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As the other man sets up my connection to the internet, I watch footage of Roman confronting Jim and a group of police officers at the gates of his mansion.
The way Roman handled them was skillful, as though he’s spent a lifetime outwitting law enforcement—probably because he has. My breathing shallows as he makes a mockery of Jim, eliciting eruptions of laughter from the onlookers. He’s so confident, so fearless.
If I could have a fraction of Roman’s raw power, I wouldn’t feel so exposed.
But I’m not a mafia boss, surrounded by armed men. I’m a broke artist still reeling from Jim’s abuse. I want to trust Roman, but not even he is immune to the corrupt arm of the law.
Sweat breaks out across my brow, or maybe it’s my wet hair that keeps dripping into my face. Jim didn’t just bring a warrant for my arrest. He came with armed backup.
I’m beyond screwed.
After taking back my phone, I return to my room where I dry off and change into the La Perla lingerie, a pair of luxurious capri pants, and a silk blouse from Valentino. Everything is exactly my size, down to the Prada flats.
Either someone measured my body when I was unconscious, or Roman’s observation skills are exceptional. I shake off the thought of him watching me while I slept and leave the room to take a walk.
If I’m going to stay here, I may as well know about potential escape routes, right? Not because I plan on leaving, but no one sits in a restaurant without looking for all the exits. It’s the same principle.
The two men from outside my room direct me to the front doors and follow me at a distance.
The grounds are just as spectacular as the mansion, which isn’t surprising, considering I count at least five gardeners. A warm breeze mingles the smells of fresh-cut grass, pollen, and evergreens, reminding me I’m far away from Beaumont City.
Vibrant flowers adorn the landscape, their blooms glowing in the afternoon sun. I stroll down a stone pathway that runs along the lawn and leads to a large pond.
Standing at its edge, I watch schools of multicolored koi. They’re so mesmerizing that I kneel down to brush my fingers through the water.
“Miss?” Dominic rushes to my side, his voice tense. “Please stay back.”
Straightening, I give him a skeptical look. “Why? Are they piranhas?”
He clears his throat and glances at his companion for inspiration, who gives him a you’re-on-your-own shrug.
Whatever.
I walk around the edge of the pond and continue to the evergreen forest at the garden’s perimeter. As I step into the dense foliage, I’m hit with the overwhelming smells of juniper and damp earth.
“Where are you going?” Dominic asks from a few feet away.
My teeth snap. Does he think I’ll impale myself on a branch? Without sparing a glance in his direction, I answer, “Exploring. Is that allowed?”
He hesitates. “Sure, but wouldn’t you prefer the flower beds?”
“No.” I stride through the greenery. The ground is spongy underfoot with the occasional snap of twigs. “This is Alderney Hills, right?”
“Yeah,” he says, almost grudgingly. “You planning on reaching the highway?”
I ignore him and continue walking until the trees thin and I meet a brick wall that’s over a story high and topped with barbed wire and cables that look electric. Beyond the barrier is a line of conifers so tall I have to bend my neck backward to see their tops.
Alderney Hill is the most exclusive district in the state, with houses that date from the start of the twentieth century. Roman might be a mafia boss, but he’s also what my roommate Annalisa would call old money.
The men trail after me as I follow the wall around to a set of iron gates manned by a quartet of armored guards, complete with machine guns and jeeps. They all stop what they’re doing to stare.
My stomach plummets. Even if I wanted to escape, there’s no way I could scale that wall or get past those guards. Who knew mafia bosses warrant this level of security?
“Where are you going now?” Dominic asks, sounding like he’s already sick of being my babysitter.
“Over there.” I point into the woods on the other side of the driveway and quicken my pace.
An hour of aimless wandering confirms my suspicions. This isn’t a family home, it’s a fortress. I should feel reassured that Jim can’t get in, but there’s also no way to overlook that I can’t get out.
