Bound (The Devil’s Vow #2)

19. The Twisted Collection

Chapter nineteen

The Twisted Collection

What. The. Fuck?!!!

My breath caught in my throat.

No. No. No.

The word rattled around inside my head, over and over again, like a broken record I couldn’t turn off.

My feet moved on their own as I walked toward the wall that had freaked me out the first time I saw it—the wall that had stopped me in my tracks but had only given me a glimpse before.

Jesus! Christ!

My heart pounded in my chest like it was trying to break free.

Is this an. . .altar about. . .me?

I almost pissed myself.

The sheer size of this. . .altar. . .loomed over me.

So twisted.

So wrong.

Okay. Okay. Just. . .let’s try and. . .I don’t know. . .Jesus. . .

Every step closer made me feel sicker, my stomach knotted. It was worse than anything I could have imagined.

This painting dominated the wall, and it was of me.

I was inside a massive birdcage, trapped, wearing this elaborate black and red gown that seemed to swallow me up in its layers. And there were feathers on the ground as if I was like. . .his pet bird Isabella. . .or even. . .the Princess Bird from my mother’s story.

Oh my God. What do I do with this?

The painting was stunning, yes—breathtaking even—but the sight of myself wearing a feather ball gown and in that bird cage made my skin crawl. I looked like a doll—posed and perfect—painted with such meticulous detail it was almost photographic.

When did he commission this? And for fucking why?

The bars of the cage shimmered, almost mocking me as they wound around my figure.

The feathered gown billowed around my body, trapping me in its beauty.

But the look in my eyes. . .that was what shook me the most. My painted eyes were wide, haunted, almost pleading for release.

What the hell?

It all made me think back to Gianni’s bird, Isabella. I remembered the first time.

Gianni had stood next to me. “Hello, Isabella.”

I blinked. “That’s my middle name.”

“I named her after you.”

I turned to look at him in surprise. “How long have you had her?”

“For a while.”

My breath quickened.

This altar couldn’t be real.

This couldn’t be happening.

I had turned back to Isabella. “So, you like birds?”

Giani said, “No.”

“What?” I glanced back at Gianni. “What do you mean no?”

“I don’t hate them.”

“Then, why do you have a bird?”

“I got Isabella to teach me something important.”

“What?”

“That is something I will tell you later.”

I wanted to look away from the painting, but I couldn’t. My feet moved me forward, drawn to the wall like I was being pulled into it.

Next, I darted my gaze to the smaller framed pictures on the wall that surrounded the painting and stopped.

They were all photos of me, at different ages.

I just don’t even know what to say. . .

I staggered back and covered my mouth as I realized what I was seeing.

No. How could he have. . .gotten these?

The images started when I was ten years old.

Ten!! He knew me when I was that young?!

I thought back to his age, and realized that he would have been eighteen.

But. . .

My hands shook.

I checked out each framed picture.

There were even some snapshots of me at my first ballet class. The shock of recognition hit me like a punch to the gut.

I remembered that day—the nerves, the excitement.

But these photos. . .they were taken from angles I didn’t recognize, like someone had actually been there, watching. Like. . .the person snapped it with their phone.

He was there? I don’t understand.

The thought made my skin crawl.

Or. . .was it someone else following me for years? Or. . .was it definitely Gianni. . .there?

The pictures moved in chronological order, capturing me in the most vulnerable moments.

Me at twelve, holding my first pair of ballet pointe shoes, the soft satin worn from practice.

And then right next to that picture . . .

How the fuck?

My hand trembled as I reached out and touched the old shoes mounted on the wall next to that picture. Their once-pink color was now faded and dull.

They were definitely mine.

I recognized the scuff marks, the slight tear in the fabric on the left shoe.

How did he…? How did he get these?

My heart raced as my gaze lowered to the table under the pictures.

Uhh. . .

I didn’t even know what to do with everything on the table, vomit, run away, or just stand there and piss myself.

There was a small area at the edge of the table with small jars full of. . .

My hair!

I knew this due to the nifty—and psychotic—sign above in front of the jars.

Erica’s hair.

Trembling, I went over to it.

I don’t even understand what the fuck is going on right now!!

Small sections of my hair had been placed neatly in the jars. There were labels beneath each one, detailing the year, my age, and what seemed to be the exact time the hair had been cut. And most of the time those strands had been cut in the middle of the night.

While I was. . .sleeping?? What is wrong with him?

My stomach twisted into nauseating knots as I recognized the small braid from when I was twelve. A pink butterfly barrette, the one I used to love wearing, held the braid together. I picked up the jar, opened it, and touched my hair.

Oh God.

When I felt the curls, I recoiled from the sensation.

Okay so. . .I don’t know what to do with this or what to say.

I set the jar down, put the top back on it, and looked at the other jars.

There were more strands too, more braids.

As I got older, the strands of hair got longer.

At eighteen, the hair was no longer just a strand or a braid—it was a thick lock of my hair, tied together with a bright red ribbon.

The same red ribbon that I had used to tie my hair back at my Juilliard classes.

Dear God! This is just. . .I. . .what the fuck?

My throat tightened, and my breathing became shallow.

He had to have been there at all stages of my life.

Horror crept into every corner of my mind.

He had to have been watching me. Stalking me forever!! And just. . .collecting shit and cataloguing it all!

The knot in my stomach tightened as I noticed something else.

Teeth. No. No.

There were small containers of my fucking teeth, each with a label in that same neat handwriting.

Erica’s molars, age 12.

My body went rigid.

I stepped closer, peering into the containers, and my stomach flipped.

My hands trembled as I reached for one of the containers, but I stopped myself, too horrified to touch it.

No wonder he didn’t want me in here. And I still don’t know what the fuck is going on?! If anything I have MORE QUESTIONS!!

Every new item I saw made my mind spin faster, and my body begin to shake.

And then I saw the next section.

My underwear.

My fucking panties .

He’d started collecting them at seventeen. I didn’t know if that was good or bad, just that I was about to pass out from too much goddamn shock.

I saw the first pair, white cotton ones labeled.

Erica, 17. After practice.

More of my panties were laid out neatly, arranged chronologically, going all the way up to this year. I couldn’t breathe as I stared at the ones labeled for this year—seven pairs of panties I hadn’t even realized I’d lost.

How. . .?

The questions ricocheted through my mind like bullets.

How did he get them?

My head spun as I thought about the times I’d lived alone, the times I hadn’t noticed a thing out of place. Even the times when I was at Landmark Academy or when I did have my own room at Juilliard.

He was fucking stalking me since I was a little kid? But. . .why? I don’t fucking understand?!!!!

My eyes burned with fear.

I almost wanted to cry, but was too much in disbelief to shed a tear.

I looked to the left and there were my. . .toothbrushes.

Each one in its own plastic bag, labeled by the year.

But why did he want my toothbrush? Was he putting it in his mouth? And I never lost one. Did he just take them and replace them only to take the next ones that went in my mouth?

Behind the area of toothbrushes were nail clippings sealed in a container.

Erica’s nails.

And they all had the dates and time when they were taken.

I blinked over and over as if I could maybe transport myself out of there.

Further behind the nails were hair shavings.

Oh no. That can’t be. . .

I couldn’t even tell what kind of shaved hair it was.

Pubic hair? Underarm hair? Leg hair?

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that he had it, and I didn’t even understand how he had taken it. I mean what could he have done to get it. Did he employ a special drain in my bathtub to collect hair for him? It wasn’t like I just had it lying around the bathroom.

This is just. . .impossibly crazy.

My bottom lip quivered.

I wrapped my arms around myself.

My body trembled as I took it all in.

How did he do this? How did he take all of these things from me? From my life, without me having any fucking idea?

My head swirled, my vision blurred with tears I refused to let fall.

Nothing about this is okay.

And then, my eyes caught something on the far-left side of the table.

No.

My legs moved on their own, carrying me toward the table, but my mind screamed for me to stop.

Is that real? It can’t be. Right?

There, resting among the rest of this nightmare collection, was something I hadn’t seen in many years.

My mother’s book.

The Princess Bird.

It was laminated and carefully preserved, as if it was a sacred relic.

I rushed to the book and picked it up.

Oh my God!!

The charcoal drawings inside—of the prince and the princess when they met at the apple stand, their wedding, when the princess was transformed, when she was sitting as a bird watching the prince cry.

They were all intact.

Every page, every sketch, had been preserved.

I hadn’t seen this book since I was a little girl. I had thought it was stolen, that my half-brother Vito had taken it with him before I left for Landmark Academy.

But. . .no. . .so. . .Gianni took it? Or did he get it from Vito? I don’t understand.

It didn’t make any fucking sense.

I was fourteen.

He would have been twenty-two.

My hands trembled as I looked through it.

The worn edges of the pages were smoothed out, the cover now stiff from the lamination, but it was undeniably the same book.

The same story my mother used to read to me before bed.

The same one that would help me get rid of my nightmares when she was gone and all I had was that book.

I went to the laminated page that showed the prince’s huge castle on the cliff with a beach right below.

I parted my lips in shock.

And just like that a tear left my eye.

On the balcony last night, Gianni studied me. “Why did you ask that question?”

“I’m wondering why a mafia don would want a castle on a cliff. Usually, it would be a mansion or big high-end condo downtown.”

“Five years ago, I purchased this castle for a reason.”

“And what was that reason?”

His expression turned serious. “So you would walk through it and imagine yourself to be the princess bird from your mother’s story.”

I swallowed hard, trying to fight the wave of nausea rising inside me.

He really did know the story.

I clutched the book to my chest, and now my heart was violently thudding against my ribs.

Why me? Why did he choose to stalk me? I still don’t know the answer.

Holding the now laminated book of drawings brought a flood of memories—the image of my mother’s soft voice as she read the tale of the princess who had been trapped, waiting for her prince to save her.

Did he know my mom or. . ? I just. . .don’t understand. . .

Next to the book was something else.

Something I hadn’t seen in so many years. An old teddy bear, worn and faded from the years. This would console me whenever I woke up with the most hardcore nightmares.

I had thought Vito took that too, right before I left home.

But now. . .I wasn’t so sure.

Okay. Think. Fucking think! I recognized Gianni when I first saw him. Why the fuck do I not know from where?!!

My head began to throb.

I held the book tighter, and my breathing now shifted to ragged heaves as my chest rose and fell.

I was close to having a severe panic attack.

The reality of it all was crashing down on me.

Gianni had everything . Things I hadn’t even known were missing. Things I had lost so long ago that I didn’t even remember the moment they disappeared.

And worse, he had things he never should have been able to get.

Things that should’ve been private.

Personal.

I backed away from the wall as I clutched my mother’s book to my chest.

There was another table a few feet away from that one on the left that had my Vampire Queen costume on it, in a bag along with my wedding dress.

My heart pounded in my throat, my pulse racing so fast I felt like I might pass out.

I had to get out of here.

I had to escape.

Yes. I can. . .run out the back without anyone spotting me. Then. . .I’ll have to somehow get out of Obsidian Bay. He owns the police so I’ll have to avoid them.

But just as I turned, ready to bolt, I heard footsteps heading to the office.

No. No. No. I’m not ready to fucking see him. I would piss my pants.

He was crazier than I thought and that was saying a lot since I’d watched him cut off a hand, almost kill a chef, and fucking shoot his female dresser in the head.

And all three things dealt with me.

And some fucking how I did my best to stomach it all.

But this. . .stalking me since I was ten. . .no. . .that was too fucking much. Collecting my pubic hair? No.

The footsteps got closer.

Gianni’s voice sounded. “Queen?!”

Fabio’s voice came next. “Could she be in the office?”

“No.” Then, worry hit Gianni’s voice. “God no.”

What do I do?