Sold by Clarissa Wild

Harper

One. Two. Three.

I count the seconds out loud, but they don’t calm the storm raging inside my mind.

What Marcello did was unforgivable.

Unconscionable.

And so incredibly fucking hot I’m beginning to question my own sanity.

I can’t stand myself for ever thinking that, let alone admitting I liked what he did.

That every strike he gave my ass felt like pure pleasure even though I knew in my mind it wasn’t right.

Why did I beg?

Why did I want him to fuck me?

My body responded to his demanding touch, to his abrasiveness and sheer domination as if it had always yearned for it. As though we were always meant to end up twisted together.

And it makes me want to scream.

I slam my fist into the mirror, which shatters into pieces. A tiny shard makes its way into my fist. A trail of blood slides down my arm as I pull the piece out and stare at it. Would Marcello get mad if he knew I destroyed a piece of his furniture? Would he even care? Does anything I do even matter, or is it all a sick game to him?

I can’t stop staring at the little piece of glass resembling the same destruction taking place inside my heart right now. And it confuses the fuck out of me.

Marcello has made his point.

I am his pet, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants with me.

And that thought makes me clench the shard so hard my own hand begins to bleed. The pain doesn’t faze me. Because what hurts more is that I actually let him fuck me … and I liked it. I wanted it more than anything.

And I hate him for making me want him even more.

Thinking about it still makes my pussy throb with need, and I struggle to keep the wetness at bay. He fucked me like I was a whore. As if I meant nothing to him. And I fucking let him.

I let him come inside me like a willing victim. And he even made me come.

Why the hell do I keep doing this?

Why didn’t I try to fight him off or kill him?

I should, just for trying to fuck with me, both literally and figuratively.

Maybe I’ll use this piece of glass and stab him when he least expects it.

Back when we were having dinner together a few days ago, I thought about stabbing him with a knife. I’ve fucking dreamed about it every night since.

But a part of me also wonders … what if? If I do it, I won’t ever find out more about him. I won’t ever know the truth of his involvement in my parents' murder. Because the moment I kill him, I’ll probably die just the same. Marcello’s men wouldn’t blink twice to have me killed. Mario might spare my life, but Claudio is loyal to Marcello. He wouldn’t rest until I was dead, and it would be a painful death too.

So maybe killing Marcello isn’t the smart thing to do. That’s why I faltered in the gym and at dinner. My brain knew it was a bad choice.

My heart did, too.

A droplet of blood falls onto the floor, and I stare at it for a second, only to realize my shorts are still down. I swiftly pull them up and tear the shard from my hand, then wipe away the bloodstain with my foot before marching out the door.

I won’t let this fuckery get to my head. No fucking way. I told myself if I was going to be forced to stay here, I’d at least try to get to the bottom of my investigation, and I intend to stick to my word.

When Marcello decided he wasn’t going to get close to me for two days, I took the time to scour the library, but there was nothing to be found, no information regarding anything that sounded important to my parents or their death. The only clue I have was in that drawer in Mario’s room, and I haven’t been back there since the first day when he gave me that tea.

Maybe I can convince him to give me some more of that tea.

But first, a shower.

I head up to the one room I now consider mine. Even though this fucking house will never be my home, at least this room belongs to me in every essence of the word. Like a cage for a lioness, who can only stare at her own reflection with disbelief. I want to claw my own eyes out. I’m so ashamed and revolted at my own desire for this man.

Fuck him and fuck my own body’s betrayal.

I tear the clothes off my body and hop under the shower, washing myself thoroughly to remove the smell of sweat and sex. Even though I can’t wash the memory of my own wantonness away, at least I can make sure no one else catches the scent.

When I’m done, I dry off and quickly put on some fresh clothes, leaving the room again so I can talk to Mario.

With a courageous smirk on my face, I head for his office and knock on the door.

“Yes?”

“It’s Harper. Can I come in?” I ask, keeping my tone friendly.

It’s quiet for a few seconds. Then the door opens a tiny bit. “What is it?” Mario’s voice and the look in his eyes are suspicious. Like he doesn’t trust me. Did I give myself away by pretending to be nice? Or did he finally realize I had been snooping last time?

“I, uh … was wondering if you had more of that tea,” I lie, clearing my throat. “I don’t feel so good right now, and I could really use a pick-me-up.”

He swallows, then looks me up and down as if he’s about to say no, so I place my hand on the door. “Please.”

I don’t like to beg, but if I must, I will.

His eyes follow my hand and find the bloodstained wound. His brows rise. “Oh, you’re wounded.” Suddenly, the door opens, and he steps toward me, only to grab my arm and pull me inside. “Come. I’ll fix you up.”

I never expected a self-inflicted injury caused by my rage to be the magic trick. But I’ll happily take it.

I close the door behind me. There’s a peculiar smell in the air, and smoke lingers in the room. In the corner, a small incense stick sits in a tiny pot.

“It helps with the pain,” Mario explains when he sees me looking. He grabs my hand and inspects the wound. “Doesn’t look too deep. I don’t think it’ll need stitches.” He gazes up at me. “But I’ll need to bandage it.”

I nod, and he lets go of my hand and shuffles off to the kitchen to take a box filled with supplies out of his cupboard. He puts it down on the table and takes out some alcohol, cotton swabs, bandages, and tape. “Sit, sit,” he says, pointing at the chair.

I do as he says, and he dabs the cotton swabs in the alcohol bottle before swiping it over my skin, which stings like hell. Then he unwraps the bandage and starts folding it around my hand. “Nasty gash you have,” he says. “Did you cut yourself?”

I swallow. I almost want to tell him the truth—about everything. He must know how much I despise Marcello for putting me in this position and forcing me to become his. Maybe he’d even take my side, or at least understand where I’m coming from.

But it would be a mistake to confide in him. There’s more to Mario than meets the eye. And I can’t be certain he won’t go running right to Marcello if I let anything slip about my plans or my true intentions while I’m locked in this fucked-up mansion.

So I lie. “I accidentally hit a mirror when I was working out.”

He pauses and then smiles. “Well, I guess we’ll have to change up the placement of the racks then.”

Good. He believes my lie. Just like Mom always said. If you want people to believe your white lie, tell mostly the truth, then tweak only tiny details, and that’s the part where they know I was angry and did it on purpose. Because I don’t want to show any kind of weakness to these people. Even if it is meek old Mario. He knows how bad Marcello is, and it doesn’t even faze him, which means he’s just as bad. He’s just pretending not to be to fool me into thinking I’m safe.

But I will never, ever be safe around these men.

These mobsters will do anything they can to get what they want.

But am I really what Marcello wants? Or am I merely a toy to play with? A girl to ruin? Another one on his hit list?

And why do I even care?

I shrug off my emotions as Mario finishes wrapping my wound. “Done.” He puts tape on top to seal it in place. “Leave this on for a couple of days. Your hand should be good as new.”

“Thanks,” I say, and I take my hand off the table.

“So, did you need anything else?” he asks, and when I bite my lip, he suddenly has an epiphany. “Oh, yes! Tea.” He chuckles as he gets up from his seat. “I completely forgot.”

He heads to the kitchen counter again and puts on the water, along with two mugs which he places on the table. “I’ll have one too then.”

I smile at him. “You’re very kind,” I say, and I pause. “Unlike Marcello.”

Mario’s lips part, but it takes him a while to reply. “Marcello can be kind. When he needs to be.” He sighs. “He doesn’t mean to be cruel. It’s just … that it’s required of him. A man in his position has no choice but to assert authority.”

“Because choosing not to would lead to resistance,” I add.

“Right,” he says.

“But is he ever so cruel to you?” I ask, gazing up at him.

He looks puzzled and unsure of how to answer.

“Marcello does what he needs to do to get his point across,” Mario says, clearing his throat.

“So he treats you the same way he treats me?” I raise my brow. “Why do I find that hard to believe?” I mutter under my breath.

The water stops boiling, and Mario turns around to pour it into the cups, making the tea in silence as though he doesn’t know what to do. His hands rest on the counter even though the tea he made is already done. Still, he won’t budge.

“Marcello wasn’t always this way. A long time ago, he was kind. Gentle. A true giant among men.” He sighs out loud as he places the cups of tea on the table. “But life can be so cruel it turns good men mad.”

Marcello? Good? Kind?

I can’t imagine a man like him ever being that way. If it is true, then something horrible must’ve happened. And if Mario can tell me what it is, maybe I can use it to my advantage.

Is that evil? Yeah, maybe. But so is keeping me locked up here.

“What happened to Marcello? If I may ask,” I pry, leaning toward Mario as he sits down to drink his tea.

He pauses right before he takes a sip. “I … I’m not allowed to disclose.”

I pout. “If I know, I may be able to understand Marcello a little better. Doesn’t he need some kindness in his life?”

Mario’s face scrunches up, and I can almost see the gears grinding in his head.

Then he shakes his head and closes his eyes. “No, no, absolutely not. I’m sorry. As much as I would like to tell you more about him, he wouldn’t take kindly to it.”

“So he forbids you from doing and saying what you want, is that it?” I ask.

Mario jolts up from his chair with agitation in his movements.

“That’s not it. I—”

“You care for him, but he doesn’t care about you,” I interject, trying to put pressure on him. “Why do you protect him?”

“You don’t know him like I do. He’s—”

“You love him, but he won’t even let you get close anymore,” I say. I don’t know if it’s true, but it’s the only way I can get underneath his skin.

His eyes trail off as he struggles to stay put.

“I … I …” he mutters. “I need to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.”

Of course, he flees. I wonder if this is how Mario has always been, or if it’s because there’s finally someone to put the coals under his feet. Someone to make him remember all the bottled-up emotions that he keeps at bay.

Because there’s much more to these two than meets the eye, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it.

Mario hurries into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him, locking it. Tea is steaming in front of me, but I ignore it and immediately get up to search his office again. If he’s not going to answer me, I can at least use the situation as an opportunity to find that folder again.

I rummage through his drawers again. None of them are locked, which is a surprise. Not even the one that contained the documents that pertain to my parents. But when I open it up, my eyes widen in shock.

They’re not here. The entire drawer is empty.