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To my relief, I’m not ferried to the top of another high-rise like a princess in a tall tower.
The Mori family still resides across the Verrazzano, in a community that isn’t just gated, but completely walled off from the rest of the world. Guard towers stand sentinel over the perimeter, and as we are waved through the gate, I’m reminded of a prison. For me, the description fits. But this prison has luxurious, multi-million-dollar New York real estate nestled inside of it, with immaculate lawns and fountains.
The heart of the Mori family estate.
Another security checkpoint is required to reach the end of the street, and an ugly automatic rifle is slung over the shoulder of the man who waves us through the final gate.
My chances of escape are getting narrower by the minute.
“Taking notes?” Salvatore asks, watching my face as I peer out the window.
I lower my eyes. I have a better chance of getting out of Rikers, and he knows it.
The car stops along a circular, cobbled driveway, where I step into the looming shadow of Salvatore’s mansion home. I expect one of those ugly modern mansions, all the square architecture and top-heavy anatomy that’s considered fashionable these days. The ‘by men, for men’ of the luxury real estate world. I’m completely wrong.
The house boasts a classic, generational beauty, with tall pillars and high gabled roofs that make up a stunning façade. I can’t make out the dimensions in the dark. The house seems to sprawl into infinity in each direction.
I hazard a guess as to the value or the number of bedrooms. No matter what number I choose, it feels either too little or too comical.
Salvatore spreads his hand across my lower back.
“You need me to sling you over my shoulder like a hunted deer again?”
There’s a questioning pause—we silently negotiate if I am going to play nice, or if we’ll have a bunch of guards scrambling to chase me down in the middle of the night. I prefer my chances with Salvatore than I do his armed goons.
“I’ll walk,” I mumble and pull away from his hand.
I step through the entryway of the home and into the light of a spacious foyer dominated by a chandelier. A handful of men come down the staircase, their steps quick and voices animated, set to pass us on their way out the door.
At our entry, the group falls silent. Nods of respect are offered to Salvatore as they make way for him, eyes averted, steps quick. My captor guides me up the stairs. No one offers to look at me twice, not daring to overstep into their boss’s business. I play the awkward role of the elephant in the room until the front door closes behind them.
The sudden silence permeates through the long, empty corridors, echoing the house’s own vastness. Its shadows feel strange and steep as I’m moved along. We pass beneath paintings of nude women, the colors muted and dimmed with antiquity. I can’t place the date or artist, but as we walk beneath them, I can’t help but try to read their expressions. I can’t decide if they feel pain or pleasure.
My feet stop at the threshold of a dark bedroom. I feel Salvatore behind me, a constant pressure even when he isn’t physically steering me.
“Go,” he orders.
The deep command alone nudges me forward. I cross into the bedroom, hands clenched at my sides, breathing carefully, trying to stamp down my anxiety. The light reveals a dark bedroom with a California King bed and heavy curtains draped over what would be impressive windows. It would look like a magazine spread were it not for the shelving stretched fully across one wall. The glass case displays old weaponry: antique guns, knives with stained blades. From here, I can’t tell if they’re colored by age or blood, but my gut tells me I already know the answer.
Presiding over the bed is the only piece of artwork in the room: the Mori family insignia.
Salvatore interrupts my wandering eyes with his own wandering hands. My heart rockets into my throat again. I don’t know what he wants of me now that we’re in a bedroom, but I can take a couple of guesses. His touch runs up and down my waist, feeling out every inch of me.
“Where’s your phone?” he asks.
Oh.
He’s not even feeling me up, just frisking me, but my body isn’t particular about the difference. Get it together, Tessa.
The outfit is skin-tight, already ripped. He’s touched me, felt every inch of me with those calloused hands. He knows I don’t have a phone on me. I lost track of it when my friends ambushed me, and if I had to guess, it’s still sitting in my bag in the car they used to drag me to the club. I really hadn’t missed it until now.
“I don’t even know where I would hide a phone in this dress.”
“Take it off and we’ll see,” he says regardless.
Heat creeps into my face.
“Turn around, and I will.”
