“I really don’t think dwelling on the details is going to do anything for you.” He tries a small, sympathetic smile. “I’d rather not?— “
“I want to—Ineedto know.”
He sighs, then shrugs. “Who knows. In the end, though, everyone burned. The whole warehouse set alight. Seems things got out of hand. They were only supposed to shoot each other. And maybe they did, before the fire started.”
He drinks.
The rotting darkness bubbles. I clamp my eyes shut, trying to hold down the bile in my throat.
No. It can’t be. I refuse to believe it. My mind scrambles, desperate to latch onto any hope. And there I find the words:Who knows.
He doesn’t know how Raffaele died. Clearly, there was a fire. But was it bad enough to char the bodies past recognition? Did anyone confirm Raffaele’s corpse?
I nearly vomit at the very thought of Raffaele having a corpse and not a body. But the idea that no one ever got eyes on his body gives me just enough hope to keep from choking on my own puke.
He’s smart enough to get himself out of this. Hell, maybe he started the fire himself. Yeah, that’s what happened…
Doubt creeps in, and I swallow the bile and try to be strong, just in case I need to survive long enough for a miracle.
“If Raffaele’s dead, then-then why am I here?” I struggle to ask.
Tears sting my eyes, but I suck them back in, my nose wet with restrained grief.
“Straight to business, finally.” He leans forward in his chair. “Here’s the situation, Miss Mendez. Both Contis are dead. Raffaele was the legal heir, per Vincenzo’s will. The vaultdocument. The one he carried out of the brownstone two days ago.”
He rolls his eyes and looks me dead in mine. “So, if Raffaele is dead, and Nico along with him, who inherits now?
I don’t answer.
He smiles.
“His next of kin. His wife. His children.” His eyes drop. They go to my abdomen, hover there far too long. “His lover. Whatever she might happen to be carrying.”
The implication rocks me, but?—
“I’m not pregnant.”
“I know.” He takes another sip. “But you will be.”
I jerk back as far as the chair lets me. The rope at my wrists tightens. The chair doesn’t move.
Fear is rising in my chest, along with a feral rage.
“Don’tfuckingtouch me.”
“It’s nothing personal, Miss Mendez. It’slegal.With you carrying what the families will all be quite happy to believe is Raffaele’s heir, the claim to the Conti operation moves through me. A puppet bloodline. Very tidy.”
He pauses. Looks faintly insulted.
“For the record, I’m not some kind ofpervert.I have standards. We’ll start with Plan A. The romantic one. Dinner, a few weeks, a little patience on my part. I can be charming when I want to be.”
“Don’t make me fucking puke,” I gag.
He isn’t listening. “Really—it doesn’t have to beme.If you have a type, I can have a man at the door inside two hours. Some model, maybe. All you have to do is shut the fuck up and carry the kid.”
He stands and starts to come toward me, smiling like he’s done me some big favor.
I do the only thing my body has left to do. I gather what I have in my mouth and spit at him.
