Capo Di Foia Ch 04

Dear Readers;

I can't apologize enough for dropping off the face of the earth after Chapter 3. (For those who haven't read the previous chapters, you'll want to.)

Work has left me no time to write, and I feel a tremendous obligation to do justice to these two characters and the dynamic between them. The potential story arch seems overwhelming - especially now that I understand the time investment. That said, the story writes itself and like many of you, I haven't been able to put it aside.

Extraordinary thanks to those of you who haven't given up on me. I only recently discovered your encouragement and feedback via a never-checked email account. If anyone has anything to suggest or contribute, I welcome your comments and swear I will do my utmost to write back.

I hope this chapter was worth the wait... Here's to taking up the pen.

* * *

CHAPTER FOUR

Samantha's eyes blinked unwillingly as she rolled over in bed. Still half-asleep, she became aware that her arms were her own again, no longer restrained. The recognition awoke her fully; she threw off the covers and stretched for the lamp switch on the nightstand.

She was alone.

Of course she was.

The blue robe lay bunched up beneath her bare legs, a withered reminder of what transpired that night. Samantha suddenly felt weak.

He'd eaten her out... He made her come.

She sat frozen, replaying the moments of stolen intimacy. How she wished to purge the whole experience from memory...

She looked at the clock:

eleven

. She hated her room - with no windows, the space was perpetually dark and bleak. Samantha scowled. She wouldn't have slept so late if they'd given her a sliver of daylight.

Breakfast was waiting by the door, long since cold. Samantha sat up, rubbing her eyes in a daze. It was a dream. It had to be a dream. This never happened, she told herself. She forced herself up; her legs were sore. So were her wrists. She gave a hateful look at the robe before flinging it off the bed. She would shower without it.

* * *

I come to a place where all light is muted,

Which rumbles like the sea beneath a storm

When waves are buffeted by warring squalls.

And as the starlings are lifted on their wings -

She heard the door latch turn. Samantha felt her heartbeat pommel her chest in response. She set the book in her lap, glaring at the unwelcome interruption. "What do you want," she glowered at him.

Franco stepped in the room, his eyes downcast, and the door closed behind him. Brooding, as usual, she thought.

Her eyes followed him, a caged animal regarding her intruder. Her fury curled and seeped; she hated this man... and then he looked at her.

Something in the sight of it - his head bowed, eyes upturned - stirred the memory of last night. She remembered him lapping, sucking, swirling her clit as he feasted on her bare flesh. His tall composure was a stark contrast to the image that simmered in her thoughts - Franco, abject between her thighs, self-debasing in the most ardent frenzy to make her come...

Samantha flushed and looked away. She could not bear the intimacy of his gaze.

"I'm going to be away on business for the next eight days," Franco spoke. Samantha kept still, hoping her fixed expression revealed nothing. Inwardly she felt a faint stab of loneliness. "Before I leave, I need to know if there's any issue requiring my immediate attention."

Samantha's brow furrowed; she blinked in disbelief. "Umm. Okay, here's an issue. How about you've locked me away like I'm

quarantined

in this fucking room?? There's an issue."

Anger, or something like it, flashed in his eyes - a dark reminder of the fear she

should

hold for this deadly creature. In that glare, Samantha was given all the warning she could need.

She looked down, hesitating. "...Well you asked me. I'm just saying I

hate

it here," she closed the book in front of her. "There's nothing for me to do but read. It's dead-quiet, all the time..." she trailed off. She sounded more plaintive than she intended.

As if he would even care..

"I'm just saying, maybe a day-trip or some music or

something

..." she muttered.

Franco looked down, as if weighing her words. Then he spoke again.

"What are you reading?" His eyes darted to the book on her lap.

"Everything," she answered sullenly, refusing to meet his gaze. The room was quiet.

"I'm on Dante's

Inferno

," she continued, in an attempt to fill the silence. "Thought it was apropos," she added for her own satisfaction.

"

Gran duol mi prese al cor quando lo 'ntesi

," Franco spoke in melodic Italian. The foreign cadence of his voice caught Samantha off-guard. "

Peró che gente di molto valore conobbi che 'n quel limbo eran sospesi

." Her high-school French was no help discerning the words.

"What's that supposed to mean," she demanded.

"

The Divine Comedie

," he replied. "You lose so much in the translation."

"Well I don't speak Italian," she answered curtly.

"You serve on a task force for Organized Crime."

"I think it's safe to say most of you assholes speak English," Samantha said dryly. If Franco heard the retort, he did not show it.

A beat. "...You studied Dante?" she asked grudgingly.

"Passages of the Inferno were required reading in Catholic school. The ministry thrives on a weighty dose of fear," he paused, lost in reflection. "It wasn't until college that I could say I fully studied it."

Samantha watched him cautiously. During her investigation, she had speculated on his background; little was known beyond his family's biographical data and Franco's solitary arrest record - a single assault charge, no less.

Even then, he was hard to read

, she mused. She needed to know more; anything he gave her was a potential lead.

"Are you religious?" she asked.

"No," he answered.

"Not anymore, you mean."

Silence. His eyes offered no explanation.

"Where did you go to school?" Samantha ventured.

"I received my undergrad at University of Bologna," Franco responded, "before studying economics and philosophy at UCL."

"California?" Samantha was surprised at this.

"... University College London," Franco replied. Samantha grimaced inwardly.

She re-opened her book in a vain attempt to mask her surprise. He was educated; this was not the life she'd imagined for her subject. It was a rare occasion Samantha felt intellectually bested, least of all by a mob boss. She considered her next approach.

"You're more of the Nietzsche persuasion."

Franco watched her. "How do you mean?"

"God is dead." She looked up at him. "It's easier to kill and extort and corrupt when there's no value system in place."

"You seem to have no qualms killing under yours," Franco responded.

Samantha was ruffled. He knew about the shooting. "

My

value system?"

"The government to which you've sworn 'true faith and allegiance' has stolen more money, killed more innocents and corrupted more completely than few entities ever will," Franco answered.

He continued. "If you read Nietzsche you'd understand that's exactly what he meant. We

killed

god, and in killing him resigned ourselves to chaos and decline. That's why we build our own gods. Like everyone else, Samantha, you made your own code."

Samantha stared at him, scowling. She hated being lectured to.

"No. Not everything in the universe is subjective - there are laws and absolutes - even in science, that's a given -"

He cut her off. "Nietzsche would tell you science is man-made, like every other god we fabricate - philosophy, psychology, karma." He spoke with a grating air poise and self-assurance.

"But it's so much easier to employ a prescription, a methodology for

being

, for hope, isn't it, Samantha. Constructs like that make it easy to ward off the darkest depths of human truth," Franco's eyes narrowed. "I've come to see the world for what it is, and I have no tolerance for institutions that delude and enslave their followers."

His condescension was grating. "So what's your god?" she retorted.

"Power." he answered, and the word silenced all protestation.

"Loyalty and power are the only concrete objectives that will give you anything in life," he continued. "You're far too bright to bank on idealism." He paused. "And you cling to it, oblivious to its origins or where it might leave you." He stepped closer toward her. "You would be very wise, Samantha, to let that go."

Samantha glared at him, unyielding. What sense was there debating ethics with a sociopath?

Franco turned toward the door. "Unless you're hell-bent on further discussing moral imperatives, I should be leaving."

"-Wait." Franco paused. Samantha instantly regretted her entreaty.

He turned. "Samantha?" The gleam in his eyes betrayed his cool demeanor.

"I need to ask you something." She felt overwhelmed by shyness; she rallied her senses and pushed forward.

"What you did last night..." Franco's expression became one of keen interest as Samantha struggled to find the words. It didn't make any sense.

Tying her down taut to the bedpost against her will, then licking her exposed pussy until she careened with pleasure...

"What d-... Why did you do that to me??" she finally blurted out.

Franco was unphased. "And what would you say I

did

to you, Samantha?" he asked, stalking forward.

She looked away. He wanted her to recount his offenses; she would not indulge it.

"You

know

what you did," she answered coldly. She hesitated, staring down. She saw no words, only tissue-thin white pages imprinted with stark, black typeface. "You did that against my will," she said.

"Is that what you think, Samantha?" Franco replied, assured in the knowledge of what she could not say. "Never before has a woman

come so hard

for her aggressor," he admonished.

Samantha shook her head - she could not allow this perverse thought process to go unchecked. She was a victim. Abusers, assailants always tried to lay blame on the victims.

"I never asked for that. I told you to stop - why else would you have to tie me down?" she retorted, standing to her feet.

She could tell by his smirk there was ammunition in something she said. "Because you would not have let me pleasure you otherwise."

"Exactly! I wouldn't have LET YOU!" Her spite was swelling like vitriol inside her. "Look at yourself! How

desperate

does a man have to be -"

"Make no mistake," Franco spoke softly, but his words easily overtook her. "Tying you down was no prerequisite for pleasuring you. Only two nights ago you stood stripped and sopping,

begging

me to fuck you like the

beautiful

whore you are. If

fucking you

was all I was after, I'd have done it sixty times by now."

Samantha could only stand helpless as his words assailed her.

"I tied you up, Samantha, as you wouldn't have let me pleasure you

in that way

of your own free will. You feel too ashamed, too embarrassed to ever let a man put his mouth on you. When was the last time you came that way?"

She ignored the question. It was true. She hated letting a man go down on her. For as much as her lovers coaxed or begged, the experience was shamefully uncomfortable - as sublime as the pleasure always was. Samantha eyed her captor. She didn't know how he'd come upon this intimate knowledge - reading through personal emails, interviewing ex-lovers - but he knew.

Franco stepped closer until he towered over her. "But you

love

getting your pussy licked, don't you," he admonished. His dark eyes undressed her as he spoke. His scent was her undoing.

Samantha could only nod.

"Answer me." The way he spoke the words made her slave to his bidding.

"I love getting my pussy licked," she spoke softly.

"Just saying that makes you uncomfortable, doesn't it." Franco's gaze seared her to the core. Samantha nodded, her pulse throbbing.

He touched her cheek, stroking softly with his thumb. "I have every intention of assaulting your senses until those reservations crumble and your inhibitions wholly surrender. By the time I'm done with you, Samantha, you'll be screaming for me to eat that beautiful pussy."

Samantha's countenance had clouded with a sordid depth of confusion and desire.

"I'll be back in eight days," he whispered against her cheek, and left the room.

Samantha hated his departure more bitterly than his arrival.

***

Samantha lay in bed, two days later, when she heard a deep rumble rolling down the hallway. She wondered idly what they were moving; she heard men's voices in consultation, then grunting as they heaved their freight - whatever it was, it was heavy. She imagined it was a large safe. Or stone? From what little she'd seen of the house, Franco had amassed a vast collection of art and antiquities - necessary outlets for money-laundering.

She considered what the bureau might do with the items seized.They'd reap a healthy chunk of change - even by their standards. She thought about Franco's entire collection at auction.

The rumbling came nearer and nearer. She sat up, straining to hear the voices outside her door. Then it opened.

Jack

. It spoke to her degree of isolation that the man's familiar face and kind gray eyes brought such a surge of comfort.

"Sorry to interrupt you, Ms. Brier." He sounded sincere; the gravelly timber of his voice reminded her of an old teacher in high school. In different circumstances, she would have liked to have known this man.

"Hey, Jack. You're fine - I think it's pretty obvious I've got nothing going on," she said, getting up off the bed. Two of Franco's men followed into the room.

"I've been asked to oversee a delivery," he said. "I think it goes without saying, but I would appreciate your not stabbing anybody while we move this in."

"Okay..." Her curiosity was piqued. "What is it?"

Jack looked to the door as the two men wheeled in the cargo. She eyed them, briefly assessing their loyalty; their stern expressions told her they worked for him.

Just like everyone else.

Carefully, the movers hoisted the shipment on its side. As they did, she heard a distantly familiar cascade of string chords. Samantha stepped forward. Underneath the moving blanket, an exposed glint of sleek black caught her eye.

He couldn't have.

Samantha inhaled and nodded dumbly when they pointed to a corner of her room.

She stood transfixed as they loosened the belts and removed the blanket, revealing the gleaming body of a magnificent grand piano. On its side, the beast towered over her. As the men adeptly fixed two of the legs into place, Samantha approached. She took in the tower of black and white keys and grazed the black paneling in reverence with her fingertips. It was a Steinway.

"I take it you play?" Jack's voice awoke her from reverie.

Samantha nodded. "We used to have one - not like this." She swallowed. "I haven't played in years."

Franco's lackeys helped the movers heave the instrument onto its feet, lifting it carefully onto the ground. One of the men fetched the bench just outside the door while the other attached the third leg.

She could feel Jack surveying her as she dared to touch they keys. Timidly, she pressed her index finger against middle C, testing the key's resistance. She pushed harder, and the hammer struck the clearest, most resonant note she'd ever heard. A chord now, and the reverberating strings sang in joyful response. D, F♯ - even the highest octaves trinkled in perfect mirth. There was no finer instrument.

Samantha realized the men were all watching, and looked up, bashful.

"It's beautiful," she muttered.

"Ms. Brier, we'll leave the two of you alone," Jack said and the men began to clear out of the room. "I trust you'll let us know if you need anything."

She found herself thanking him, before it crossed her mind how stupid gratitude sounded in these circumstances.

The door closed. Samantha stood alone with her new grand piano.

Franco. This was his gift to her.

He bought me a piano...

She ought to loathe it - if it weren't so achingly spectacular.

Samantha sat, letting her fingers splay out onto the keys. They felt smooth and reassuring, responsive to her touch. She sampled a few notes before trying a song she'd committed to memory. She felt her soul - lifting - as the familiar melody began to play out in tender resplendence. Then a brash discord of notes as her fingers fumbled on the keys. She replayed the sequence, three times, to smooth it out before realizing her hands no longer remembered the rest of the song. She paused, tried to sample the keys for the right notes but her muscle memory failed to recall the rest.

She attempted an easier piece - Canon in D - and the room was effulgent in sound until she stumbled on one of the variations. She tried reworking it, but as soon as she figured out the treble clef the series of notes for her left hand clanged discordantly in error.

Samantha had forgotten it all.

She recalled her mother, harping on her after dinner to practice. Samantha loved to play - hated practice until, after years of mom's encouragement and discipline, the lessons became less regimented and the music more soothing. She had progressed much further than her mother's labored sight-reading, and Samantha remembered the warmth of her body on the shared wooden bench as she would play each of mom's requests while she softly sang along...

She missed her mother.

Her hands retreated from the keys and she sat in vapid silence.

Until a thought brushed her mind.

Samantha stood up from the bench and lifted the leather seat. She grinned, triumphant, at the stack of sheet music awaiting her discovery.

Brahms, Bach, Gershwin

... A wealth of material, and hours upon hours of concentrated escape.

***

Over the next week, one might have mistaken a music teacher to live in Samantha's room. Music was a perpetual constant drifting down the hallway. Awkward and leaden at first, the pieces were fleshed out until - gradually - they began to flow in more resplendent strains.

Samantha devoted herself wholly to her practice, taking her meals at the bench - her eyes flashing through notes that became progressively easier to read. By the sixth day, she'd relearned Moonlight Sonata, mastered two pieces by Mozart, and determined she decisively adored playing Chopin.

Time no longer dripped in agonizing perpetuity. Samantha discovered a sacred intimacy - a solace - with her new companion. In supplication she sat before its keys, her own disciplinarian, until every slip and blunder was made perfect; and then emotion - anger, loneliness, despair - bled from her soul, spilling out in melodic consummation, alternately tender and turbulent.

Samantha sat in the stillness after one such practice when she heard a soft scrape near her door. She turned to find a white envelope on the hardwood floor. She could only restrain herself a matter of seconds before lunging to retrieve the bait.

The envelope was heavy, made of fine parchment. The flap was affixed with a blood-red seal, an ornate crest pressed into the cold, hardened wax. Impatiently, Samantha ripped it open; a single notecard with finely-inked lettering lay inside. The handwriting was unfamiliar, but she knew its hand.

Seven days prove an interminable distance from your scarlet temperament.

Grant me the pleasure of your company tomorrow evening. Dinner at 8 p.m.

-G

"The fucking Middle Ages..." Samantha muttered to herself, ignoring the swell of anxiety in her chest.

He wanted her for dinner. She scanned her room: the plate of leftover crusts and crumbs on the piano, hundreds of books still untouched on the shelves; she hadn't even made her bed today. Samantha realized she would do anything for a break from this prison - even if it meant breaking bread with Franco.