Chapter 1 - I Signed Away My Freedom to a Stranger—Then Noticed the Blood on His Sleeve
The pen trembled in my hand as I signed the final page.
Analisa Vincenzi.
I wrote my name carefully, forcing the letters to remain firm despite the movement in my fingers.
The notary did not look up.
Tomaso Reachi, the gray-haired lawyer who had come to finalize the arrangement, gathered the documents into a brown leather folder and informed me that the car was waiting downstairs.
I looked around my apartment in Fishtown one last time.
The walls were thin. The radiator creaked whenever the temperature dropped. On a shelf stood a photograph of my mother and younger brother in a worn wooden frame I had purchased at a street fair more than a decade earlier.
They had been dead for 15 years.
In the photograph, they were smiling on a summer afternoon I could barely remember.
I picked up my suitcase but left the photograph behind. I could not bear the thought of bringing their faces into the house where I was about to live under the terms of someone else's agreement.
"Ladies first," Tomaso said, opening the door.
His voice carried a dry humor that seemed out of place. He behaved as though he were escorting me to an ordinary appointment rather than delivering me into a marriage arranged to settle a debt.
A black armored SUV waited outside.
The driver did not acknowledge me when I entered. Tomaso sat in the front passenger seat, and a glass partition rose between us with a quiet click.
As the vehicle moved through Philadelphia, Fishtown disappeared behind the tinted windows. Streetlights passed in blurred yellow bands. I sank into the leather seat and tried not to think about the documents bearing my signature.
Three weeks had passed between the announcement of the marriage arrangement and the moment I signed.
During those weeks, I had imagined meeting Cedric Spedaro countless times.
None of those imagined encounters prepared me for what I found.
After approximately 25 minutes, the gates of the Spedaro mansion opened.
The property was larger than anything I had seen at close range. The house had a dark stone facade, tall windows, and ivy climbing one side. Its scale made the grounds seem detached from the city beyond the gates.
Two men in suits approached the vehicle. Both wore discreet earpieces and gunmetal-gray silk handkerchiefs in their breast pockets.
I noticed the handkerchiefs without understanding their significance.
I was beginning to pay attention to every detail.
One of the men opened my door.
"This way, Mrs. Spedaro."
"Vincenzi," I corrected him. "It's still Vincenzi."
He did not respond.
He led me into a marble corridor with ceilings so high that the space felt impersonal. Crystal chandeliers cast pale yellow light over cream-colored walls. The air smelled of freshly polished wood.
Tomaso walked beside me, adjusting his pace to match mine.
His consideration made me more uncomfortable than open impatience would have.
We stopped before a pair of oak doors.
"He's in the study," Tomaso said.
He looked at me.
"Don't try to be too brave. Try to be polite."
"And if I can't manage either?"
He almost smiled.
"Then that's your problem."
The doors opened.
I noticed the room before I noticed the man occupying it.
A copper lamp illuminated a mahogany desk covered with papers. A floor-to-ceiling bookshelf occupied another wall. The books were worn from use, with marked spines and bookmarks, suggesting that someone actually read them.
The room smelled of leather and paper, with a faint metallic trace beneath expensive cologne.
It reminded me of a hospital.
Then I saw Cedric Spedaro.
He was positioned beside the desk near a window, seated in a wheelchair.
His hands rested firmly against the rims. His shoulders were broad, his white shirt carefully fitted, and his dark hair combed back. A neatly trimmed beard defined his jaw.
One sleeve was rolled to the elbow.
The left cuff remained buttoned.
A recent cut marked the skin near his temple.
When he raised his eyes, I found myself looking into a face more unsettling than the one I had imagined from newspaper descriptions.
The reports had portrayed him as a violent, distant figure who commanded the Italian criminal organization operating in Philadelphia.
The man in front of me was neither distant nor abstract.
He was real, observant, and looking at me with an attention I could not explain.
"Miss Vincenzi," he said. "Sit down."
"I'll stand."
His mouth moved almost imperceptibly.
"As you prefer."
Tomaso closed the door behind us but remained in the room, taking up a position near the bookshelves.
Cedric turned his wheelchair toward me.
"I'm going to explain the rules of this house," he said. "Not the rules of our relationship. Those, if there are any, you'll discover on your own. But the rules of the house I'd rather lay out now, so there's no misunderstanding later."
"How generous."
"I'm known for it."
Tomaso coughed beside the bookshelf. I suspected he was concealing a laugh.
Cedric continued.
"The east wing is yours. Bedroom, sitting room, your own bathroom. No one enters without your permission, except the cleaning staff, at times you can set."
He indicated another section of the house.
"The west wing is mine. Don't enter without warning. The study is open to you at any hour. The interior garden is free. The underground garage is off-limits."
"Why?"
He raised an eyebrow.
"Because I said so."
"That's not an answer."
"For you, today it is."
I swallowed my reply.
Cedric watched me cross my arms.
"Anything else?" I asked.
"Yes."
He moved his chair slightly closer.
"You won't speak to the press. You won't post photographs of this house. You won't leave without notifying the staff. You won't receive anyone without authorization."
He paused.
"And above all, you won't lie to me. Of all the things I can tolerate from a woman, lying isn't 1 of them."
"What a coincidence. It isn't 1 of mine either."
His eyes remained on mine longer than I expected.
I felt heat rise along my neck but refused to look away.
"And you?" I asked. "Do you have rules for yourself too, or are they exclusively for me?"
"I have just 1."
His voice lowered.
"I never promise what I can't deliver."
Neither of us spoke for several seconds.
Tomaso turned a page in a book he clearly was not reading.
My phone rang inside my bag.
I looked toward Cedric, expecting him to object.
Instead, he motioned for me to answer.
"Anna."
Meera Costa sounded frightened.
"Please tell me you're breathing. Please tell me that apartment still exists and I can come get you right now."
"I'm fine."
"Meera, where are you?" she asked.
"Where I said I'd be."
There was a pause.
I heard a cigarette lighter clicking on the other end of the call.
Meera had promised to stop smoking, but she returned to cigarettes whenever she became especially anxious about me.
"Is he there listening?"
"He is."
"Tell him that if he hurts you, I'm going on television. Tell him."
I looked at Cedric.
He was listening openly, his fingers loosely interlaced.
"My friend says that if you hurt me, she's going on television."
"Tell your friend," Cedric answered, "that if anyone hurts you, I'll carry the news to the studio door myself."
Meera fell silent.
Then she breathed deeply.
"Okay. That's scary, but okay."
I ended the call.
Cedric was still watching me.
I continued holding the phone, unsettled by the answer he had given.
Then I noticed something near his left wrist.
The cuff he had kept fastened was stained.
A narrow brown mark extended beyond the fabric onto his skin.
Dried blood.
The wheelchair was impossible to overlook. It had formed part of my first impression of him.
The stain was different.
It suggested a wound or an incident he had made no attempt to explain.
I looked at the cuff long enough for him to notice.
His gaze dropped toward his wrist, then returned to my face.
He did not apologize or conceal the mark.
"Tomaso," he said, still watching me. "Take Miss Vincenzi to her room."
"Of course."
I turned toward the door.
"Analisa."
I stopped.
"Yes?"
"Welcome to the house."
I did not answer.
I followed Tomaso into the corridor, my suitcase striking my leg as I walked.
The study doors closed behind us.
I had entered that house because of a contract, but already there were things about Cedric Spedaro that the contract could not explain.
The following morning, I woke before the alarm.
The bedroom in the east wing was enormous, furnished with dark velvet curtains, a canopy bed, lavender-scented sheets, and a Persian rug that looked more expensive than several years of my old salary.
I lay awake examining the elaborate floral moldings on the ceiling.
At 8:00 a.m., I went downstairs.
The dining room contained a long oak table with seating for approximately 20 people, although only 2 places had been set.
Cedric was already seated at the head.
His wheelchair was positioned at the correct height for the table, with his arm resting comfortably near the edge.
He wore a navy-blue shirt with both sleeves rolled to his elbows.
There was no visible blood.
"Good morning," he said without looking up from his newspaper.
"Good morning."
I sat to his right.
A housekeeper in a gray uniform brought coffee. Another appeared with bread, butter, and eggs.
"I don't eat eggs in the morning," I said.
The woman hesitated.
"What would you prefer, ma'am?"
"Just coffee and bread."
"Of course."
Cedric turned a newspaper page.
"The kitchen will learn," he remarked. "In 3 days, no 1 will bring you eggs again."
"The kitchen already erred in serving what I didn't ask for."
"The kitchen got it right in serving what you serve someone it doesn't yet know."
He folded the newspaper and looked at me.
"Learning is different from erring."
I stirred my coffee without answering.
Tomaso entered carrying a folder.
He greeted me with a nod and pulled out a chair.
"Ma'am."
"Tomaso."
"Already on a first-name basis," Cedric observed.
"What progress."
"Since you won't give me 1, I use what I have on hand," Tomaso replied.
Cedric almost smiled.
I noticed how easily Tomaso spoke to him.
For a man reputed to demand unquestioning obedience, Cedric permitted an unusual amount of familiarity from his lawyer.
I reached toward the silver sugar bowl.
Then, deliberately, I moved my hand just far enough to overturn it.
Sugar scattered across the white tablecloth.
A few grains reached Cedric's plate.
Tomaso raised an eyebrow.
Cedric continued reading.
"Mariana, please."
The housekeeper appeared.
"Another sugar bowl for Mrs. Vincenzi. And a fresh tablecloth whenever you can."
She replaced both with quiet efficiency.
Cedric turned another page.
"If you want to test how far I react, I can save you time. I don't react to sugar."
He finally looked at me.
"I react to lies. I react to danger. I react to someone at my door without an appointment. Spilled sugar is Mariana's problem, not mine."
"It was an accident."
"It was a test."
May you like
There was a faint trace of amusement in his eyes.
"Make as many as you like. I'd rather you discover now what doesn't work than next year."
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