Celeste;
Location; Rossi's Estate
Underground base, Right Wing.
9:00PM.
The metal door protests on its hinges, the grating sound alerting me to someone walking in. Booted feet slapping on concrete.
"Have you guys considered a door change?" I sigh into the pensive quiet.
Whoever the intruder is, doesn't grace me with a response, his footsteps just keep approaching in equal intervals—until I feel the heat of the presence before me.
A weight settles into my lap. Warm with a slippery press.
I realize it's food. My numbing limbs choose that exact second to throb, as if reminding me of the uncomfortable position I'm in.
A scoff tears out of my throat, "I unfortunately lack a beak to pick my food, you know?" I say, matter-of-factly.
Steel scrapes against the stark concrete, settling right in front of me—inches apart though. And just then I realize the figure had walked to the corner to grab a seat behind the heaped cardboard boxes.
It's gotten darker than earlier, I roughly assume it's nighttime, because the shapes I could see before have morphed into plain smudges of silhouette.
And so, I trace the outline with my eyes as he plops down on the seat. "That's why I'm here," a resigned tone echoes in the dark, empty room.
A laugh tickles the back of my throat, and I set it free, "Even my mom stopped feeding me at five." I state, ignoring the pull from the distant memory.
"What a surprise that you even got fed,"
I hear a snort. It registers. I got the joke.
Well, I guess I'm lucky. That in our world of guns and power hungry men and women, I'd been blessed with parents that actually...cared.
Not because I was a product of a marriage of alliance.
From what I perceive from that voice…unfortunately, his parents didn't.
Clearing my throat, "What if it's poisoned." I bite out a sassy remark.
"If we'd wanted you dead, you'd be floating in the Oreto river by now with other piles of discarded corpses." Whoever it is, deadpans unapologetically.
A stiffening sensation locks my spine and pauses my breath.
Recognition crawls through with his voice. "It's you, the guy from earlier, isn't it?"
"Wow, you have a great sense of vocal awareness," he muses blandly, mock amusement taunting his tone.
I suspect he must have even performed an eye roll, definitely not the least impressed as his words suggest.
And I hiss, the sound bouncing off the icy cold walls. Motion stirs in the dark, and the weight on my lap disappears, cool air burning the spot and dousing the warmth.
He picks up the ceramic, I hear the prodding of the silverware scraping against it. He goes at it for a minute or two, before his monotone voice cuts through the quiet that was about to become comfortable.
"Do you feel bad about missing it…your wedding?"
For fuck sake they knew. These scoundrels knew what they were in on.
And now I'm curious, did they sabotage the wedding because of what Ruggiero will get once it's finalized in the Montagnas name?
Or could it be that somehow, an enemy of Greg is out to ruin his plans…which includes this marriage.
I don't voice out my speculations. Instead, I let my lips tilt to respond, "If it were you getting abducted on the night before officially getting married to the love of your life, tell me—will you?"
The prodding against plate continues as a sarcastic laugh falls into the air. "Oh spare me that crap."
Indeed it's crap. But he isn't sure of that. Yet.
"In our world, we don't marry for love. That much is painfully clear…at least on the Giordanos side."
I'd love to ask what these two famiglie hold against each other—Rossi's and Giordano's, I mean.
But something tells me I'll end up being snubbed.
So instead of springing up a defense to back up my claims, my mouth parts and I spew the most unintelligible shit. "You don't sound very Italian,"
An attempt to switch topics.
"You don't look very Italian,"
My pulse skips its next beat, heart tripping over itself. A thick lump forms at the back of my throat at his comeback.
Gratefully, he can't spot my expression covered in black nothing.
Many don't notice it…but how did he? So fast…
I'm my father's daughter okay. His genes override my mother's, coursing through my anatomy.
The smart bastard concedes with a defeated noise, "I'm part Mexican, part Italian."
Ahh. It makes sense now. That means…"Are you related to the Rossi's?" I probe, half not expecting a reply.
But smart grumpy dude decides I'm not a waste of breath, and graces me with a simple, "Unfortunately, yes."
I'm hundred percent sure, that if I can see his face right now, his eyes will be dimmed like a lost spark of a once-lit lantern.
Just when I part my lips to say something, something hard, warm and mushy gets shoved into my mouth. Clinking my teeth.
And my stomach tosses with adrenaline at the fear that I might get gagged—like he'd threatened before.
"What the fu—" I grunt against the mushy softness melting in my mouth as he drags the spoon out.
Okay, how he'd managed to locate my mouth in the dark…? Accurate shot. I'll applaud him for that.
The taste of buttered pasta with soft bread on the side—simple, but filling—settles on my tongue, pools in my mouth. And I suppress a groan of satisfaction.
Damn. I'd been fucking starving.
Just when I'd resign to enjoying the spoonfuls he keeps shoving between my teeth in silence, and not caring for anything else...
His voice drops like a haunted piece of a broken record, "You've been dragged into something you know nothing about…And I almost feel sorry for you."
The usual bite and sass is gone from his voice, replaced with something tamer…dare I say, gentle.
And I know it's a warning.
Shriveling heart and thumping pulse, I eat in the dark, still silence.