Love Thy Enemy

Chapter 8: Loving

I know my death is looming over my head, but I can't think about that right now. My bike is still in front of Saskia's house, where I left it after mounting behind Valentino's Harley, but that, together with responsibility and safety, will just have to wait another 24 hours. Last time I was at Valentino's house I'd been unconscious, naked, and terrified. It's hard to believe how much has changed.

"By the way, don't expect me to believe you were at Saskia's party by accident" I shout at him over the grumbling sound of his motorcycle and the angry wind.

"I'd be disappointed if you did."

An hour later we stop in front of his large, deserted mansion.

"I didn't know you liked to dance." The point of going to Saskia's party wasn't to dance, it was to feel something other than terror or frustration. Dancing is one of those things that young people do on weekends. I did it to fool myself into believing I was one of them.

"You don't know anything about me, Valentino. Do you even know what my last name is?"

"Ancona. Adelaide Ancona. But your name is not what I am curious about. I want to know, what makes a girl like Adelaide Ancona smile?" Valentino takes my hand in his and together we walk inside his mansion and through the hallway. He stops when we reach the kitchen. I am surprised I remember the way, every step as though there were bloodstains guiding my every step.

"You could begin by answering my questions. That would make me smile."

"Of course" He whispers, gently turning me so that my back is facing the fridge and my front, him. He is leaning so close I think he might kiss me, and I might let him. I close my eyes, and lean forward into his chest, waiting for his warmth to engulf me. But before I know what is happening, he hand-cuffs me to the fridge handle.

"Do you have a problem with all women, or just me?" I shout, embarrassed by how easily he detained me. I could have sworn he was going to kiss me just seconds ago.

"Just you." He answers calm as ever, taking a seat at the table in front of me while admiring the view. "Now, what did you want to ask me, beautiful?" I snort at the comment and will myself to accept that this is just who Valentino is. He will do what he wants, when he wants.

"Do I have to be handcuffed for this conversation?" I yank at the metal.

"No, but I enjoy seeing you at my mercy" his shit-eating grin makes me fume, but what is even worse is the feeling of powerlessness that comes with the chain around my wrist and knowing that he put it there. I decide to focus on the issue at hand, the reason I came here.

"You know the question" I kick my heels off and sit down all while looking up at him. My hand is still cuffed to the fridge so although I am sitting, my arm remains above me. The position is extremely uncomfortable, and it allows my shirt to rise up so far, it gathers around my waist. I don't fix it because I don't want him to think I am afraid of the lust broiling under his gaze. Or of him. I refuse to be seen as less than what I am simply because of the position he put me in.

"He is the brother of one of the men you killed" Valentino stands up from his chair to look through the food cabinets. He stops when he finds a premade focaccia. He extends it to me and I take it with irritation.

"So this is about revenge?" I conclude.

"For the most part..." he doesn't elaborate, instead he retrieves towards the stove.

"And what's the other part?" I ask, getting increasingly frustrated with the man sitting in front of me.

"If I am hiding something, then you're better off not knowing" He mixes a series of ingredients. The sight alone makes my mouth water. I open the brown paper bag and take a bite of the focaccia to ease the pain in my stomach, secretly grateful he gave it to me. The soft bread is plain, covered in oil, with olives on the top; my favorite. I take another bite all while staring at him, but he continues cooking unbothered. I stand up angrily with the focaccia still in hand, and pull at the hand-cuffs as though the metal were to give at any second. When it doesn't, I pull my hand back hard enough to open the fridge to which I am shackled. I extract a bottle of wine from the bottom shelf with my right hand. Valentino still doesn't seem at all troubled by the excessive noise I am making. With deep annoyance, I drop the bottle with intent. The glass shatters into small razor sharp pieces, and the content splatters on my feet and all over the floor. I pick up the largest and closest piece of glass to me, not because I intend to use it, but because I want to show him how dangerous I can be when treated with indifference.