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A shiver runs down my spine, and I retreat.
Roman said I wasn’t a prisoner, but why do I feel trapped? I pick up the phone and dial Annalisa’s number, but a mechanical voice tells me I need credit to complete the call.
My jaw clenches. What’s the point of having a phone that can’t make any calls? I try accessing the internet, but the Wi-Fi is password protected.
Paranoia rises to the surface, making my heart pound. Everything so far is adding up to me being held captive, from the men stationed not-quite outside my door, the expensive clothes, to the phone that’s as good as a fucking brick.
I shove the device into my pocket, adjust my bathrobe, and walk outside.
Sure enough, the two men stop talking and step closer as though they’ve been ordered to keep me from escaping.
“What can I do for you, Miss?” asks a giant of a man with cropped black hair and a nose broken in two places.
“Did Roman tell you to keep an eye on me?” I ask.
The man’s face morphs into a neutral mask. “Mr. Montesano just wants to make sure you’re safe.”
I flinch. “Safe from what?”
They exchange glances before the smaller of the pair speaks. He’s a wiry man with a pencil mustache. “The boss was worried you might hurt yourself again.”
“What do you?—”
Realization hits me like a slap and my jaw drops. Do they think I’m suicidal? “Roman can’t believe I’m going to do something stupid, can he?”
The large one’s shoulders rise to his ears. “I saw you this morning on the balcony. Mr. Montesano just wants to make sure nothing like that happens again.”
Heat flares across my cheeks and races down to my chest. “I’m not about to jump from the ground floor.”
The men’s eyes meet again. One of them even rubs the back of his neck before turning vaguely in my direction.
“We’re just following orders, Miss,” he says, avoiding eye contact.
I grind my teeth, not quite believing this bullshit. There are a dozen ways I could off myself if I was really trying. The housekeeper left me with cutlery and breakable china, I could have swallowed any of the chemicals in the bathroom or fashioned the items in the bedroom into a noose.
Explaining this will only further convince them I’m a danger to myself, so I bite my tongue.
“Can I at least have the Wi-Fi password?” I ask.
The large one narrows his eyes, and it takes every effort not to explode into a temper and punch another dent in his nose.
“Am I a prisoner?” I ask.
He rears back. “No, Miss.”
“Then why can’t I have the internet?”
He doesn’t answer, and I know why. Roman doesn’t want me emailing anyone for help. The man has more red flags than a communist parade, starting with the fact that he’s a mafia boss.
Alarm bells ring through my ears, warning me to take drastic action. I suck in a deep breath and force down a rise of panic. These men are only doing their job. If I’m going to scream at anyone, it should be Roman.
“Could you call him, please?” I ask from between clenched teeth. They both give me blank looks before I clarify. “Roman Montesano?”
The smaller of the pair pulls out his phone, takes a few steps away and starts dialing, while his larger colleague steps in front of me to block my path.
My lips tighten, and I refrain from rolling my eyes.
Whatever.
