Submitting To The Devil - The Devil's Snare - Book 2

Chapter Eighty Four

Benji

I fucked up.

I seriously fucked up.

I had anticipated my father would linger at Giovanni's for a considerable time, as his meetings typically consumed three to four hours. However, to my surprise, he emerged in less than thirty-eight minutes, his presence barely registering in the atmosphere.

Bambi is to be confined to her room like a fragile secret, and she is not permitted to step outside its confines unless she receives explicit permission or instruction from him.

I count myself fortunate that he didn't catch sight of her perched at our table, an incongruous figure that didn't belong, her expression a mask of stoic rudeness. She sat there, unblinking, as if waiting for a moment that would quite possibly come—a silent figure at the scene of our family's strained dynamics, unwillingly poised to greet the man who holds dominion over her life.

As I watched him scan the room with an inscrutable gaze, I felt a wave of unease wash over me. He turned sharply on his heel and exited the premises as if nothing was amiss. But the nagging feeling nestled in my gut wouldn't let go; I could almost picture him racing to the IT room, eager to review the footage he scrutinises daily. Panic surged through me, propelling me into action as I hurriedly escorted Bambi back to her room, determined to contain the fallout before it spiralled out of control.

Even amidst the frantic rush to usher Bambi into her room for some much-needed damage control, I felt the weight of failure heavy on my shoulders. Time had slipped through my fingers like sand, or perhaps someone had warned him of my decisions.

He stood there, an impenetrable figure, arms crossed defiantly over his chest, waiting for me. The dimly lit hallway, adorned with faded wallpaper, stretched before me as I cantered towards the door I was desperate to breach.

"Benjamin," he called out, his voice resonating with a blend of authority and expectation.

"Father."

"Is there anything you want to tell me?" he asks, his voice low and probing as I deliberately slow my pace, attempting to glide past him and escape his relentless scrutiny. If I can navigate down this dimly lit hall past the remnants of my eagerness to cover my tracks, I can reach the hall that houses the door just inside on the right that opens into my mother's gilded cage.

She's the perfect alibi—an impenetrable shield against his fury—unquestioning and oblivious to my attempts to distance myself. I've been stepping back from her, trying to keep her safe from the storm that is brewing in his eyes with every misdemeanour I tally against myself.

Dread coils within me. Should I feign innocence and utter a simple no, when the truth gnaws at my insides—knowing I've taken his beloved Bambi from her room? The thought churns in my stomach like an unsettled meal.

"Nothing," I declare, shaking my head in a bid for nonchalance, though the attempt feels shaky and insincere even to my own ears.

"And where do you think you're going?" He probes deeper, his voice resonating with the authority of someone who is all too aware of the power he wields. I step perilously close to him, and the atmosphere shifts; an electric tension fills the space between us. The hairs on my arms rise in response, a primal instinct alerting me to the danger before me. He stands close enough that I can sense the heat radiating from his body, and I realise that I've unwittingly walked into his orbit—offering myself up to the threat he represents.

With every ounce of composure I can muster, I remind myself to remain fluid, to betray no signs of the guilt that is clawing at my insides. "I'm going to see my mother," I reply, letting my voice steady itself, though deep down, I feel the weight of every unresolved tension pressing against my chest. Though it's not against the rules to see my mother, he likes a heads-up first.

"Father?" Franko's voice echoes from behind me, piercing the silence as he steps out of the very room I intended to breach. A chill races down my spine as I sense the heat of his piercing gaze boring into my back, the weight of his intentions palpable in the air. Memories of his previous betrayal linger in my mind, a gnawing reminder of his willingness to turn me in. Did he betray me to our father?

Was he lurking, waiting for the perfect moment to strike?

Franko is a dark mirror of our father in many ways—just as dangerous, if not more so. He embodies a coldness that chills the bones and a lethality as sharp as the knife he wields often in his hands. His spite is palpable, and the cruel lengths he has gone to curry favour with our father are nothing short of monstrous. The thought sends a shiver through me, solidifying my resolve to tread carefully in the pair of their presences.

"Coming, son," my father's voice echoes with a familiar resonance, stirring a mix of emotions within me, just as it always does whenever I hear him refer to Franko as "son." The words hang in the air, heavy with a sense of belonging that I've never entirely managed to claim for myself. This is precisely why I oppose every decree he has imposed upon me. As he turns to stride away, I mimic his movement, but his hand shoots out, seizing my shoulder with a grip that feels both harsh and possessive, a painful reminder of the bone he fractured not but a few months ago. The throbbing ache lingers, flaring to life whenever anyone inadvertently brushes against that sensitive spot. "She has a clean bill of health. I expect her to be pregnant before the month is over," he murmurs, his voice low and ominous, laced with unyielding expectation. "You're brothers don't deserve to have to wait for you to realise how to use your dick."

"That's two weeks," I say, my voice trembling with a mixture of shock and apprehension at the daunting possibility of failure. The thought weighs heavily on my mind, churning with uncertainty. I've always been naive when it comes to intimacy, and it's never held my interest, but surely the act of impregnating someone isn't as simple as just a few hurried encounters followed by the desired outcome. It feels far more complex, a labyrinth of nature over nurturing.

"Fuck her, Benjamin. Every day, every night. God knows that works for me whenever I feel the need for another of you. I'll be watching."

"I'm the youngest," I snap back, my voice sharp with an anger I can barely contain. I know I shouldn't be pushing against him, yet here I am, my defiance bursting forth as usual. It's a battle to keep myself under control.

The back of my body collides forcefully with the wall, the impact jarring, leaving a bitter taste in my throat that I can't swallow down.

My father's gaze pierces through me, his eyes a storm of unspoken words he has buried deep within himself.

"Are you?" he spits out the question, each syllable dripping with disdain.

I look deeply into his eyes, searching for the truth buried beneath years of silence and resentment. In that charged moment, I see the stark reality flickering through his pupils like a beacon of clarity.

If I'm not the damn youngest, then who the hell is?

"Father?" Franko calls out again, his tone dripping with boredom as if our family's secrets are just a tedious game to him. He knows—oh, he absolutely knows that we have other siblings hidden in the shadows, and yet he keeps it all to himself, a secret locked away.

Where the fuck are they? Which of the boys or girls around us are unknowingly my siblings?

How many have I looked in the eyes?

"Stay in your lane and get the job done," my father snaps, slapping my face. The sting brings my attention back to him, grounding me in the volatile atmosphere where anger and betrayal swirl through my temper.

I stand rooted in place, my heart pounding as I watch him stroll away. An internal battle wages within me, pleading for the strength to turn away, do as I lied about, and follow him to escape this moment of hesitation. But I remain still, a silent witness as he slips through the doorway to the room I desperately needed to enter.

The thought of joining him feels daunting now, far too heavy for today. How could I pretend I wasn't up to no good? My mind races with questions—how could I possibly know when he has truly left if I don't remain right here, lingering, which is forbidden and punishable by pain? The tension in the air surrounds me, thick and palpable, as I grapple with the weight of my choices, anchored by a curiosity that won't let go.

I bail, racing back through the hall the way I came, a reckless decision that might come back to haunt me.