Vincent

Campari

I blinked, catching myself before I fell to the ground.

I had half the mind to barge back in there and hit him until I felt satisfied. How dare he lay his hands on me? The audacity!

I brushed my hands over my body, acting like I was smoothing down my clothes to make me feel like I had my life together.

I was leaving!

As quietly as I could, I went back to the way that guy took me. I walked down this flight of stairs, back to the wide living room with the paintings. A door was right there.

Pft. Don't mind if I fucking do.

Without any regard, I walked over to it. Before I could palace my hand on the knob, someone spoke.

"I wouldn't do that, il Tesoro," I looked behind me.

It was the man who took me to see that fucker.

"I don't have to listen to you," I rolled my eyes, pulling on the handle.

The door led to this dim-lit room with black sofas and liquor cabinets. That wasn't what made me yelp and slam the door shut.

It was the image of two women on their knees and another straddling this man's face.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God.

Oh. My. God.

"I tried to tell you, il Tesoro," the man frowned, sipping from his glass. "Come sit," he patted the stool that was at the island of the open kitchen that panned right into the living room.

I was still very shaken from what my eyes just witnessed. Have I watched porn before? Yes, I was a seventeen-year-old girl that could never speak to a man because of my protective father and brother. Have I ever seen the real thing? Hell no.

I made shaky steps into the kitchen, sitting down on the stool.

"You're seventeen?" he asked.

I nodded.

"Then," he grabbed the bottle of alcohol, pushing over the glass he was drinking from and filling it up, "that means you can drink."

I looked between him and the glass.

"Go ahead, il Tesoro," he nodded, "maybe we can have a conversation. Ask some questions," he mused.

Wait, wait, wait.

The don didn't tell me. Would this guy? Was it some rule that I couldn't know? If so, why would this man tell me?

When he noticed the confusion on my face, he spoke.

"No, it's not drugged, I was just drinking from it," he chuckled, "it's Campari."

I cautiously raised it to my lips, taking a small sip as I have never had a drink by that name. The bitter taste attacked my taste buds and I cringed, setting it down.

He laughed at my reaction. I frowned.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Luca," he answered. "So, tell me, Alexis, why are you here?"

I blinked.

He was there on the plane. He saw my tantrum or panic and rage.

How the hell would I know?

"Because my dad said," I carefully worded but the confusion was clear.

If there was one thing you learned in the mob was who you trust. How you speak. Where you speak. The second someone mistakes your words, you get a target placed on your forehead.