Salvatore(44)

Lucia’s footsteps dragged, and I had to nudge her forward. As the guests watched, I sat her down between my father and Dominic and, hands fisted, I walked to the empty chair and took it. Lucia’s eyes met mine, and I burned my warnings in the look that passed between us, knowing she’d heed none of them.

Servers began to pour wine, and conversation flowed. I watched the lecherous eyes of both my brother and father consume her. She remained between them, eyes on her plate, her face tense as she pulled her arms tighter to herself. I’d come to know those little things she did, small physical movements she may not have been aware of herself, to protect herself. To hide away. Perhaps willing herself to disappear.

I felt powerless as course after course was served. I ate a few bites from each plate, forcing myself to join in the conversation or at least smile and pretend to be listening, but all I could do was watch her. She refused to eat a bite of food but drank glass after glass of wine and, after a glare in my direction, finally turned her attention to Dominic. He gave me a grin and brushed his fingertips over her shoulder.

I fumed, nearly breaking the stem of the wineglass I held. Clearing my throat, I stood and, with my knife clinking against the crystal of the glass, called everyone’s attention.

“A toast.”

Everyone picked up their glasses. Everyone except Lucia.

“To my father on his birthday.”

We waited, the room silent as my father watched her, his fury visibly increasing. I willed her to pick up her glass, to take one last fucking sip, before I could excuse us and take her away, but she wouldn’t do it. She was too stubborn to save her own damn neck.

“Happy birthday,” I said, hoping to draw attention back to me. “And many more, father.”

Everyone joined in, wishing him many more, and, after a moment, my father turned to me, acknowledged my toast with a raising of his glass, and drank, our gazes locked, his angry, dark, and foreboding.

He stood. The guests put knives and forks down and wiped their mouths, rising too. Lucia remained as she was. At least she knew to remain seated. As if the guests understood, they cleared the dining room quietly so only my father, brother, Lucia, and I remained. A server closed the doors.

“Punish her,” he said, spitting the words. “Make it good, or I’ll do it for you.”

A grin played along Dominic’s lips. I nodded once. Dominic and my father left the dining room. I looked at Lucia sitting there, her face insolent, her eyes the only part of her betraying her fear.

I took my jacket off and hung it over the back of a chair, then loosened my tie, unbuttoning the top buttons of my dress shirt before it choked me. All the while, my eyes remained locked on hers. I walked toward her, rolling my right shirt sleeve up as I went. I wondered if she knew what was coming, what had to happen now. Why the room adjacent to ours became suddenly so quiet, as if there wasn’t an audience just beyond the doors to bear witness.

I reached for the buckle of my belt and undid it.

That was when she understood. She made to rise, but I was too close and caught her halfway up.

“Make this easy on yourself,” I whispered, wondering if those in the other room heard the swoosh of my belt as I yanked it from its loops, pulled her up out of her chair, and pushed her to bend over the table that had yet to be wiped down.

“Salvatore,” she began.

“Quiet.” I shoved her dress up to her waist. She struggled, but I held her flat and pushed her panties down so they slipped from her hips and pooled around her ankles. “Count yourself lucky that he closed the doors.”

“You can’t mean to…”

I gripped a handful of her hair and leaned down close to her ear. “One fucking sip. You could have been drinking to his death for all I cared, but you couldn’t do it. Now, you pay.”

I straightened, keeping one hand on the flat of her back while I swung with the other, the sound of leather striking flesh coming instantaneously with the sharp intake of her breath.

“He’ll require more than that,” I said, lashing her again. “And forgive me, but so will I.”

I whipped her hard, knowing I had to, wanting to beat her for her stupidity, her inability to keep one fucking promise. Knowing if I didn’t, he would. Or, worse, he’d let Dominic do it while I watched.

It took nearly thirty strokes, her screams becoming hoarse as she wept, lashing my heart as I lashed her flesh, hating myself, hating her for making me do this. Hating him, hating my father for his power over me. For the power I allowed him to have.

I only stopped when the quiet on the other side of the door grew into a soft murmur and the sound of silverware on dishes told me cake had been served. The vultures had been sated or perhaps had grown bored. I hated them all, but hated myself most of all.