Chapter 19: Mr and Misses Russo
A week-an eternity since Vincent last came to visit me in the depths of his beautiful prison. Each passing day weighed heavier, adding layers to the suffocating blanket of fear. The hollowness threatened to consume me, leaving my spirit as cold as the basement floor which had become my unwelcome bed.
The telltale click of the lock jerks me away from my morbid reverie. Light spills in from the open door, and he steps in-the lord of my nightmares-cloaked in a tailored suit that screams both elegance and danger. I glimpse his piercing eyes surveying me in the dimness, and my heart hitches in my throat.
"Buonasera, mia bellissima Samantha," Vincent croons, his voice a hypnotic caress, promising false safety.
I want to recoil, to scream, to muster every ounce of defiance I have against him... but I can't. Instead, my survival instincts betray me, seeking warmth in the coldest of places. Quivering, I extend my arms out to him, hating and craving his comfort all at once.
A devilish smile tugs at the corners of his mouth as he strides towards me. The chill of the basement is banished by his overwhelming presence. Lifting me from the ground with ease, he presses his lips against my damp cheeks, kissing away the tears that have become my silent companions.
"Hush now, we can't keep Mother and Father waiting," he murmurs, almost tenderly.
Like a living doll, my silence persists, part from fear that's become a gag, part from knowing words are pointless currency in this dark economy. His satisfied hum vibrates against me as we ascend the staircase, escaping the shadowy abyss for a facade of normalcy.
The dining room-Ornate. Grand. Suffocating. The graying figures that must be Vincent's parents are seated regally at the head of the table. Their faces are carved of the same stone as their son-hard, unreadable, unforgiving. Joey, the miniature doppelganger of Vincent, is perched on the lap of the woman I assume to be Mrs. Russo.
"And then I shot him, just like Papa taught me!" Joey chirps in his boyish, innocent tone, a stark contrast to the morbid tale he regales.
Murder as an aperitif, I muse bitterly, feeling the jagged nausea rise within me. Vincent deposits me onto a chair, the cold eyes of the Russo matriarch and patriarch boring into me as if they're appraising an investment rather than a flesh-and-blood girl.
Dinner is served-lavish, rich, untouched by me. My role is to adorn the table as a human centerpiece while stealing glances at the cutlery, considering and discarding ideas of revolt. Under the table, Vincent's hand travels up my thigh in a possessive stroke, a reminder that disdain for him is a luxury I can ill afford.
"So, how was business today?" Mrs. Russo inquires, her voice dripping with honeyed venom.
Vincent maintains his treatment of my leg like a tabby would a favored toy, "Exceptionally profitable. Territory disputes resolved... permanently."
His dark eyes gleam with a disturbing joy, and I fight the urge to shrink away, to vanish into the tapestry of high class and horror around me.
"Now, Samantha, eat. You're too thin," Mr. Russo commands, and though it's the first time he's spoken tonight, his voice carries a gravity that chills my blood.
I can feel the weight of their gaze, watching, analyzing my every motion. My hands fiddle with the food, pushing it around but never bringing it to my lips-trapped in the theater of the macabre, with the audience expecting my performance of the grateful captive.
Vincent relishes my discomfort, the leering grin never leaving his face, the dark promise in his caress eliciting a shiver along my already cold skin. His voice, ever so patient yet laced with steel, responds to his father's observation, "She will, Father. She just needs time."
As the course of conversation traces the pattern of ordinary family banter and extraordinary criminal exploits, I remain mute, buried deep within my psyche, yearning for a strength that seems sapped from my bones.
The dinner is adjourned with Joey's sleepy yawn and the parental unit's approving nod towards Vincent. Strangely, I feel the echo of that nod deep within my hollow chest a death knell to a life once dreamt.
Vincent lays his heavy hand on the small of my back, guiding me out of the dining room with proprietary care, a chilling escort back to my gilded cage. His Roman whisper grates against my ear, "Let's return to our room, amore mio. There are pleasantries to attend to, after all."
And so, like a marionette whose strings are yanked by a master puppeteer, I find the little strength I have to rise, each step a mile, each moment a yearning gaze back to a life slipping from my grasp, just as the night embraces the day's reluctant farewell.
