CARINA
M y eyes track his every movement.
No matter what I do, I can feel the heat of his proximity like he’s standing right next to me, breathing down my neck. I can feel the burn of his fingers as if they’re sliding across my body, instead of his bottom lip. His presence lights a fire within me, filling me with intrigue to know more. To find out everything I can about him.
Techno illuminations swirl through the air, their stunning insignias gleaming off the den floor, red drapes, and various decorations strewn over every available surface my parents could place them. Music pumps through the surround sound with enough bass it vibrates my chest as it plays awful, outdated carols filled with whimsical tales of Christmas.
It’s meant to be enchanting, dreamlike. But, whoever thought playing this was going to be the life of the party is clearly tone-deaf and planning for a snooze fest instead. There’s absolutely no rhythm or beat to it, and everyone is loitering around, talking amongst themselves, as if they’re in a museum rather than a party. It’s positively dreadful.
Casting my eyes back in their direction, my heart flutters as I seek him out once more. Just the sight of him is like a burst of heroin in my veins. I want to relish the sting of the needle as it pierces my flesh, feeling the toxic liquid unhurriedly pump into my veins as I crest up the hill to euphoria over and over again. Even with distractions all around me, I can’t seem to keep my eyes off him. He’s an enigma, begging to be solved.
This man must be important; otherwise, my father wouldn’t give him the time of day. My father is soaking up the few words he uses to acknowledge him like he can’t get enough. I find it weird my father exudes the patience of a saint when normally, he pitches a man-sized tantrum filled with revenge and death if he doesn’t get his way.
In retrospect, my father would remind you of a big man child, which is the only way I can describe it. He’s hard, menacing, and deadly on the outside. Yet soft, whiny, and a complete and total toddler on the inside. He always gets his way, and if he doesn’t, then I’m the one left cleaning up the mess. I’m the one spending minutes, hours, days, months awake; exhausted, starving, and alone until it’s all straightened out.
Clearly, this man doesn’t give two shits about what my father can do—or better yet, what he can cause with the snap of his fingers. Because for the last fifteen minutes, he’s been standing in the same spot, sipping quietly from his tumbler as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. It’s like he’s doing the people around him a favor by being here, and they should bow down to his feet. I can’t stand someone like that. People who believe they’re better than everyone else when really, they can stand to fall down a few pegs from the pedestal they built for themselves.
Movement from my left causes me to cower in the darkness more, hoping I haven’t been spotted. My father will shit if I’m made. I’m not supposed to be down here, enjoying the sights and sounds of Christmas. Instead, I’m supposed to be in the basement, never to be seen by anyone unless he deems it necessary. They say it’s for my protection; for protection of what I am. I don’t understand it, probably never will. But still, even through it all, keeping me their dirty little secret still smarts more than anything he’s ever done to me.
“Darling, have you met Mateo Calvetti?” I hear my father ask, gesturing toward the man who holds my attention.
Mateo Calvetti? His name sounds as mysterious and foreign as he looks. It suits him perfectly and piques my interest all the more. His regal Italian features scream money and power as he stands aloof in a three-piece fitted suit. His chiseled frame fills it flawlessly, from his broad, masculine shoulders, all the way to his trim, tapered waist. His jet-black hair is short on the sides and comes to rest in a faux hawk at the top, while a bit of manly stubble graces his model perfect jawline. He’s the epitome of perfection. And for the first time ever, my body takes notice as it aches in places it’s never ached before.
Peeking through the shadows, I see my mother smiling brightly at him. Seeing her so happy to meet someone causes a bout of anger to surface inside of me. She’s never been this excited to see me as she is this stranger, and it pisses me off to no end that she’s showing him the attention she’s never bothered to show me. Who is this man? A man I’ve never met before but can evoke such emotion from the ice queen herself?
Taking his outstretched hand, she gives it a firm shake. “I don’t believe we have. I had the pleasure of meeting your father, but not you. Hello.”
“Ciao,” he replies, his deep, rich voice causing a shiver to race from my head to the very bottoms of my feet. His voice is so mesmerizing.
“What brings you out on Christmas Eve, Mateo?”
Mateo’s response causes my heart to flutter and my breath to catch. The low, cavernous baritone of his voice can only be described as fierce, determined, calculated—yet, soft, smooth, and delicious.
The ache at the apex of my thighs flames higher, as my nipples pebble with obvious desire. I’ve never seen anyone quite like this man, and my deprived body is taking notice with extreme clarity.
This reaction—I’ve never felt it toward anything in my life. Not my heart picking up its pace or my body aching for a single touch. It’s different. But a kind of different I can quickly become accustomed to. It’s heady, delicious, and I would like nothing more than to explore everything it has to offer.
“Do you have any news?” he asks my mother, slowly sipping from his drink.
Her cackle causes me to cringe. It’s just as fake as she is, and that’s saying something. About ninety-nine percent of her body is plastic, all thanks to the money I bring into this family. Fucking self-righteous bitch. “Straight shooter, huh?”
“Is there any other way?” he retorts, smirking, and I watch as my mother physically swoons in front of him. Hell, even though I don’t like her, I can’t blame her there. I’m swooning, too. Just the sight of his lips pulling into a thin line, highlighting the peppering of fine lines next to his eyes, has me panting for more.
In hurried succession, his eyes flick over her head, ensnaring me in his mouthwateringly dark gaze, before snapping back to her, a soft smile spreading. The action is so imperceptible that if you weren’t looking right at him, you wouldn’t even notice. His grin completely morphs his features, making him seem lighter, more handsome if that is possible. And his eyes. They’re bottomless, captivating. They pull me in like a snake lures its prey.
Forcing myself backward, I curse silently as the shelving digs into my spine. I’ve been trying my hardest to stay unnoticed; yet, within moments of his attention turned this way, he sought me out. How? I’m the stealthiest person I know; have to be in a godforsaken place such as this.
Goddammit, I hope he doesn’t say something. If he opens his mouth and tells them I’m here, it will all be over. My parents will send me to the hole for disobeying them, torturing me until they think I’ve had enough for my disobedience. Even if it’s been years since I’ve been there, still to this day, I clearly know never to disobey them because the repercussions he can extract from me are severe. Every action has a reaction, which is what my father always tells me, and if Mateo outs me, I’m done for.
Thankfully, no one takes notice of where his attention had just been. Instead, she rolls her shoulders back and juts her chest out, wrapping her wavy hair around her finger. Inwardly groaning, I snap my eyes shut to save myself from the spectacle that is my mother. It never fucking fails with her. It doesn’t matter if my father is near her or not. She will blatantly flirt with anyone that holds more power than him, hoping for a better life than he can give her.
Only, she’s not the one that gets punished for her actions, sent to do things no other person should have to do. I am. I’m the one who goes without dinner, bathing, or personal contact for weeks on end unless I do what he asks of me. I’m the one who gets the brunt of his anger, even though I’m not the one that caused it. It’s never her. It’s always me. And as the devil as my witness, one day I’ll make her pay for it.
“It’s coming along wonderfully,” she coos, grossing me out even more. “You’d be happy to know your little property is at the end of training. We’re learning …” She leans forward, whispering only so those close around her can hear. I chance getting caught by leaning forward as well. Only, no amount of closeness will tell me what I want to know most: what the hell she’s whispering to him about.
“Oh, really?” he asks, his smile blooms across as his eyes flick up to meet mine, holding a mischievous gleam of excitement. Why is he looking at me like I’m a piece of meat?
Does he not know the things I’m capable of?