Dark Redeemer by Raven Scott
3
Massimo
Istare out the backseat window while Luciano drives us along the main road that circles the entire island. The foliage lining the route is sparse here, so I often spot the villas beyond. Sometimes the estates are fenced in by hedges of prickly pairs. As for the crops themselves, I see vineyards, olives, almonds, and fruit trees. But of course what I’m seeing barely registers. My thoughts are elsewhere.
I turn my gaze on our captive, her pretty face sealed away by the black bag over her head. She leans to one side, resting her head against the windowsill so that the rest of her body is hidden behind the door frame. That’s good, because to any outside observers, she’ll look like a sack of potatoes.
I shouldn’t have called her miatesoro, but the words seemed to have calmed her at least. Luciano had glanced in the rearview mirror when I said that, and I saw the confusion in his eyes. When we’re alone, I’ll clarify what I meant… she’s my “treasure” because she represents the ransom we’ll get for her, nothing more. She’s my revenge against her father. I told her everything was going to be okay, but nothing will be okay for her, not where we’re headed. Not until we get the cold hard cash for her in trade.
Her father’s men tried to kill me by dumping me in the ocean. I once thought I’d come back for Angela and steal her away from that bastard, killing him too while I was at it, but as the years passed, any feelings I had for her were replaced solely by vengeance. I’ve been with too many other women to care about some random girl I once had a crush on. Now, I only want to hurt the Amatos, and extort as much money as I can from them in the process.
I think about the undeniable attraction I felt when I held her in my arms in the cold sea. As soon as I remember the warm touch of her body against my own, my pants become uncomfortably tight. I shake my head, forcing the memory away. What I felt was mere lust—if she had been any other woman, the result would have been the same. A part of my mind objects, reminding me how cold and uncomfortable the water was, and how I was forced to swim at the same time. The situation was as far from arousing as one could possibly get, and still I was turned on. Maybe it was her struggles that did it. Yes, that’s probably what happened. Her fight aroused me.
I do plan to have my way with her at some point, of course, but it has to be of her own free will. I want her to come to me. I’ve never forced myself on a woman. I’ve never had to. Shit, women throw themselves at my feet, begging me to fuck them. And Angela will beg me to do the same, I swear she will, even though she never sees my face.
I’m starting to get hot. Luciano has the heat blasting at full from the vents to help dry off myself and our captive. That, combined with the already balmy fall day, is starting to really increase the Fiat’s internal temperature. But I decide not to tell him to shut it off. Angela needs the heat more than I do in that thin blouse she’s wearing.
Luciano and I have removed our balaclavas for the drive, since we don’t really want to be spotted wearing them while on the road. We keep them close at hand, though, ready to don again should our captive try anything. So far, she’s been as docile as a vole.
Luciano turns off the main road, and we head toward one of the vineyards I own with my brothers. I gaze upon the rows upon rows of neatly spaced grapevines, and the plump purple grapes hanging from their branches. They say money doesn’t grow on trees, but they’re wrong.
Wine is a great crop for laundering money. Because its price is never the same between batches, over- or under-invoicing can easily be explained away to the Italian Revenue Agency. What we do is sell the raw unprocessed wine to mirror vineyards we own in Switzerland, using false invoicing to misrepresent the price, quantity and quality of the goods. This allows us to launder the proceeds of our other illicit businesses to Switzerland, proceeds that we then deposit into our ever growing Swiss Bank Accounts.
By setting up Italian corporations owned by shell companies in tax havens, it’s virtually impossible to track down the true owners of these vineyards. We can trade money back and forth to ourselves all day and no one is the wiser. It’s pretty hilarious how easy it is.
If it had been harvest season, the aisles between the grapevines would have been full of migrant pickers. We never use mechanical harvesters, because you can’t trust the machines to properly handle the grapes. While the main intent of the vineyards is to launder money, we pride ourselves on the quality of the little wine we do produce, and bruised grapes won’t cut it.
Our land backs onto the ocean. We have our own private sandy beach, though it’s screened from here by the grapevines. The second floor of the chateau provides the best views.
We reach the aforementioned chateau. Its sprawling walls are painted white, and red terracotta tiles seal the roof. Four other outbuildings include the caretaker's apartment, the guest house, an apartment for temporary workers, and a winery for onsite grape processing. We never use the latter, at least in our Italian vineyards. We’ve converted some of them to stables, and others to shooting ranges. This particular one remains a winery, though it’s abandoned.
I see a curtain flick open in the caretaker’s apartment and a small mustached man in a denim work shirt and suspender pants peeks out. He quickly ducks from view when he recognizes the car. We’ve instructed him to restrict his activities to his apartment for the next week.
Luciano parks and we don our balaclavas once more. Angela still hasn’t stirred beside me.
I get out and open her door, then gently haul her outside and to her feet. She’s mostly dried off by now, though her clothes are still slightly moist. She’s no longer shivering, at least.
“I smell the ocean,” she remarks softly.
I say nothing, though I can’t help but admire her sense of smell, as I don’t notice anything. Maybe that’s because the balaclava hugs my face tighter than the bag over her head…
I gently wrap my hand around her wrist and lead her toward the chateau. I’m wearing gloves, so I don’t contact her bare skin. Probably a good thing, considering what happened earlier when I touched her.
The thing about gloves is they don’t give me as good a grip as I’d like, so when she suddenly jerks her arm away, she slips right from my grasp.
Fuck. Should have squeezed her wrist tighter.
I don’t know why I insist on trying not to hurt her.
She runs from me and raises her bound hands to rip the bag from her head. She glances over her shoulder toward me and Luciano, then takes off in the direction of the sea.
Neither Luciano nor myself make a move to pursue.
Luciano glances at me questioningly. “I’ll get some steaks?”
I nod, and then go to the expansive kennel next to the chateau’s entrance where two big mastiffs roam to and fro behind the chain-link enclosure. The dogs bark and wag their tails in greeting, recognizing my scent even though my face is masked. I pet them, but I can tell they’re hungry.
Luciano returns a moment later from the chateau, where he retrieved two fresh steaks from the fridge. I remove the butcher paper and open up the feed panel to toss the raw meat inside. Lupo and Luna tear into the steaks. They literally goggle up the food, and when they’re done, I open the main door. The dogs race out and start leaping up on me happily, thinking it’s time to play.
I dash from them, around to the far side of the chateau, where a trail leads to the ocean. Between the shrubs I can see Angela racing frantically along the beach, heading toward the neighboring property—which we also own. Her long hair streams behind her in the ocean breeze, like a mare’s tail as it gallops hard into the wind.
I kneel next to Lupo and Luna, then point at Angela.
“Prendila!” I command. Fetch.
Both dogs take off at a run. They race down the trail and dart across the sand, barking wildly.
Angela looks over her shoulder and screams when they jump on her. She falls to the sand and the dogs pin her. I know they won’t hurt her, not on a full stomach. As far as they’re concerned, they’re just playing.
I reach her, and the dogs turn their attention from Angela to me. I whistle, and they come to me. I watch Angela crawl to her feet. She keeps a wary eye on Lupo and Luna.
“Are you ready to do as I ask?” I say, forcing my voice down an octave. “Or should I tell the dogs to play with you more roughly?” I add the lie: “They haven’t eaten…”
Her gaze switches from the dogs to me, and her eyes glint with rage. Good, let her be angry.
“There’s no escape,” I continue. “We own the neighboring villas. You can’t go anywhere.”
She furiously wipes the sand off her designer jeans and says: “Fine! Let’s go.”
The dogs pause when they hear the anger in her voice, and their ears shoot straight back. But then I pet them again and Lupo and Luna are frolicking happily around me once more. They continue to do so as I grab Angela’s bound wrists by the cable tie and lead her back across the beach toward the chateau.
“For dogs that haven’t eaten, they sure seem pretty happy,” Angela mutters.
I intend to ignore the comment, but can’t help glancing at her and retorting: “That’s because they think you’re dinner.”
The words have the desired effect and she stiffens. Something else stiffens between my legs. Odd, that having such power over her should turn me on so. I suppose it doesn’t help that she no longer has the bag over her head, and her ravishing looks are on full display. She’s almost exactly like I remember her. Except more beautiful, if I’m honest with myself. Her body is much more developed, and most of the baby fat has melted away from her face.
Her dark-brown hair tumbles down to her shoulders in waves, reaching all the way to the small of her back. The ocean breeze flicks the locks to and fro like a pennant. Big green eyes sit below brows so animated they make it impossible for her to hide her emotions. I’ve watched those eyebrows of hers leap when she’s surprised, and cinch together when she’s scared. Her eyes themselves are incapable of concealing emotion, glinting between fear and hatred when she looks at me, and filling with longing when she casts her gaze out to the sea.
Below the eyes, a perfect nose perches atop luscious, soft lips. They tremble ever so slightly beneath my gaze. Her smooth, tanned skin glows beneath the sun, almost hiding the freckles that daub her cheeks and nose.
Still, while beautiful, she seems just as fragile as eight years ago. I know she’s not a porcelain doll, considering I’m dragging her by the wrists, but still, the impression is there. Maybe it’s because of how skinny she is. I could easily wrap my hands around her small wrists, maybe even her biceps. Her collarbones poke up so prominently, she could hold coin rolls in them. And her thighs are so thin they never touch above the knees. It’s a little disturbing to be honest, and I make a mental note to feed her better than her father.
Then again, what do I care if she eats well or not? I remind myself that she’s simply an instrument of revenge. A tool that will greatly enrich myself and my brothers. She’ll be my toy while she’s here, and when she’s gone I’ll find others.
I look away from her, returning my attention to the beach ahead, and direct her onto the path leading to the chateau. I ignore the dogs that continue to prance around us.
When I reach the main entrance, Luciano takes charge of Lupo and Luna and leads them to the kennel. Meanwhile I bring Angela inside.
I lead her through the main hallway, which is lined to the brim with expensive works of art. I glance at her, but she doesn’t seem impressed. Not that I expected her to be. Her own house has similar works, if memory serves.
Art is simply another means of money laundering: we buy pieces of considerable worth then auction them off again to ourselves via proxy buyers months or years later. We have accomplices who bid up the works to the desired prices, and viola, after the purchases our money is now clean. We’ve expanded into crypto art in recent years, where the concept is similar—but that’s Luciano’s domain.
Yes, like Angela, these beautiful works on the wall are not meant to be loved or admired, and serve only to enrich us.
I lead her upstairs to her room and toss her onto the bed. I produce a knife and she flinches away from me. I glare at her, and she only cowers beneath my gaze all the more.
She’s so fucking weak. I don’t know what I ever saw in her.
I bring the knife forward and then she suddenly bats her hands at me, catching me off guard. She hits my arms, steering the knife to the side.
Furious, I step back and stare at her with my most shriveling gaze. She whimpers. She doesn’t understand, I’m not angry at her, but myself—for underestimating her.
I lean forward and quickly grab her by the arm before she can slip away or swat me again. I slit the cable tie with my blade, freeing her wrists in one smooth motion. Then I step back.
She tentatively flexes her arms, seeming surprised that I freed her. She rubs her wrists where the tie has carved deep indentations into her skin.
All I can do is stare at her as she lies there before me. I like that she fought back. She’s not so weak as I thought. And as I run my gaze from head to toe and back again, up and down that perfectly shaped body, all I can think about is how much I want to fuck her. I don’t like it. She’s my ticket to revenge. When I do finally fuck her, I intend to feel nothing, just like with all the other girls I’ve had since her. Just another part of my revenge.
Even so, as I stare at her pink, innocent lips, I can’t help but wonder if her pussy is the same color, and just as innocent. Yes, I can already tell she’s a virgin. She hasn’t slept with a man since we last met. Hell, she probably hasn’t even kissed anyone else.
“Are you going to kill me?” she asks. “After you receive the ransom?”
“Only your father,” I tell her.
Her face grows very pale.
“And maybe your brothers and sister,” I add. “We’ll see.”
She’s trembling again, and I think she’s going to cry.
As usual, seeing this weakness in her angers me, and I can’t help the fury building inside. I try to put myself in her place. If I were a young woman, kidnapped, I’d be feeling the same way. Still, it disgusts me.
But then she surprises me by straightening her back and saying: “I won’t let you. I’ll find a way to stop you. I’m going to escape.”
“Yeah, about that,” I tell her. “If you want your brothers and sisters to live, you’re going to do exactly as I say. That means you don’t even try to escape. Because every time I have to sic the dogs on you, that’s one more family member you’re going to lose.”
“You’re a sick man,” she says.
“Maybe,” I tell her. “But no sicker than your father.”
She stares at me. “My father is a good man.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “Oh really? You can’t tell me you’ve been living in the dark all these years? Not with all those guards you have. You’ve realized by now he’s a mafia don at least, haven’t you?”
She shifts uncomfortably. “Well, yes. But he’s still a good man.”
“The terms mafia don and good man are mutually exclusive,” I tell her coldly. “Just as I’ll never be a good man.”
I turn to go. My stomach growls, and I consider that she might be hungry herself, so before I leave I look over my shoulder and tell her: “Someone will bring you food.”
“I’m not hungry,” she says.
“You will eat,” I insist. “Remember, you’re to do as I say.”
She doesn’t answer, biting her lower lip petulantly. The sight is oddly arousing.
“There are clothes in the wardrobe,” I tell her quickly, wanting to leave before I do something I might regret. “Feel free to change at your leisure.”
Her clothes have pretty much dried by now, like my own, so there isn’t really a pressing reason for her to change at the moment.
When she doesn’t answer, I just stare at her, unable to draw my eyes away from that lovely face. I wonder if she tastes the same as that night, so long ago…
“Is there anything else?” she asks sourly.
“Yeah, don’t fucking take that tone with me, not if you know what’s good for you,” I growl.
She starts, eyes widening like a deer in the headlights.
I leave, locking the door behind me. Heading toward my room, I peel off the long-sleeved black henley I’d layered above the T-shirt I wore at the racetrack. The henley grabs the hem of the balaclava and lifts it half off too, so I pull the mask away completely and run a hand through my hair. It feels good to get out of the scratchy, suffocating fabric.
I think about what happened in the room. Once again, I wasn’t actually angry with her, but rather my reaction to her. I don’t know why I find it so arousing when she stands up to me.
Maybe it’s because nobody ever does. Not anymore.
Whatever the case, I remind myself of the purpose she serves.
Keep your eye on the prize.
Vengeance is so close now, I can almost taste it.
Just a few more days.