s not perfect. A little frizz here, a loose strand there—but it’s me.

“Let me help with that,” my au pair says.

Fifteen is too old for a nanny, but Consuelo is still a huge part of my life. My American au pair returned to the States last year.

Tonight, Consuelo’s eyes look different.

Kind of sad.

“Are you all right?” I ask her.

“I’m fine, mija ,” she says.

On the bed, my phone buzzes.

“No time for that now,” Consuelo says as I eye the phone. “Your papa is waiting.”

In the mirror, I grin. I look like someone who belongs at a party. Not the girl who gets nervous answering questions. Not the girl who sometimes feels like she’s in the way.

“You look beautiful,” Consuelo says.

“Thank you.” I smile into the mirror.

“All right. Now off with you.”

Her eyes are glistening, as if she’s about to cry.

“Are you sure you’re all right?”

She stiffens her face. “I’m absolutely fine. I will always be here for you, Daniela.”

“I know that.”

She kisses my forehead. “Never forget. I may not be able to take care of you at every moment, but I will always be here for you.”

I’m not sure what she’s talking about, but I simply nod. “Thank you, Consuelo.”

“Your papa is waiting downstairs in his office.”

“All right. Thank you for everything.”

I leave my bedroom, race down the stairs to the first floor of our grand mansion. But then I slow my pace. I don’t want to mess up my hair.

I walk to my father’s office and knock.

“Yes?”

“It’s me, Papa. Daniela.”

“Yes, Daniela, please come in.”

I open the door.

Papa sits behind his large desk, and another man sits in one of the chairs facing him. Both of them stand when I enter.

“I thought I was going to a party,” I say.

“Yes, you are,” Papa says.

“When are we leaving?”

Papa smiles, gestures broadly around his office. “The party is here, Daniela. This is a colleague of mine, Senor Hernando Reyes.”

Senor Reyes is young and good-looking—well-built with dark gleaming eyes and a thick shock of black hair.

I nod. “Good evening, Senor.”

“Good evening, Daniela.” He turns to my father. “She is everything you said she would be, Jacinto.”

Papa grins. “Didn’t I tell you?”

Senor Reyes closes the distance between us and reaches for my hand. He brings it to his lips and kisses the back of it.

I widen my eyes slightly.

No man has ever kissed my hand before.

I’m only fifteen. Actually fourteen. My birthday is tomorrow.

“Daniela,” Papa says, “I want you to be good to Senor Reyes. Give him what he asks for.”

Apprehension slices through me.

“What do you mean?”

“The party is a small one,” Papa says. “Only two people attending. You and Senor Reyes.”

“I don’t understand.” My pulse races.

My nerves skitter under my skin. And I feel sick. Like I’m going to vomit all over my father’s office.

I quickly swallow.

“You’re old enough now,” Papa says, “to… contribute to the household.”

“Contribute to the household?” I cross my arms. “You mean by doing chores?”

Why would he need me to do chores? We have enough servants to do everything around here.

“Senor Reyes would like to get to know you better,” Papa says.

Senor Reyes takes my hand, squeezing it. “Come with me, Daniela.”

“Papa!” Fear courses through me.

“Do as you’re told, Daniela.”

Those were the last words I heard from my father before I was forced to my knees.

Before Senor Reyes whispered in my ear, “Suck my cock, bitch, or I’ll fucking kill you.”

I didn’t lose my virginity. That was ripped from me later, by Senor Vega.

But this was the night my life changed forever.

The night my body was no longer my own.