Blood Money by Lana Sky

Chapter Eight

“Good morning, Miss.”

I peel my eyes open, alarmed when all I see is white. This iteration is a beautiful color, reflecting snippets of gold like rays of the sun. I must be dead. Only heaven could be this peaceful and this blindingly clean.

But then I feel the pain. It’s dulled—which confuses me even more. Fiery, stinging lines throb all across my back, but it’s as if an invisible hand is holding the worst at bay, allowing just a fraction of the discomfort to bother me. I recognize this dreamy, dazed mental state, where my brain feels like mush, and everything sparkles.

He drugged me again.

He drugged me good.

As a result, any fear I might feel is reduced to three tiny butterflies fluttering around in my belly, but I can still feel it, nonetheless; a prickling bit of instinct warning that I should be worried. I should question what he drugged me with and why. I should run.

“Mr. Domino requested that I treat your back again, Miss. Apologies.”

Again?

I test my muscles experimentally and groan. My back is ablaze, but the rest of me isn’t too far off. I hurt all over. The kind of pulsing discomfort I’d need an entire bottle of wine to dull completely.

The more I move, however, the more of my surroundings I’m able to take in. Heaven turns out to be the same white room I’ve been relegated to since arriving here. Beyond the bed, the picturesque illusion shatters.

My entire body goes cold the second I spot the white table a few feet away. It’s in the same position as last night, though devoid of the food and only one chair remains. Someone took pains to clear the broken plate from the floor at least, though the wall still holds the multi-colored traces of where my meal shattered against it.

Domino isn’t anywhere in sight—a fact that rips a sigh of relief from me.

But Ines stands on the opposite side of the bed, her hands folded before her. Within her reach is a white case placed on the edge of the mattress. Medical supplies?

“Miss?” She prompts. Apparently, she needs my permission this time.

I nod, jerking around to lie on my stomach again, facing the foot of the bed.

She moves gently, prodding my back to assess the damage. Only now do I realize that I’m still naked.

“Mr. Domino is away today,” Ines explains while smoothing a cool liquid across my back. When it makes contact with the sorer areas, I flinch, but it’s soothing, killing what little pain remains damn near instantly. Only when she’s covered half of the affected area, do I fully register what she said.

And how she said it, phrased carefully as if inviting me to question.

“Where?” The second I speak, I’m reminded of the collar around my throat—and the chain neatly coiled a few inches from my head. The sight of it sends my heart plummeting, risking the peaceful mind state the drug is trying to set. No high could make this situation tenable.

“He will be gone until the evening,” Ines adds. “Until then, he said that you are allowed to explore from the limits of the house, the terrace gardens, and the courtyard. You are to not go beyond the inner garden or the courtyard. Understood?”

I ignore her direct question the way she did mine. “Where are we? Why am I here?”

“Mr. Domino also requested that you enjoy lunch without him. He will require your presence at dinner. If you need anything, I am to assist you.”

Her words all contain a monotone, practiced quality. I can’t shake the sense that this is a speech she’s rehearsed to death. Or one she’s given many times before.

I twist my back as much as I dare and lift my head to face her. If she notices my staring, she goes out of her way to pretend not to. With careful, clinical precision, she dips what looks like a cotton swab into the mouth of a bottle of clear liquid, then applies that liquid to the remaining marks.

I hiss through my teeth at the sight of them—at least twenty lashes centered along my spine. Despite their angry, red appearance, I can tell that they aren’t as deep as they look—only a few managed to rip through the deepest layers of skin, enough to bleed.

Ines doesn’t bat an eyelash at the sight of them, cleaning each one with the same abject boredom I’d assume she scrubs the floor with.

“Your lunch will be ready in an hour,” she says after swabbing the last open wound. “Until then, I recommend that you enjoy some sun. Though…” Her voice shifts, and something in me perks up to listen. For the first time, she meets my gaze directly, and all I see in her eyes is a desperate warning. “I would suggest you adhere to Mr. Domino’s limits.”

I swallow hard, blinking rapidly. I’ve already experienced the consequences of testing his “limits” once.

“Thank you,” I croak.

Nodding, Ines returns the bottle of liquid to her white case. Then she gathers up the used cotton rounds in a plastic bag. “I will find you when lunch is ready to be served—”

“Wait!” I roll over to face her, scrambling to cover myself with most of the sheet. “Why am I here? What is he going to do with me? Help me…”

“Enjoy your day, Miss,” Ines says, her head bowed respectfully. “I will find you when lunch is ready to be served.”

Dejected, I watch her leave, feeling a sob build in my chest. When the tears fall, I marvel at their searing warmth. This is the most I’ve cried in…

Well, Pavalos aren’t allowed to cry. Not in my father’s presence, at least. We suffer in silence and endure any pain with bright smiles on our faces. It’s how we’ve survived for so long, he used to say. No one could ever tell when we were wounded.

These days, wounds can heal into ugly marks easily lasered away or fixed with a simple surgery. Through it all, you just keep smiling.

“Oh, Mr. Domino requested one last thing.” Ines scuttles back into the room, this time without her case.

I watch her cross over to the floor-length mirror she brushed my hair in front of the other day. She feels along the edge of it, revealing that the entire surface is really a door. It opens inward, into another room that she hurries inside.

Confused, I stand and follow her, limping with every step, though I still don’t feel any real pain.

Perhaps, I’m far too distracted to. The doorway opens into a decent-sized walk-in closet.

And my throat goes dry.

He’s had to have had many, many women here before—all of them the same stature as I am. There are so many dresses. Numerous shoes. The further I tiptoe into the closet, and the more I inspect each garment I pass, the more confused—and terrified—I become.

They’re expensive. I note several distinct seasons from notable designers all within the past four years. Each one is the exact opposite of what my father would allow me to wear. Too edgy. Too dark, with most of the clothing falling into the range of black, cream, and white…

And one lone garment in red.

“He wants you to wear this one,” Ines explains, holding up the delicate silk dress displayed on a golden hanger.

“What if I don’t want to wear it?” I croak. Perhaps as an experiment to see how Ines will react.

All she does is meet my gaze and offer the dress to me. “Mr. Domino insists that you wear this one.”

She must see the defeat in my face, because she finally advances and helps me pull the dress on. Gently, she smooths it over my hips, and I follow her from the closet to stare into the mirror.

It’s objectively beautiful, but wearing it, the scarlet hue feels more like a death sentence. An ominous forewarning of what’s to come. Domino Valenciaga plans on killing me. Perhaps in this very dress.

But intimidation wasn’t his only reason for choosing it.

Ines motions for me to turn, and in the mirror, I glimpse the ensemble’s unique features that make wearing it more prudent than threatening—it’s backless. The material droops dramatically, falling down my hips and following the curve of my ass so that every mark from the whip is on display.

Like he planned each one as he went for the best effect. In his world, victims don’t hide their scars. They wear them like some sick accessory for all to see.

“Lunch will be ready in an hour,” Ines says, heading for the hallway again. “You can go.”

I sense that the words convey permission and a subtle restraint in the same breath. Go, explore to my heart’s content—but never forget that Mr. Domino wishes me to.

I eye the bed again, tempted to crawl beneath the covers and hide. Ignore his wishes and his plans. Let him come whip me.

Fear alone isn’t what finally drives me from the room in the same direction Ines disappeared in. It’s smart to take any opportunity I can to explore and plot an escape. I can’t stay here.

I can’t.

I’ve barely gone five feet from my room, however, before I realize that leaving this place might be easier said than done.

I’m already lost.

This section of the hall is long and winding with a row of windows overlooking the terrace but few doors that lead to spacious rooms and little else. I have to retrace my steps back to the bedroom and then retread the same ground Domino led me through last night to find my way back to that circular room.

So far, I know that one set of arches leads to the terrace. The other, to my room and the bathroom. A third takes me down a wide white hallway bathed in sunlight, and I stumble past the dining room. At the end of the corridor is a set of double doors, but they’re locked. The entrance?

I don’t think so.

I return to the archway and approach the remaining arch I haven’t tested yet. It’s a short entryway leading to a massive, ornately carved set of wooden double doors, curved at the top and nearly as tall as the ceiling. I reach for one of its two golden handles and tug half-heartedly, fully expecting it to be locked.

But it isn’t.

It opens easily, revealing a different exit to the outdoors apart from the terrace. Tanned paved stones form a path around a bubbling fountain and through neatly trimmed hedges and tended beds of orange and red flowers in full bloom. It’s as beautiful as the rest of the estate, but my heart lurches excitedly as I step beyond the house and realize that the path goes on until it abruptly meets a dirt road. A driveway?

My hands shake as I head in that direction on bare feet. There’s no one in sight. No cars. No guards. Could escape truly be so easy?

I’m halfway down the path before Ines’ warning echoes clearly in my mind. The house. The terrace. The courtyard.

My excitement dies, rendering me frozen mid-step, my eyes on that dirt road. This must be the last of those realms he’s restricted me to. In a sense, I think it was his cruelest punishment, more so than the whip. Taunt me with the illusion of freedom and yank it just beyond my reach.

I could always test him, but I’m sure he has a trap ready to be sprung.

The despair that hits me next is so thick, I choke on it. Like always, my first impulse is to give in to fear. Run. Hide. Try to find a drug to dull it and a nice enough outfit to distract from the state of my life. Within Papa’s rules, of course. Always within his rules. But he isn’t here now…

Somehow, it sinks in at this moment that he’s gone. For the first time in my life, Roy Pavalos isn’t breathing down my neck or just a phone call away. He isn’t here to tell me exactly what to do and how to do it. Though I think this would present a challenge, even for him.

Unless he was in on it.

Yes, my smart, calculating father would suspect from the start that his bodyguard was untrustworthy. He would have always been one step ahead, one move away from declaring checkmate. My kidnapping would only be a mere cog in his wheel, a necessary evil to reach his ultimate goal. I don’t think he’d dare to risk my life, though. He needs me too much.

So he’d only put this plan into motion knowing from the outset that Domino would never kill me.

But as I try to cling to this imaginary Papa’s scheming, my mind goes blank whenever I come to a motive. He always had a reason. He always let me in on his plan.

Like with Pia.

She’s a dangerous little bitch, Ada. That girl is not your friend. What else does she have to do to prove that to you? If you love me, and if you love this family, you’ll…

“Lunch is served, Miss.”

I whirl around to find Ines standing framed in the doorway to the house. She doesn’t look alarmed by how close I am to the limits of the property. With a wave of her hand, she beckons me inside.

I choke down any remaining tears and swipe at what little paint my cheeks.

When I finally return to the house, Ines is waiting for me in that circular room.

“You can eat in your bedroom, Miss,” she explains. “Mr. Domino will be home for dinner later this evening. It will be served in the dining room.”

With a respectful nod, she heads for the terrace entrance.

My stomach lurches as I creep toward the bedroom, sniffing the air. My “lunch” has been served on the same white table as dinner, this time with just enough for one. A creamy liquid in a glass bowl looks like some kind of soup, paired with another salad and fresh rolls.

I test a drop of the liquid on the tip of my finger and shiver. For all I know, it could be a purée of something far beyond the consistency of most soup ingredients. Like Mama?

I cringe at the thought and back away so suddenly I nearly trip. Turning on my heel, I re-enter the hall, this time venturing back down the end of the corridor opposite the circular foyer.

I assume it curves around the front of the house. There aren’t as many windows to break up the pristine white walls. What few I pass reveal snippets of plain, manicured fields, the sky, and a sliver of demarcation in the distance where the lush landscape turns tan. Even so, it must sprawl for miles. Plenty of land to hold a woman captive for only God knows how long.

I think the only way I can still stay sane is to cling to the pathetic fantasy I dreamt up earlier. That Papa is alive, using Domino as a pawn, and my capture was all for a reason. Though what?

Focus,he would command were he here. I can picture him, his stern features set in a hard mask of determination, the eyes we share blazing with the full calculating intelligence that saw him rise from a poor boy living in a barrio in Mexico to the dominating force he’s become.

Success isn’t owed to any man,he told me once. It’s bled for. Fought. Won. Those who hesitate wind up at the bottom of the heap. Or worse—they wind up dead.

Always keep your focus, Ada. What we’ve done, we’ve done for the family. For the name Pavalos. Never forget that.

As if I ever could. His sin is poison, haunting me for over a decade, consuming my life so that nothing I did could ever free me from his shadow. I think a smart, battered, traumatized woman like the cliché my therapist assumed I fit would see his death as a godsend. Despite how little I have left to live, at least—for once—I’m freed from Roy Pavalos, whatever that means. A part of me wants to believe that it should mean all of my past trauma is miraculously healed and I can proudly take the reins of my own life for the first time ever.

I’m not so naïve. In my father’s absence, an even worse monster will rise to take his place. Could Domino Valenciaga be that man?

It kills me to admit that he could. To play the dutiful role of a bodyguard for so long… Five years of lying and scheming. In a twisted way, my father would have been proud.

As much as he seems to hate him, Domino must have picked up many tricks from his Don Roy. A preference of décor, at least, was not one of them.

This house is so plain. Most of the rooms I pass in this section are empty or barely furnished. I doubt this is where he lives. Though, I know for a fact that it isn’t. At least not recently.

The Domino I knew dwelled on my father’s estate in a converted guesthouse that faced the tennis courts, a good ten-minute walk from the main house—and if you went at night, you’d need a flashlight to cut through the rose gardens to get there. As I did, far too many times to count.

A sound in between a laugh and a sob rips from my throat as I sway, forced to brace my shoulder against the nearest wall to stay standing. Crippling shame washes over me as I recall every time I snuck out at night to see Domino—never with his knowledge or consent, of course. I’d hide behind one of the massive trees lining that section of the property, and I’d watch him.

For hours, I’d watch him.

He paced at night, usually in the small lawn outside his door in that sliver of time after midnight and before dawn once Papa went to bed. He’d pace and pace, with a cigarette in his mouth, and sometimes he’d pause mid-stride and tilt his head back to look up at the sky. He’d take off the hat, setting it at his feet, and rake his free hand through that thick mane of black hair.

I always found something beautiful in those brief, unguarded moments. A realness so different from the cultured façade of perfection I was used to. Curiosity alone kept driving me back there night after night, no matter the weather. Just to watch him.

Some nights, he’d sit in an old lawn chair Mama had relegated to the guesthouse, along with all of the old furniture she no longer deemed worthy of the mansion. He’d cradle a beer on his lap and stare out into the night with a look of such serious devotion on his face. As though whatever troubled his mind required his full focus and concentration. It worried him.

Back then, I assumed it was a woman. I used to seethe over the image of this fictional creature and what she must look like to entice a man like him. The opposite of me, I was sure. A brunette with dark eyes, quiet beauty, and a business degree, perhaps. Someone with her own life far beyond her father’s empire. A woman I could never be.

Now I know what truly bothered him all those nights. Me—but not in the way I used to crave he would view me. No, he plotted on how to hurt me. How to hurt my father and my family.

Again, the why feels more pressing than ever to discover. What secrets has Domino Valenciaga been hiding all along? It’s funny how, despite all that time I spent watching him, I barely know the first thing about the man.

Apart from my father’s story about being rescued by a man from a barrio, I don’t even know where he came from. He spent most of his time either by my father’s side or in the guesthouse—apart from the few nights he had off when he’d leave the property in a battered blue truck that sputtered so badly I could hear it from my room in the mansion.

Blinking, I refocus on the present and keep moving, inspecting this winding hall with a different focus. He has to sleep somewhere.

Not this room a few paces from where I was standing. Further? I keep going, testing doors as I go. Near the very end of the corridor, I find a room with its door ajar. Cautiously I push it open, peering into what I can clearly recognize as a bedroom. Unlike the one I’ve woken in, this one sports dark wooden floors and an even larger four-poster bed in a matching shade. The sheets are gray, but overall, the layout of the room is the same. A bed. A mirror that I assume leads to another closet.

One step over the threshold, and I know instantly that I’ve found it. The place where Domino sleeps, at least while he’s held me captive. His stench infects the walls, emanating from the bed itself. He slept here, I bet. Perhaps as recently as last night. He came here and climbed onto those sheets, sleeping soundly after brutalizing me.

The thought disgusts me. Though why am I edging forward? My steps are slow and hesitant. With every inch I gain, I lick my lips, tasting the blood still drying there from his blow. The man is a sick monster who claims to have killed my family.

I shouldn’t be so fascinated by the sight of one space I’ve never glimpsed despite all my years of watching him. I’ve never been allowed into the guesthouse after he claimed it. I could only watch from afar, and the one corner of the structure where I suspect he slept always had the blinds drawn closed over the windows. Some nights I managed to see the hint of orange light peeking from beneath the barrier. A handful of times, I even caught his shadow moving. Pausing. Undressing in a blur of motion.

I’ve never glimpsed up close any space wherein he might have let down his guard and ceased being my father’s dutiful bodyguard.

Though, perhaps I’m not being entirely truthful. I did see him drop his guard once before…

The memory is so fleeting on its face—a mere fragment of images and few snippets of dialogue. I’m ashamed to have clung to it so fiercely all along. Reliving it now just sows a wave of more confusion. My past admiration of him seems more like a violation in this context. He went out of his way to gain my trust.

And yet he always hated me, I think. He had to—because I would have willingly given him so much more. It sickens me to admit as much, but it’s the truth. All he had to do was look at me. Ask. Snap his fingers.

I would have been his. Willingly, I would have been his. I wanted him in a way I’ve wanted few men in my life…

No.I wanted him more than anyone. I craved him so badly that I’d lie in my bed at night and imagine him, using my fingers to fill in where imagination alone couldn’t. I could orgasm just thinking of his eyes. His voice. My only saving grace is that I wasn’t enthralled by his looks alone. I had every reason in the world to obsess over Domino Valenciaga—no one could blame me.

Because he saved me once. Thinking back to that moment makes my head throb. I’m remembering it wrong, seeing care and concern in those broad features where none existed. But no…

I remember it clearly, despite how scattered those memories may be. Domino saved my life. He looked at me in a way no one ever had. Not my parents. Not Tristan. Not Pia.

I’d been so drunk, drunker than I’d ever been. Drunk enough to disobey my father and leave the property alone after nightfall.

I only remember walking. For miles and miles, with no real goal in mind. I’d been crying. Crying so hard, my eyes ached and felt swollen; my vision blurred. Eventually, I stumbled across the main road, and I just laid there, right in the middle of the asphalt. It felt so warm, baked by one of the hottest days on record. It was so dark on that stretch of the highway I could barely see my hand in front of my face.

As drunk—and high—as I was, I knew that no one could see me, and I waited. I waited for the pain to stop and the sound of a running engine, and the sight of headlights. When an amber glow finally washed over me, I smiled. Finally. Thank you, God, I whispered to no one.

No longer would I be forced to play pretend. No longer would I have to live as Ada-Maria Lucia Pavalos.

But then I heard a sound I wasn’t expecting.

“Ada-Maria!” His voice bellowed out like thunder, richer than I’d ever heard it. I’d been so high, I assumed it was God, at first, responding to my plea. Then I saw him in human form, kneeling over me, more beautiful than any natural-born man had a right to be. Domino…

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he demanded, wrenching me by my shoulders into a sitting position. He shook me, making my head loll back and forth, all while shouting. “You stupid spoiled little bitch! Have you lost your fucking mind? You trying to kill yourself?”

I think I still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that he found me, assuming he was merely a specter conjured by my addled brain.

“Yes,” I told him. “I want to die. Just let me go.”

I asked him so nicely. As though it was a favor I needed him to do for me.

Then I saw the anger wash over his face. Looking back, I can clearly denote the fractures in his carefully constructed mask. I should have seen the truth then. But in that moment, I remember being startled from my daze as if struck by lightning.

He looked so furious at the thought of me dying. Furious and pained and so damn sexy, I would have done whatever he asked me to. Whatever he wanted.

All he did was drag me from the road and shove me into the back of his truck.

“You stupid little—” He broke off, clearing his throat. “I’m taking you home now, Ms. Ada-Maria,” he added in his usual, cold tone.

I’d been so dazed by the whiplash that it wasn’t until the following night—when my sober brain could piece together how I’d gotten home—that I realized it wasn’t a dream. He saved me.

Then he ignored me the next morning as though nothing happened. He never told Papa either, from what I could garner without asking directly.

I never complained to Papa about the way he spoke to me, either. You spoiled little bitch. I used to replay those words to myself—usually when I had two fingers inside of me and needed one last hit to go over the edge. I’d think of him snarling those hateful words, and I’d orgasm, gasping his name softly enough that no one ever knew.

He treated me a way no one ever had. I’d been stupid enough to think that meant something. That I meant something to someone.

And now I know.

Domino saved my life that night because he had a more gruesome death in mind. Those things he said to me weren’t the impassioned speech of someone afraid for my life. They were the frustrations of my would-be murderer.

And God, I wish he never found me, then. It’s been two years since, and I’ve never gathered up the strength to try again. Maybe I stopped hating myself.

Or perhaps I knew, deep down, that Domino might not be there to stop me the next time.