Bend Me, Daddy

After a moment, he released me, and I fell to the floor. He stepped over me like I was nothing but a piece of trash. "Do what you need to do to get her in line," he told his men. "But she is not to be raped and she is not to leave this room. She might still be worth something."

Scrambling up from the floor, I shoved my hair from my face and stared at them with a defiant expression.

The guard to my right smiled as he cracked the knuckles of his right hand, and my heart stuttered in my chest.

"SERAFINA!"

I jumped, hot tea sloshing over the cup I held and burning my fingers. Quickly, I set it down on the table before I dropped it and angered him more. "Did you hear me?" "Yes," I told him.

"I can't hear you."

I lifted my chin. My father sat across from me in the kitchen, a cloth napkin tucked into the front of his shirt and a knife and fork in his hands, paused over the steak he'd been cutting as he'd casually told me that he'd found me a husband. My hands began to shake and I tucked them under my legs, the rough material of the jeans I wore scraping painfully against the new burns. "Yes," I told him, louder this time. "I heard you."

His dark eyes studied my face, searching for any hint of rebellion. But that had been beaten out of me days ago. I was still sporting the bruises. And today was the first day I'd been allowed to leave my room. "Aren't you happy? Now you can finally start your life. Have a family."

I didn't ask who the lucky guy was. I was afraid to know.

"He's even overlooking the fact that you're a whore. Isn't that good of him?" He smiled at me, as if he hadn't just called his only daughter a derogatory word, and shoved a large piece of steak into his mouth, chewing loudly before he swallowed and slurped his wine. "Maybe you'll even make me a nonno. It would be nice to have some little faces running around."

My stomach lurched at the thought of giving him more children to torture. My children.

He waved his knife in the air. "You'll need to do something with that hair. I can have a stylist come to the house."

"I like my hair," I told him. And then I froze, half expecting that knife to come flying at my face. The protest had just come out before I thought about what I was saying.

But to my surprise, he only shrugged. "Keep it then. Let your new husband deal with you. I'm tired of fighting."

The air left my lungs in a rush and spots danced in front of my eyes. I

gripped my chair tight, willing myself not to fall out of it. I hadn't eaten much in the last few days. My stomach tied itself in knots every time my mind replayed Enzo walking away from me. The last thing he'd said constantly ringing in my ears. "I will not be forced into marrying your daughter. Go ahead and take her if you think you can get anything for her."

And then, he'd walked away. As though my lack of innocence disgusted him, when he was the one who'd stolen it.

"How much are you getting?" I asked.

My father shook his head, his eyes on his dinner. "That's not your business, Fina."

I almost laughed, but I caught myself just in time.

"Aren't you going to ask me about your fiancé'?"

No. I was too afraid.

But my father kept talking, as if I wasn't sitting here with this look of terror on my face.

"You know Luigi Morelli?"

My blood cooled as the name registered, gradually turning to ice.

"He's the boss down in Austin. I'm sure you've heard of him."

Yes. I knew who he was very well.

"I thought since you liked it there so much that you would like to go back. Make a real home there with your new husband."

My hand shook as I picked up my tea. "In other words, you want me to spy for you."

He looked up from his dinner, an expression of denial on his face. "No, of course not! I would never ask you to betray your new husband. Why would you say such a thing?"

It would've almost been convincing if it wasn't for the calculated look in his eyes.

When I didn't respond, he shrugged. "But perhaps if you happened to innocently overhear any useful information, you might casually mention it when you speak to me."

Except there was only one flaw in his plan. Once I was out of here, I planned to never speak to him again.

I may be beaten, but I was not broken.

"You will be married on Christmas Eve," my father droned on. "I chose that date because I know how much you love Christmas." He set down his knife and fork. "What do you say to me, Fina?" I set my cup down carefully, and tried to speak past the lump in my throat. "Thank you."

Satisfied, my father went back to his meal. I stared down into my tea, my mind blank and my body numb. Later, when I was alone in my room, I would cry. But not now. Not in front of him. Never in front of him.