Claimed

11. So Many Questions

Chapter eleven

So Many Questions

Once the reception was done, and I’d received many more wedding gifts, the priest blessed me again with that bloodied knife and then all thirty of my men escorted me out of the ballroom and through the hotel.

When I passed the front desk, I spotted many of the same employees that had been there when I was dragged in earlier wearing a ballerina costume.

Surely, the employees were shocked to now see me in a breathtaking gown and surrounded by men.

I mean. . .I damn sure was shocked too.

None of the men spoke to me, but that was typical. When I grew up with Maximo, I had four guards during the day and a different set of men at night. The day guards followed me around as I went to school, did chores, and ballet practice.

The night guards watched over me in the evenings, standing outside of my door and barely ever glancing my way.

But absolutely none of them ever said one word to me, not hello or goodbye.

When I was young, I would try to talk to them, not knowing any better and just simply. . .feeling alone after my mother’s death.

But as an adult, I didn’t dare share a word with these guards, understanding Gianni’s temper and the fact that a sentence passed could mean the guard’s death.

When we arrived at the elevators, several men got on to go up and check the level before us.

Next, I got on with eight men—three stood behind me, three stood in front, and one man flanked each of my sides.

Will this be my life from now on? Never alone? Always boxed in by huge men with scars and guns?

The thought didn’t make me sad or depressed.

I was just. . .frazzled by the sudden massive change my life had been through in barely eight fucking hours.

Once we made it to the twelfth floor, the guards guided me off the elevator and took me to the honeymoon suite.

One guard opened the door and then stepped to the side.

From then on, they all got in their positions and scanned the hallway for any danger.

Aright. I guess I will. . .go in and check this place out.

As soon as I entered the suite, my mind was blown.

Of course the spacious area was opulently decorated, with plush, velvet furniture and sparkling chandeliers hanging from a gilded ceiling.

The large balcony doors offered a breathtaking view of the moonlit bay.

The doors were wide open.

Silken drapes billowed in the soft breeze, and the rhythmic sound of the ocean waves lapping against the shore provided a soothing backdrop.

On the other side of the suite, a romantic fire flickered in the fireplace. The scent of burning wood swirled with the ocean breeze.

Well. . .this would set. . .quite the mood.

My heart pumped in anticipation for Gianni’s return.

I was a virgin, and still didn’t know him well.

I know what I said, but. . .how much does he really expect from me tonight?

While many of his promises for this evening were lathered in sensual seduction, my nerves were still wrecked.

But what truly caught my eye was the white lingerie resting on the huge king-sized bed.

It was clear. . .Gianni expected me to have that on when he returned.

My heart pounded.

O-kay.

I approached the bed and reached out to touch the lace. It had been delicately woven into floral patterns.

I knew without even having it on that every inch would hug my curves.

Small pearls lined the straps for my shoulders and even waist.

I ran my fingers over the lingerie, feeling the softness of the lace against my palm. It was almost like a feather's gentle caress.

Lightweight and airy.

I was starting to realize that everything he did would be exquisite and in excess.

Even the bed was ridiculously oversized, swathed in rich, burgundy satin sheets and a mountain of plush pillows.

I picked up the lingerie and glanced at my reflection in the gold trimmed mirror nearby.

Wow. I went from Vampire Queen to Mafia Bride to now. . .Virgin Seductress? What a fucking night.

I studied myself.

The wedding dress had been gorgeous, but it felt restrictive now. I yearned to be out of its confines.

I took a deep breath and let the silk of the lingerie slide through my fingers.

Look at you. Vito had to drag you into this hotel and now you’re. . .getting sexy for Gianni? Just that fast?

While my mind didn’t get it, my body hummed with desire. It seemed there was no logic when it came to the flesh.

And. . .while I wasn't in love with Gianni—not yet, anyway—the thought of him, the thought of what he might do to me tonight, sent delicious, electric sensations through my body.

Every greedy cell pulsed for Gianni.

Throbbed.

And for the first time in my life, I longed for someone so desperately I could barely control my breathing.

The man cut off Vito’s hand. . .why am I not afraid?

Gianni had been nothing short of a psychotic gentleman, a paradox that was as terrifying as it was intoxicating.

A mad man that dripped with dark charm.

I knew he was dangerous—no, horrifically lethal—and yet, there was something about him that made me want to get closer, to understand the darkness that radiated from him.

Fuck. I’m actually. . .happy that I’m married to him, instead of some other guy. Is that not crazy?

Unfortunately, my reflection didn’t respond.

But it didn’t have to, I knew the answer.

The obvious violence that would always surround Gianni terrified me, yet a darker part of me—the part that had grown up in this world—was almost relieved to know he could protect me with that same brutality. I hated myself for it, but the truth was undisputable.

With Gianni, I felt safer than I had in years.

I could feel myself mentally slipping, the walls I had carefully constructed around my heart through the years, were now cracking.

All of a sudden, my feelings for Gianni were rising and it was too fast.

Too intense.

But, I couldn't stop it.

The way he looked at me, the way he spoke to me—it was as if he saw right through the layers of armor I had built over the years, straight to the vulnerable girl I tried so hard to hide.

The one that wanted to be loved.

To be seen.

To belong.

Jesus. . .and he wants me to call him Daddy. . .and. . .I fucking want to call him that. . .Why? What is wrong with me?

Of course, I couldn't afford to be naive. I couldn't let myself fall for him completely, not when the stakes were so high.

Gianni was capable of unimaginable things, I had seen glimpses of that already.

If he ever turned that darkness on me, if he ever thought he could control me or break me, he would learn just how fast I could run.

I could hide.

Please, God. Don’t let it ever get to that.

The thought of running made my heart ache.

As much as I feared what Gianni could become, I wanted to believe that he could be different with me. That he could be the man he promised—protective, possessive, but never cruel.

It was a dangerous hope, one that I knew could lead to my undoing.

I walked closer to the mirror with the lingerie still in hand and stared at my reflection. The woman looking back at me was already different from the one who had walked into this suite.

She was softer, more vulnerable, but there was still steel in her eyes.

“You're not in love ,” I whispered to my reflection, as if saying it out loud would make it true. “But you could be. You could be if he truly takes care of you. This situation is beyond fucked up. Beyond. But. . .that’s the silver lining.”

The thought was both thrilling and terrifying.

I knew the kind of life I was thrust into.

There would be blood, violence, and secrets—so many goddamn soul-darkening secrets. But there would also be passion, power, and maybe, just maybe, love.

I just can’t let him fucking disrespect or abuse me. I’m scared of him, but I’ll have to figure out a way to put my foot down and not get harmed in the process.

Sighing, I went into the bathroom to change.

Damn. Look at this place.

The bathroom was just as luxurious as the rest of the suite, with its white marble floors and gold accents.

A majestic bathtub centered the room, large enough to fit at least five people.

An even larger shower stood across from the tub.

The mirror on the wall was grand, providing a clear view of me in full form.

Alright. Let’s get ready for. . .my wedding night. . .Holy fuck.

Undressing from my wedding gown felt like shedding an old skin that no longer belonged to me.

And then once again when I turned to the mirror, my reflection was of a different woman.

I keep changing and changing by the second.

A woman that craved something more than she should.

Something new.

Just take this hour by hour. That’s all we can do. Pay attention. Stand your ground when it truly matters. Feel things out. And pay attention even more at his actions.

I swallowed.

He chopped off Vito’s hand. Then, a fucking priest cut us and my new gangster husband went ballistic over a chef. Almost killed him. There’s really nothing we’re going to be able to guess in these next days, so. . .it is what it is. . .pay attention.

Once the gown was off, as I stepped toward the shower, something caught me by surprise.

Hold up.

I stepped closer to get a better look.

A satin-lined red shower cap hung on the silver hook beside the shower.

What the hell? That can’t be Gianni’s.

I went over to the shower cap and took it off the hook.

A tag dangled on the side.

This is brand new.

I took the tag off, put the paper in the trash can, and then assessed the shower cap again.

This has to be for me. But. . .

The satin-lined shower cap was my kind of shower cap. Not one of those flimsy ones that did nothing to protect my 4C curls, but the thick, durable kind that would keep every drop of water away from my hair.

Next to the shower, on a sleek black shelf, were the same products I had on my bathroom shelf—the same leave-in conditioner I used, a jar of curling cream I swore by, and even the wide-tooth comb I used for detangling.

These were all brand new.

What the fuck? How did he know?

I stared at them, and a knot formed in my stomach.

My mind raced.

He’s been watching me before we met? He’s even been inside my apartment? Or had someone else go in there.

It seemed impossible, but the feeling gnawed at me anyway. I reached out, brushing my fingers over the products. These weren’t just generic items he could have guessed at—they were the exact brands, the exact tools I needed. Things that I ordered from out-of-state companies due to the fact that they were Black-female owned and made specifically for my hair type.

In fact, that brand of leave-in conditioner typically took four weeks to be delivered.

This is deeper than I understand.

Sure, he was powerful.

He had connections.

It wasn’t so far-fetched to think he could have found out these details about me, even the most personal ones. But. . .this was also a level of detail that screamed. . .he knew me much better than I understood.

Like. . .he knows my hair routine. So. . .has he been recording me in my bathroom? Or. . .I don’t know. . .what it is.

I stared at the products on the shelf. It wasn’t just the shock of seeing them here, as if Gianni had somehow plucked them from my own bathroom and placed them in this luxurious marble space.

It was the intimacy of it.

The deep, unsettling sense that he knew me in ways I hadn’t even shared yet.

I touched the satin-lined shower cap again, rubbing the fabric between my fingers. This wasn’t something you just guessed at—this was personal.

Like. . .he knew it would mean so much to me if these things were here.

My hair routine had always been something sacred to me, a part of my self-care that was steeped in tradition and ritual. Without a mother and no other Black women around to help me understand my hair, I honestly walked around with it looking pretty crazy.

Maximo never thought to send me to a beautician or get a nanny of color that could have helped me out.

So, I honestly grew up just. . .not knowing. . .myself. . .and not liking my hair.

Not accepting it.

Sure, I would see other Black women on TV or in movies and think that I just didn’t have hair like them.

I was cursed with something else.

Something nappy, dry, and unbearable.

Thank God for other sisters out in the world willing to provide information. A few of my Black friends got me straight in boarding school.

Together, we made Sundays our hair days.

They taught me how to properly wash, condition, and detangle my curls.

They taught me how to accept myself.

How to love me. . .exactly the way I was.

This one friend, Joanne took great patience in showing me how to twist my hair into chunky sections to let them air dry overnight. It was soothing, grounding—a routine passed down from her mother, her grandmother, and even further back than she could remember.

And boy was it hard to not be so jealous of that.

But I remained thankful for her friendship, and we still remained in contact. Granted, she was now off in Paris, dancing.

Now as an adult and without fail, every Sunday, I would spread out all my products on the bathroom counter—my leave-in conditioner, curling creams, detangling spray, and oils.

The process of washing my hair was long, sometimes frustrating, but it was mine.

I’d work through each section, detangling slowly with my wide-tooth comb, taking care not to tug too hard on the fragile curls.

After hours of work, my hair would spring back into its thick, voluminous coils, soft and bouncy.

And I would just feel. . .proud of myself. . .and gratitude for who I was and how I looked.

But for this performance, the one where I became the Vampire Queen, I’d chosen a different route. I’d straightened my hair and slicked it back into a tight, almost severe bun, giving my look an edge that I thought fit the character.

It had taken hours to get it right—straightening my 4c curls was never a quick process—but once it was done, it was set.

My fingers instinctively moved to touch the tight bun at the back of my head, feeling the smooth, sleek strands.

Earlier the hairstylist had carefully taken a few strands out on the side and curled them.

The last thing I wanted for my hair now was for it to frizz up or lose its shape. I hadn’t planned on washing it for another few days, maybe even until next Sunday, when I’d take it down and let my curls breathe again.

But more important and back to the real matter. . .how did Gianni know any of this?

I glanced back at the products again, feeling both comforted and unnerved by their presence. Here it all was, laid out before me as if to say, “I know you, Queen. I really know you.”

I took a deep breath, trying to steady myself.

He’s going to have to give me answers.

The steam from the shower was starting to fill the room, beckoning me to step inside, but my mind was still racing. I wasn’t ready to deal with the implications of how Gianni knew so much about me.

Not yet.

Right now, I just needed to wash away the remnants of this day without ruining my hair in the process.

I placed the satin shower cap over my head, tucking in the last bits of my bun, making sure not a single strand was exposed.

I have so many questions. So many. . .