3

Delilah

“How long am I going to be in here?” I ask Gianni as I step into the bedroom.

“As long as it takes.” He slams the doors shut, causing me to jump.

I gasp, run to the stylish French doors, and then hear a click. Jiggling the door handles, I yank and pull, realizing I’m locked inside. With my fists, I pummel the wood as hard as I can. “Let me out of here, Gianni! I will not be held prisoner. Open the damn doors!” I try jiggling the handles again, sneering when they don’t give. I plant my feet against the ground and pull, hoping the lock breaks, but all I hear on the other side is a chuckle.

Gianni is laughing at me.

I kick the door for good measure. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Who locks a woman in a room?”

“The kind who don’t trust women who make deals to clear their father’s name. You can’t be trusted, Delilah. Not yet. And I won’t risk Carmine’s safety. For all I know, you’re a crazy person.” His voice is muffled from the door between us.

I growl with impatience, beating my fist against the door yet again. “I’ll show you crazy!” He pays me no mind. I hear the expensive clicks of his loafers carrying him away. “Hey, I’m talking to you! Get back here!” I slap a hand over my mouth when a booming laugh echoes down the hall. It goes on for a few minutes.

What have you gotten yourself into, Delilah?” I whisper to myself, pressing my forehead against the door as I take a few deep breaths.

I really did this. I came to a mafia boss to save my father’s life, made a deal to marry him, and give him a child. My pulse begins to race, and my breathing becomes erratic. Holy hell, my entire life is in this man’s hands.

What have I done?

I toss my hair in a messy bun and massage my neck. “You’re going to be fine. You don’t have to like him. Your father will be alive. That’s all that matters.”

I spin around and sag against the double doors, fanning my eyes around the room for the first time.

For a guest room, it’s huge. The bed itself is the size of my room. The paint is masculine yet elegant, a light grey on three of the walls, and the fourth is a navy blue. The ceramic floor tiles are breathtaking, probably imported from Italy. They are an array of blues, greys, whites, and opals, creating a gorgeous mosaic.

I bend down and trace the tile's grout, a stark black, such a contrast to the light design. I straighten myself up then explore my prison cell. Overhead, a mural reminding me of the night sky was painted on the domed ceiling. Intricate patterns of vines, leaves, and grapes were carved into the moldings.

“Wow.” I am in awe, impressed by the detail that’s gone into this room.

Wrapping my hand around one of the bedposts, I spin then slide my free hand across the fluffy, white comforter. The bathroom has the same ceramic tiles on the floor to the right. Flipping on the light, my brows raise at the extravagance. A chandelier hangs from the middle with crystals reflecting and shining on every surface. There are twin sinks; the counter is made of gorgeous, polished, purple stone.

Is it amethyst? There’s no way. That would be so expensive. The soaking tub matches too, and it’s big enough for three people. If I’m going to live here, I will use that tub daily.

The shower is nothing to sneeze at, either. There are no doors, no curtain, just a huge walk-in stall made of onyx that glimmers when the light hits it. The rainfall showerhead takes up the ceiling, and I bet it would feel like standing under a giant waterfall.

“Wait.” I turn my head to see a toothbrush in its holder, and then there’s water sprinkled on the silver drain as if it were used this morning.

There’s another door, and I fling it open, revealing a giant closet lined with suits and shoes.

This isn’t the guest room.

It’s his room.

“Oh, no. I did not agree to this.” I sprint into the bedroom and slip on the floor, latching onto the handles just in time before I slam onto the ground. I pull myself up and try to open the doors again, frantic when I realize I’m in his private space.

A bed he sleeps in.

A bed he fucks in.

And it’s all too much.

He surrounds me, and I don’t want to be. He affects me in ways where I need to be ashamed because he isn’t a good man. He isn’t giving me options that do not require my body to save my father. Good men don’t do that.

I’ve never had sex. I’ve been too focused on school. That’s not to say that I haven’t had the opportunity, but I’ve never wanted to have sex with a frat guy three beers in.

“Come on,” I continue to try the doors, but it’s no use.

I’m trapped.

I stare at the bed, and the white blanket and sheets mock my innocence. Is this where he plans for us to have sex? Is this where my entire life will change? Maybe I was too hasty in accepting the offer to clear my father’s debt. But what other choice did I have?