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How long had she known? Did her family work for the Mortaines? Was I the only one unaware of the mafia overtaking our families all these years? I recalled her words about the Mortaines selling their souls for their mansion—how she’d looked at me when I’d asked about their warehouses. She’d known. As far as I was concerned, I’d lost her as a friend the moment I’d been kidnapped. Long before that, really, if she’d kept it to herself for so long.

Everyone I knew had failed me.

It felt like betrayal.

I clenched my hands against my folded arms, blood boiling. Why was my kidnapper the only person around me who’d been honest?

Sadness followed my anger as rain continued its beat against the windows like it had been for the last few days. What, exactly, could I do other than wallow in my helplessness? Read those books he gave you, my mind whispered.

Heat crawled up my neck.

Sutton Hale, kidnapped by Vancouver’s mafia because she wanted books to read. I was a fucking joke, and I wasn’t reading those books. All they did was remind me of how I ended up here.

“Sutton,” Manic clipped.

I tensed my jaw and swung my gaze over my shoulder.

He stood in the kitchen with a glare. Two coffees and breakfast sat on the island, as if this was normal between us and he hadn’t stolen my freedom.

Manic wore a short-sleeve dress shirt paired with tailored slacks, his usual attire before he disappeared. The short sleeves exposed the muscles in his arms, and I hated how my eyes lingered a second too long before I forced them away.

Just like all the days before this one, I would be left alone to decipher what paperwork he’d given me under the supervision of Axell. My only companion it seemed, even if he was silent most days.

“Sit,” Manic commanded, pointing to the barstool like I was a trained dog. It took everything in me not to throw my shoe at him.

Against my better judgement, I walked over and sat down in silence. After I’d complained about not having food, he’d ordered groceries the next day. He cooked for both of us every morning.

Where were his maids or chefs? Weren’t mafias supposed to have those things? I hadn’t seen a single person in here since I’d arrived, but the space remained surprisingly clean. Maybe I could disrupt his orderly cleanliness by throwing my clothes around. An enticing thought.

Manic slid food over to me and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. “You’re coming with me tonight.”

Eggs fell off my fork when it stopped halfway to my mouth. “And where is that?”

“To meet with your father at the club to discuss our plans,” he explained.

I only huffed and continued eating.

“Do you not care about that?”

I sighed, setting my utensil down with a clink. “And why would I care about that if he knew about the possibility of my kidnapping? As far as I’m concerned, he’s on his own.”

“He still needs to comply,” Manic said slowly, as if his fuse was about to explode.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t gauge his mood right now.

Some days he was calm and collected. Other days, it was like even the tiniest of things set him off. But one thing was certain, his mood soured when anyone from the mafia dropped by. He was much calmer when it was just the two of us, but I knew Vince lingered around the corner today.

“If you want to be free of the mafia and my penthouse, he needs to believe the scenario,” he said. “Ronan will demand port access and that your father washes our money for new business. Luka will have a different reaction when he sees you, because he knows that the Crowes are a part of your disappearance. He’s been asking about you. Your mother, too.”

I hardly believed that.

Still, my stomach sank at the thought of my mother being worried. But if everyone who’d attended Ronan’s annual events knew everything, it meant she knew too. I lifted my brows, though. Manic called his father by his given name. Interesting.

“Can’t you wash money within your club?”

“Yes, but not in the amount we need. Ronan plans on opening more clubs, and in order to do that, the money needs to be legal. The casinos are the best way to do that.”

I refrained from rolling my eyes and finished eating before drinking the iced coffee Manic prepared. It tasted like a professional latte, but I refused to praise him on it. Condensation clung to my palm.