Chapter 4 I HATE YOU

The afternoon sun, a warm weight on his skin, did little to ease the coldness of Carlo Armani's thoughts.

He leaned back in the chair, the plastic webbing cool against his damp back.

Carlo's eyes keenly observed the constant lapping of water against the pool's edge, like a feeble attempt to break free.

It reminded him of cages, confinement, traps.

And oh, how Carlo loved traps.

The faint smell of swimming pool chlorine mixed with the acrid smoke from the cigarette in his hand.

He took a slow drag, the ember a tiny angry eye in the daylight, the smoke harsh in his lungs.

The woman beside him laughed and turned to him.

"Isn't that so, Carlo?" She asked with a touch on his broad chest, light and lingering, clamoring for his attention.

He offered a grunt in nonchalant response, his gaze fixed on the shimmering surface of the blue pool.

But Carlo wasn't seeing the pool, he was seeing the murky depths of Project Nightingale.

Thomas Walton.

The name itself was a key, unlocking a cascade of unthinkable schemes, dangerous, maneuvering and reaching into the highest echelons of power.

Project Nightingale. It sounded so deceptively innocent, until just a glimpse was revealed.

And how many layers were there? He wondered.

How many institutions and government bodies were unknowingly or knowingly complicit, all puppets on Walton's strings, dancing to a tune of chaos that would leave the unsuspecting world floundering.

He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it dissipate against the flawless blue sky.

Under normal circumstances, the mafia wouldn't have cared less about Walton and a million conspiracy theories.

But Walton's biggest undoing was allowing his project to affect the mafia and their business empire.

Don Mario sent men to "speak" with him, give him their peace offer and even threats if he didn't comply.

But all Walton had done was blatantly reject their offers to their face, a confident move he dared to pull.

Walton knew he was untouchable.

Or so he thought.

Carlo took a deep drag from his cigarette.

But maybe it was true, Walton was indeed the most powerful man in the country when it came to alliances and affiliations with everyone who was to be reckoned with.

Carlo's memory flashed back to some meetings they had with some officials two weeks ago, where they had tried to convince the Customs officials to undo whatever strings Thomas had pulled with them.

Why did the government bodies seem to never want to offend the CEO of Walton Inc?

Why did the financial and political institutions tense up and tremble when his name got mentioned?

A crease formed on Carlo's forehead.

What if it wasn't because they merely respected or loved him?

What if... Walton had a knowledge weaponised to make them too scared to step on his toes?

Was this a pointer to something deeper than they thought they knew? Project Nightingale!

He sat up like he had just seen a ghost; his hand grabbed his phone on the stool beside him.

He had to speak with the boss now.

The mafia might have just found the way to destroy Walton for good.

**********

Amy jolted awake from her nap.

She kept her eyes wide open for some seconds as if she was scared that he would come back if they went shut again.

The nightmare came flooding her memory, reliving the blackening void that almost overcame her struggling figure, as he oppressed her in the nightmare. She could still feel the blackness spreading up from her chest to her head, threatening to unalive her.

Until she woke up.

Just then, she heard the doorknob twisting. Oh God, no please. Not him again.

She lay still on the bed, not daring to move an inch as she heard his footsteps coming closer.

She squeezed her eyes shut and hoped he would think she was asleep.

God not again today, Amy prayed silently.

For the past 6 days, she had begun to dread the sound of her doorknob turning on the heavy mahogany door, ushering Thomas in to 'claim his property'.

7pm, every evening. Thomas never failed to come.

She had cried the previous day and the day before that, and definitely she would feel much worse if he decided to take her again today.

If he decided to.

She prayed he didn't. All she had to do was pretend to be asleep, and he might leave her room.

"You can't fool me, Wilson. I know how you breathe when you're asleep," he remarked, a smirk audible from his tone.

Amy's heart skipped a beat but she was determined to keep up her act until he would believe her and leave.

Thomas leaned over to her supposedly sleeping face.

"I had a bad time with some troublesome clients on a business deal today.

But there was just one thought keeping me through; that my prize was sitting pretty at home, waiting to be claimed.

"But now I get home and my prize is pretending to be asleep. Not really fair to the owner of the prize, is it?" he chuckled.

Amy's breath was beginning to lose rhythm, a function of her accelerating heartbeat. Her eyes were still shut, determined to keep up the act.

But Thomas had no such patience for that.

He yanked her up by her arm and stared at her with a cool expression.

It was not the icy glare today, Amy noticed.

"Take your clothes off," he ordered.

Her heart sank to her stomach.

"Can I have a break today, please. I can't handle 7 days in a row," she lamented.

His expression didn't change.

"I don't care."

"You have to hear me out today, please. I'm sore." she voiced out meekly.

Thomas looked down to her chest.

"I could rip your dress apart in mere seconds. If you don't take it off, I mean."

"But can't you understand? I'll be in pain," Amy's eyes started to glisten with tears.

Thomas pursed his lips, staring solemnly at her.

He gave a long sigh. One would think he was considering her plea. But hell no.

"You do realize you are breaching our contract, Wilson," he reminded her, with one eyebrow raised cockily.

Amy swallowed hard. He was right, she owed him everything she signed in that contract, all of her being, in other words.

She gave him her consent, after all.

She masked her whole emotional charade and fell silent, taking off the pieces from her body.

Thomas pushed her back to lay on the bed, leaning back to enjoy the view of her body before him.

She was his, and he would take her however he wanted.

He took her two hands, fastening them above her head and held her waist as he savoured every single thrust.

It seemed like there was something unseen, unexplainable, translating into this intense sexual energy.

The previous day Amy had screamed her lungs out, pleading for him to stop but all he did was thrust even harder, his hand on her hair with a smug look on his face.

But today she had realised he savoured the sound of her pleas and Amy refused to give him any of such satisfaction.

She squeezed hard on the thick duvet; deliberate and not letting any sob escape her mouth.

She realised how she had come to hate him in just 7 days.

She hated the sight of him at the dining table every evening,

Hated the way he walked through her door in the evenings after he was back from the office,

Hated how he sent her new dresses and lingeries only to rip them off her body whenever he wanted,

Hated the smirk on his face whenever he was satisfied with having his way.

The minutes flew by much easier with hateful thoughts in her mind.

Thomas fastened his trousers ready to leave her room. He was done, his mission accomplished.

But he had an announcement to make.

"Get ready, there's a dinner event tonight. We leave in an hour."

He was about to reach for the door knob when he heard Amy's voice behind him.

"I hate you."

She was weak but loud enough for him to hear, her voice definite-her gaze at him unwavering.

He smirked at her like he used to, the regular way of communicating his nonchalance.

But this smirk was not Thomas Walton's usual smirk.

His eyes. They were no longer cold and nonchalant. In fact, they twitched.

*** ****

Amy emptied the whole bottle of body wash and fragrances into the warm bathtub, as she usually did after he was done with her every evening.

Not that she cared though; the servants would replace them the next morning.

Obviously, Thomas had too much money he could never notice the cost of a few bottles of body wash.

All she wished for was that the memories should be washed away with each bubble.

She took less time in the bath this evening, not wanting any of Thomas's insults about her being dumb or slow.

If that happened, she would definitely snap back at him and he would lose his temper at her.

And bad things happened whenever he lost his temper.

Just like she expected, she met an assembled outfit for the evening on her bed.

There was a maroon designer dress with a boat neckline, a simple pearl necklace and matching pearl earrings, a complete makeup kit and an unopened box of perfume.

A Chanel purse sat pretty at the edge of the bed too.

On the floor was a pair of beige coloured pumps. She picked one up, examining the height of the heel. Not too high, thankfully.

The red bottom of the shoe caught her attention-these were the popular Christian Louboutin pumps, the dream shoe of ladies who knew the trends and fashion.

She blinked, trying to assimilate the fact that she was going to be dressed in luxury designers this evening.

After a mental calculation of the worth of her whole evening outfit, Amy realised that the $80,000 for Debby's surgery was mere chicken change to Walton.

So why didn't he just help and let her go? Why was he being evil to her for it?

The reason, as Amy would soon discover, would shock her very much.