Page 106 of Dishonored

Being out of the fucking loop.

Her husband had to know by now that she was taken—there was no way around it. Raffe was probably in a right fit, but she couldn’t plan or prep for whatever move he might make next when she didn’t know anything.

Yeah, that made her nuts.

Aria had stopped trying to check the door that led out of the small wing because it was locked regardless if Caesar was inside with her, or if she was alone. Thankfully, Angelo had not come to see Aria since her arrival—she didn’t think it would end well for the man if he did, considering he’d locked her away like a wild animal.

At least, someone had thought to grab her luggage from the hotel when she was taken. She had clothes. Decent clothes that were hers, and weren’t someone else’s things. That really would have been the icing on this hellish cake.

Aria sipped from a tea that Caesar had brought up to her with her breakfast, and stared at the set of doors from the other end of the hallway. Thick, dark oak doors that she would really like to blow—

The doorknob jiggled, and Aria cocked a brow as the two doors were opened just a sliver. It was enough for a woman to slip in through the cracks before she closed the doors behind her without barely any sound at all.

Wearing a designer dress with black heels, her blonde hair pulled into a simple chignon, and makeup, someone might think this woman was … put together.

Except for the drink in her hand.

It was ten.

In the morning.

“Can I help you?” Aria asked.

The woman spun around to face Aria. She only needed a peek at the woman’s features to know who she was.

Angelo’s wife.

Martina.

Aria had seen enough pictures of the woman gracing the society rags to know it—fifty-three, but lived life like she was in her twenties. Sometimes, she had wondered how appropriate it was for the wife of a Cosa Nostra boss to be pictured regularly hammered, and out on the town. Not all of those pictures in the rags were very flattering, either.

Pictures couldn’t be flattering when someone was stumbling drunk, and looked like it, too.

“Trying to find a way out?” Martina asked, fiddling with the wine glass in her hand.

Aria lifted her cup of tea. “Enjoying my drink, actually. Shame to waste it when Caesar made sure to make it just the way I liked.”

And he even brought it warm, too.

Martina’s gaze narrowed briefly before her features schooled. She tipped her glass up for another drink of wine, and eyed Aria at the end of the hallway. “I don’t see what Angelo is so worried about with you—you’re not very much to look at, tiny little thing. I doubt you’re very dangerous.”

“Is that what he told you—that I’m dangerous?”

The woman shrugged. “That, and something about Caesar. Thinks he’s taken a liking to you.”

“Men usually do after they’ve spent more than five minutes looking at my tits or face.”

Martina lifted a brow. “I can’t see why. There’s nothing interesting to see.”

Was that …

Jealousy?

Was this woman jealous because her step-son showed interest?

Aria couldn’t be sure.

“If your husband told you not to come into my wing—”