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“One of you two had better call your boss because I won’t stop smashing up his fancy mansion until you put him on the phone.”
When neither of them makes a move, I stab through the TV screen, expecting one of them to yell or even pick up the phone. They continue watching, so I slash at the curtains. I pick up a vase and throw it at the two men, making them duck out of the doorway.
My heart pounds, and voices filter through the sounds of carnage. Maybe one of them called Roman at the first sign of smashing glass?
A little voice in the back of my head tells me I’m acting crazy. This behavior is whiny, childish, ungrateful. I ask that voice what it would do if it were held captive by a mafia boss, and it falls silent.
The last time I gave a man the benefit of the doubt, I became his hostage. I was assaulted, beaten, debased. I would rather die than let myself become a victim again.
So, I tell that little voice to go fuck itself. It’s the same critical bitch that asked me why I didn’t notice Jim was a violent abuser. If it wants me to be polite in the face of potential danger, it needs to haunt a doormat.
I step out into the hallway to find Roman walking toward me, his features tense. On his right is an equally athletic-looking man with sharp features, closely cropped hair, and coloring so similar to Roman’s that they could be brothers.
Next to the stranger is a petite woman I recognize from the nightclub. She danced beside us, wearing that beautiful gold dress. What was her name, Sera? I even introduced her to Annalisa and the others.
Our gazes lock, and we exchange frowns. What’s she doing here?
Roman looks through me as though I don’t exist, and my mouth falls open.
What the hell?
I smash a vase, and he doesn’t even flinch. When I scream, it only elicits the barest of smirks.
“Fuck you,” I snap.
He sweeps past with his guests as though I have panic attacks every day. The only one that pays me a scrap of attention is Sera, who spares me a confused glance.
“Roman,” I howl, but a hand grabs my arm.
Tony bundles me back into my room and shuts the door.
I don’t know what the fuck is happening, but I don’t like it. Even if I could leave, Jim is still prowling about, waiting to hurl me into that cell.
For the next several minutes, my tirade continues. I slash the paintings, and force myself to ignore the guilt that squeezes my chest at destroying art. If it’s valuable, Roman can afford to get it restored. Even the bed doesn’t miss my attention. I slash at the mattress, slice open the pillows, and make it rain feathers.
I don’t care if they think I’m crazy. Something isn’t right. It’s not paranoia if everyone surrounding me acts like a jailer.
The door slams open, and I whirl around. Roman storms in, his features a mask of fury.
My stomach lurches. The rage in his eyes burns through what’s left of my courage, leaving me wondering why the hell I chose to antagonize a man so dangerous. Without meaning to, I step back toward the wall.
“What do you want?” He stands so close that I feel the heat of his wrath.
Raising my chin, I force myself to meet his glower. “You’re going to answer my questions. This time, without any bull?—”
He wraps a hand around my neck, cutting off my words.
Alarm explodes through my chest. I part my lips to scream, but he silences me with a kiss.
NINETEEN
ROMAN
Everything is going to shit.
A member of the family my cousin Leroi was supposed to have killed has risen from the dead. It’s Samson, Frederic Capello’s legitimate son, and he has a clear claim to my stolen assets, rendering Emberly Kay not just penniless but also useless.
Useless until we track Samson down and eliminate him from the line of inheritance.
