Ruth has a past, like all children who grow up in the mafia.
Perhaps this is what makes them so similar; the neglect, the abuse, it's what intertwines their souls. It's the reason Angelo is drawn to Ruth. You could even say it's the reason he's obse...
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Also, this is what I picture Angelo's office to look like, but with a fireplace with chairs and a couch in front of it in the second room. ^^^
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I wake up to a loud bang and I'm transported out of my peaceful sleep. Light shines in through the glass windows, showing the beach. It must be around noon. My eyes adjust to the morning light, as I try to remember how I got here.
My hands roam the bed, but it's cold and empty, a feeling of eerie soaks into my body, because I suddenly remember the contents of yesterday.
I grab my head, rubbing calming circles into the surface, hoping to numb my growing headache; the effects of the many shots I ingested last night. Unfortunately though, I remember everything that happened.
Maybe if Angelo had never forced me to go to that party, I would be dead right now, just like Maria.
That serpent mark over my bed, felt like a message, more than a tag. I'm definitely being paranoid, but Maria wasn't killed in my bedroom; she was killed somewhere else in the house and dragged there. If that isn't a message, then I don't know what is. I'm sick just thinking about it. Maria was killed because of me; because I wasn't there and she was easy prey. Why would they even want me in the first place?
They couldn't be stupid enough to believe Angelo cared for me enough to use me as leverage.
They couldn't be smart enough to get around top notch security, and also be dumb enough to think a man who has known me for less than two weeks thinks any value of me. So what do they really want from me?
My temporary moment of weakness last night has me scowling, because only a masochist would so easily let themselves be so vulnerable with their captor. How could I believe--even for a second--that the man who scorched my hand, the man who forced marriage onto me, the man whose hands have wrapped around my throat in anger, could ever be trustworthy. I was so unbelievably terrified of this man one second and so easily comforted by him the next. I can't fathom why. Maybe it was vicinity, or maybe I'm going insane, or maybe I should never drink that much alcohol again. I'd go with the latter.
