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But before my hands could raise from their shocked position against his chest—because, surely, I was going to push him away, right?—he pulled away as quickly as he had moved in, leaving my body buzzing, my mind swirling.
My eyelids fluttered open, finding him staring down at me, gaze intense.
"That fucking clear enough?" he growled, turning suddenly, and storming away.
I stood there for what can only be called an embarrassingly long time, my legs shaking, but this time for a reason that had nothing to do with fear.
Unless the growing concern about why there was this oppressive pressure on my lower stomach, this clawing need inside, counted.
But, with a couple deep breaths, I managed to get my brain to think through the fog of desire.
When it did, though, I realized two things.
Lorenzo was in his room, if the door slam was anything to go by.
And there was no guard at the elevator.
As soon as the thoughts sank in, I was across the floor, pressing my finger desperately into the call button, holding my breath as I heard the swish of the car moving up, cringing when the doors opened, and the familiar ding sounded.
I threw myself into the elevator, jabbing my finger into the button, waiting for the doors to slide closed.
They did.
Just as I heard Lorenzo's voice.
"Fuck."
But it was too late.
The doors were closed.
I was part of the way to freedom.
I took a couple slow, deep breaths as the elevator moved downward, preparing myself to run.
I was not, by anyone's standards, an athlete. The idea of running if some part of me wasn't on fire, or I wasn't being chased by an angry flock of geese, sounded downright idiotic.
That said, running to escape a chasing made member of the New York mafia—and maybe the weird desire I felt toward him—seemed like a great effing idea.
The car jolted, making my stomach drop. Then the doors were opening, and I was flying.
I had ridiculously short legs, but they were working for me as I darted across the lobby, as I charged through the front door, making the doorman hiss and jump back as I made my way out onto the street.
I didn't pause to try to look around, to take in my location. I just ran blindly, knowing that I could get lost just about anywhere in a city as populated as this as long as I could get as far away as fast as possible.
I had no direction.
No money.
No ID.
No shoes.
And the latter realization made my stomach drop as I threw myself around a corner, running up the next block, considering all of the various bodily fluids—as well as other liquids—my poor soles were likely soaking up with each passing step.
I had nowhere to go, not really, but anywhere was better than at the mercy of the mafia. And my father's whims.
I rushed down another side street, trying to lower the chances of him finding my path.
My thighs screamed. My lungs ached. Sweat reminded me that while yoga pants and a lightweight sweatshirt were perfectly acceptable for living inside a penthouse apartment with the air conditioning set to glacier, it was not great for summer in a city where the tall buildings blocked anything even resembling a breeze.
I made it up another block before I slowed my pace, knowing that I would be less noticeable if I was moving with the pace of the foot traffic. I carefully grabbed a pair of flip-flops from a street vender when he turned his back, rushing off before anyone suspected a thing, trying not to let guilt overwhelm me. Sometimes you had to do what you had to do to survive. Even steal shoes, so your feet didn't get bloodied and blistered from walking barefoot through the city.
On a whim, I waited at the street for the light to change, reaching down to pull up my sweatshirt, deciding the tank top underneath would have to do, wrapping my sweatshirt around my waist as my gaze flicked around, trying to spot an exceptionally tall and stupidly handsome man rushing down the streets looking for me. Or his car with its very familiar trunk. I imagined by now, he had his original one back.
My stomach was in knots as I moved forward with the crowd, sure hands were going to reach out and grab me from behind, carry me kicking and screaming back to the penthouse. Or maybe I would be moved, transferred to some basement somewhere with a bucket as a bathroom and someone much worse than Lorenzo looking after me. Maybe even that guy that Emilio casually mentioned.
No.
That couldn't happen.
I was free.
Getting free was the hard part.
Staying free would be the easy part.
At least that was the theory.
The further I got away, the more I realized I had very little chance of staying away without, at least, some money.
