Stolen Mafia Bride by Mae Doyle
Tess
When I heard Marcelo’s angry voice telling the stranger to go away, I ran to a window and got as close as I dared to look out. There was a slight buzzing around my neck that told me that I was a little too close for comfort, but I still needed to see who it was out there.
Fucking Girl Scouts. Unbelievable.
What if it had been the cops? The thought sits heavy in my stomach, like a rock, as I think about how I should have risked the collar and banged on the windows and cried out for help. I could have climbed into the woman’s gray minivan and asked her to drive me straight to the police. This nightmare could have been all over.
But what did I do? Stand close to the window without touching it like an idiot. I watched as my best chance for getting the fuck out of here drove away with two little girls and a huge carton of cookie boxes in the back seat.
I could have been right there next to the Thin Mints. I could be safe, right now, but instead I froze like an idiot.
Anger washes over me and I scream, reaching up and grabbing my hair so that I can pull on it, hard. It hurts, but I don’t give a shit. I want it to hurt. I want to feel as terrible as I can, as I try to work through what the fuck is wrong with me.
Why didn’t I even try? All this self-talk about stabbing Marcelo when he comes back home and I had a perfect chance of getting the fuck out of here standing right there on the doorstep and I didn’t even yell. I could have called out to them, begged them to go get the cops. No mother with two little girls with her would have been able to leave without wanting to help me.
But I didn’t do it, and I can’t figure out why the hell I stayed silent.
It’s not because I want Marcelo. I mean, yes, on a cellular level, I do. I want his hands on my body, his mouth running hot kisses down my skin. When I think about the way he kissed me, a wave of desire floods through my body.
But that doesn’t mean that I should be willing to give up a chance to get the fuck out of here. What the hell is wrong with me that I was perfectly willing to just stand here and not try to get out? Why the fuck would I choose being in this house over my freedom when I had even the slightest chance of getting out?
“Fucking idiot!” I scream, turning and looking for something to break. My eyes fall on the leather sofa I was curled up on, but I don’t know how the hell I could damage the leather enough to feel better. Instead, my eyes light on a huge sculpture on a pedestal in the corner of the room.
It’s of someone on horseback and looks like it belongs in a museum of ugly art from Texas, so I grab it, turning it over and over in my hands. It’s detailed and fucking heavy, but I don’t want to stand here and admire it. I want to break it.
Turning, I hurl it at the floor. It flies from my hands and hits the floor hard, the head of the horse flying off with a loud and satisfying crack.
Panting, I eye the main body of the sculpture. It felt really fucking good to break it, but it wasn’t enough. I want to do more. I want to destroy everything that Marcelo holds dear so that he can feel just how angry I am with him for taking me. More than that, I want to hurt him. I want him to come home and be horrified at what he sees.
He has to know that what he’s doing to me is fucked up. I’m sure that there are going to be repercussions that I won’t like, but I’m going to teach him that you can’t just fuck with people like this. I’m almost afraid to consider what he’s going to do when he gets home, but right now I don’t care.
I just want to burn it all down.
If I thought that I could find a match and burn this place down to the ground, I’d do it right now. I honestly don’t care if it means that I’d die in it, I just want him to suffer in the same way that he’s making me suffer.
Grabbing the sculpture, I heave it again, throwing it farther across the room. It slams into the wall over the sofa, leaving a dent, then lands on the spot where I’d been sitting a few minutes before. The horse’s neck, all sharp and jagged, lodges into the leather and tears a hole in it.
Good.
Glee fills me. Marcelo probably chose everything for his house carefully, thinking that he could keep it looking perfect all the time. What he didn’t realize is that I see inside of him. I know the rot eating him from the inside out and I’m going to make his house as ugly as he is.
I yank the huge paintings down from the walls, tossing them onto the floor. My heart hurts to ruin such amazing art, but I push that thought from my mind and stomp on the canvasses, letting my foot tear through the cloth.
It feels really fucking good to let out some of the anger that I’m feeling. What I really want to do, though, is find something that he truly loves, something close to him. I want to find his office or his bedroom and ruin everything in there even though he made it clear that I wasn’t going to be able to do that.
I hate him.
“I hate you!” Screaming, I hold my fists tight at my side and turn in a circle. I don’t think that he can see or hear me, but then I realize that he probably has cameras everywhere in the house. How the hell else could he have known about the people on his front porch?
He’s probably watching me right now.
The thought sends a sudden chill dancing along my arms and I break out in goosebumps. Even though I know that I should be afraid of him seeing me and wanting to hurt me, I can’t stop.
“I hate you, Marcelo!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “I fucking hate you!” I’m shouting so loud that I’m getting a headache. I can feel a pounding in my temples that tells me that I’m going to have to stop and rest in a while to keep from the pain knocking me on my ass, but I don’t care.
“Fucking asshole!” Running across the room, I grab some of the books on the bookshelf and throw them to the ground, stomping on them as soon as they land by my feet. I want to destroy everything that this man holds dear. I want to ruin his life the way that he ruined mine.
