Devil’s Lily: Chapter 13

My spine crackles with tension as we take a turn onto what looks like a main street, cruising past a canyon of towering buildings before finally pulling to a stop in front of a stark white condominium.

Maximo, ever the ‘gentleman’, extends his hand to help me out. I deliberately slide out from my side instead, pretending not to notice his outstretched fingers. The concrete is cool under my bare feet—another indignity of this forced marriage. No shoes, no phone, no freedom.

“You have to stop doing that,” he grits out as he leads me into the lavishly decorated lobby.

Oh, I plan to keep doing that. There’s no way in hell I’m ever holding hands with him again. It’s bad enough that I have to fulfill marital obligations to the person threatening me—and that he can make me enjoy the damn thing. I draw the line at holding hands and other intimate things.

“In case you haven’t noticed Maximo, I can walk perfectly fine without your assistance, so I’m going to keep ignoring your hand,” I say as I follow him towards the elevators.

He jabs the call button hard enough to crack it, and I bite back a smirk. At least something’s getting under his skin.

The elevator arrives with a soft ding that seems too cheerful for my current situation. As we step inside, I notice his usual shadow squad isn’t following. “What about the others?” The question slips out before I can stop it, and I internally curse my curiosity.

“I have to leave soon to deal with something urgent that’s come up, so they’re waiting for me in the car. I’m just going to drop you at home and introduce you to the guys.”

The guys? I frown. If his operation is anything like Atë’s, we’re talking about a small army.

We’re silent the whole ride up to the penthouse. He seems to have an obsession with penthouses. What is it with this man and being above everyone else? Some kind of god complex? I guess my read on him back at the park was spot on, after all.

The elevator opens into a large, airy hallway filled with about six men who look like they bench press cars for fun—two standing guard by an oversized set of double doors, and four patrolling up and down.

As soon as they spot us, they all snap into position, and it’s almost reflex when I shuffle behind Maximo, not all comfortable with the sudden wave of attention. How is that for irony—hiding behind my kidnapper from his own men. What has my life become?

Maximo’s not having it. His hand finds my arm, and suddenly I’m being yanked forward until I’m standing next to him. “You’re my wife now, Elira. Your place is beside me, not behind me.” His voice is firm, but before I can retort, he’s turning to his men and speaking to them in Italian.

Frustration bubbles up inside me. I hate not being able to understand what he’s saying, so I lean into him and pinch his arm to grab his attention. “It’s rude speaking Italian when I’m standing right here.”

He gives me a thoughtful look, but then, surprisingly, he switches to English. “This is my wife, Mrs. Leonotti. Your queen.”

The men, who were already throwing me curious glances, now stare at me directly, studying me like I’m some rare specimen in a zoo. I fight the urge to shrink back, painfully aware that I’m still in Maximo’s oversized clothes—probably looking more like a kid playing dress-up than any kind of queen. But no way I’m letting them see my discomfort. Instead, I lift my chin, channeling the confidence of the queen he’s just dubbed me. You want a queen? I’ll give you a queen.

“You’ll treat her with the same reverence and respect you give me… or else.” Maximo’s words catch me off guard. I half-expected him to unleash some tyrannical lecture, but this isn’t bad at all.

Well, well. Maybe being the ‘queen’ has some perks after all.

My mind immediately starts calculating how I might use this to my advantage—maybe get access to one of their phones?

The men nod, and one by one, they parade forward for introductions. I try to memorize their names and faces, but after the first three, everyone just jumbles up together.

Marco, Giuseppe, Antonio… or was it Angelo? I give up trying to track them and just nod regally at each one.

Once the introductions wrap up, Maximo opens the door and leads me through a beautiful foyer into a spacious open-concept living area that flows seamlessly into the kitchen and dining room, with only fancy sliding glass doors separating each space.

My gaze is immediately drawn to the kitchen, where marble and navy countertops gleam, and a big industrial-grade oven has my eyes popping and salivation pooling in my mouth. So pretty! I can already picture myself baking all sorts of delicious treats in there. Maybe some shëndetlie, layered with some creamy yogurt and topped with crushed nuts, or trileç with⁠—

“Come on.” Maximo says, and I scurry after him, almost tripping over my own feet to keep up with his brisk pace. We go up the stairs to the first floor, which opens into a hallway similar to the one outside, except this one has some stunning artwork on the wall that deserves a second look. But no time for that now—I’m too busy trying not to lose him.

He opens one of the doors and gestures inside. “This will be your room.”

I slowly walk inside to take it in the space that’s meant to be my new ‘home’. It’s… annoyingly beautiful, actually. Beige walls that somehow manage to look elegant instead of boring, an electric fireplace that casts a warm glow across the double bed. And then there’s a small vanity mirror, loaded with beauty products. My feet carry me to the vanity, fingers trailing over unfamiliar bottles and compacts. Did they rob a makeup counter or something?

“I don’t know what you use, so Marco just bought a bunch of items. Make a list of whatever you’ll need, and he’ll get them for you.” I glance back to catch Maximo checking his watch, looking every bit as impatient as he sounds. “I really have to go now. When I’m back, I’ll give you a tour if you want. I’ll have someone wait for you downstairs.”

And with that, he’s gone, leaving me alone in a room that feels as much a gift as a cage.

I eye the makeup collection with all the enthusiasm of a cat being offered a salad, then turn my attention to the two mysterious doors in the room. I push open door number one, half-expecting a bathroom fit for royalty, maybe even a golden toilet just to drive the point home. Instead, I’m met with… well, just a bathroom. Nice, sure, but considering the grandeur of everything else in this place, this feels almost disappointing.

A single sink, a small glass shower, an equally compact bathtub, and a normal toilet. That’s it. Not even a heated towel rack or one of those fancy rain showers. I bite back a laugh. Here I am, practically expecting a spa when I should just be thankful to have the basics.

Inside the shower, though—that’s where things get interesting. It’s stocked with enough products to fill a small boutique. I brush my fingers over a plush white robe hanging next to the door, the tag still on it. Then I start opening bottles, one after another, letting the scents swirl around me—lavender, citrus, something that’s probably way too floral but still nice. My favorites go back into the shower, and the rejects end up in a pile on the bed. I’ll take them to the men outside when I’m done exploring—no point in wasting expensive products I’ll never use.

Finally, I turn to the second door. When I reach for the handle, my hand actually hesitates on the knob. Please don’t be a Red Room of Pain. I push it open and… Oh.

It’s a closet. No, scratch that—it’s what my closet dreams to be when it grows up. Rows upon rows of female clothes. I hesitate, wondering if someone used to occupy this room, but as I go inside and finger the first cashmere coat, my gaze snags on the tag. All the clothes are still tagged, all horrifyingly expensive, all… exactly my size? A chill runs down my spine.

How did he so accurately guess my size?

Most of the clothes are dresses and skirts with only a few slacks and sweatpants, no jeans. But they all scream designer. Just as I’m about to leave, my eyes zone in on the rows of items on the side shelf, looking suspiciously like the gift bags Maximo had on my birthday.

“No freaking way,” I whisper as I creep towards them like they might suddenly spring up and attack me. One peek inside the first bag confirms it—a set of lingerie I remember all too well. I snap it shut and back out, then spin around to leave, closing the door behind me with a decisive clink. Out of sight, out of mind.

But my brain, won’t let me forget about Maximo’s rushed exit. Why was he in such a hurry? What if my father had somehow found out he kidnapped me and he’s now trying to retaliate?

Worry settles at the base of my spine.

I hope Atë doesn’t get hurt if that’s the case. Please, please don’t let them kill each other. My father, despite his many flaws, is a very principled man, and I know until he’s sure I’m safe he won’t do anything drastic. But Maximo… he’s a whole other story. I barely know the guy, and from what I do know, he can be a heartless bastard when he wants to be.

Take, for example, his little ‘no family contact’ rule. Just because he likes the idea of them being worried about me.

My brain keeps going. What if Atë called Roan back to Queens so they could look for me together? My heart pounds at the thought. My brother’s fuse is even shorter than mine, and he’s almost as overprotective as Atë, if not worse. If they somehow suspect I’m with Maximo… there’s no telling what he might do.

Another flicker of worry rises in my chest, and I ruthlessly push it down as soon as it appears. If Roan hurts Maximo, he has it coming.

“I’m only worried about him because I doubt I’ll be allowed to leave here without his order,” I mutter to myself, as if saying it out loud will help push away the nagging thoughts. But they don’t budge.

I glance around the room again, filled with angst for my father and brother. They’re the only family I have left. I can’t lose them. Heck, I married Maximo because I can’t lose them.

Maximo got what he wanted. But what if he goes back on our deal? He went back on his word once. Shit, shit, shit. I should have made him sign something too, but I didn’t think this far ahead.

Panic starts clawing up my throat, legs jiggling as my brain goes wild with different scenarios of my husband killing my family. What if⁠—

No. Stop.

I need a distraction before I drive myself crazy.

The Kitchen. Yes. Baking will get my mind off things for now.

I leave the bedroom in a hurry, but as I walk down the hallway, my legs pull to a stop, drawn to the last painting on the wall just before the stairway—a beautiful oil portrait of a lush Lily of the Valley.

It reminds me of his restaurant’s sign, where the very same flower is painted next to Mughetto—even the name literally means ‘lily of the valley’ in Italian. It also reminds me of his tattoo.

I only got a brief glimpse of it before he distracted me, but I remember seeing the flower inked on his arm amidst the array of other flowers. Why that flower? What’s the story there? For a man like Maximo, it feels out of place…

I quickly shake my head. “I don’t care, I don’t care.” I don’t give a shit about him or his story. I’m not going to be curious.

Downstairs, true to Maximo’s words, a man is waiting. He leaps off the sofa when he sees me, watching me carefully. He has curly dark hair cropped on the sides of his head, brown eyes, and a crooked nose. What’s his name again? I remember meeting him in the hallway earlier, but for the life of me, I can’t recall.

As I walk into the room, I clear my throat, unsure if I should address him or not. Instead, I wave him down like I really am a queen and make my way towards the kitchen area. The glass doors are already open, so I just glide inside, feeling my babysitter’s eyes drilling a hole into my shoulder blades as I throw open cabinet after cabinet. Empty. Empty. Empty.

Are you kidding me?

I frown, glancing around the beautiful kitchen in utter disbelief. How can everything be empty? I march over to the fridge, practically gasping when I fling it open. Just a few bottles of water and some beers glares back at me. This is a kitchen? More like a desert island.

“Is something the matter?” my babysitter asks, getting to his feet and walking towards me.

I turn to face him, hand on my hip. “What do you guys eat?”

He shrugs, looking a bit sheepish. “We’re rarely inside the apartment, so we just order in or take turns eating at a restaurant. Are you hungry, ma’am?”

I’m so distraught, I let him calling me ‘ma’am’ slide. “No. But I need a lot of stuff in here. Groceries, baking supplies⁠—”

Maximo’s words come back to me. Make a list of what you need and Marco will get them.

“Get me Marco,” I command, feeling rather pleased with myself.

The man’s brows furrow. “I am Marco.”

Oh. Heat creeps up my neck, but I barrel on. “Right. Of course, you are. I need a pen and paper so I can write you the list of what to get. Maximo said you bought the makeup products in my room?”

The tips of his ears go red, like he’s embarrassed about that, as he nods. “Yes. But we’ll have to wait for the boss to give his permission before I can go get anything else, and he’s given us instructions not to call him unless it’s very important.”

Something in me snaps. All the fear, the worry, the helplessness of the day crystalizes into pure, crystalline rage. What, I can’t even bake if I want to? “Who am I, Marco? The boss’s wife.” Even though I’m an unwilling wife, I’m still his wife, damn it. “And who do you think will be in charge here when the boss isn’t around? Me. What did Maximo say? Treat me like you would treat him?”

The transformation is immediate. Marco straightens like someone attached strings to his spine, whipping out a phone jotter faster than I can blink. “Type what you want in there.”

I accept the phone with narrowed eyes, still a little pissed from his earlier resistance.

If Maximo has a problem with his wife sending his men to buy groceries with his money, he can take it up with me when he gets back home. My fingers attack the keypad with savage satisfaction. Let’s see just how much damage I can do to his credit card while he’s gone.

After all, a queen needs her kitchen properly stocked, doesn’t she?