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Finally, not able to avoid the inevitable, my eyes narrow in on the man I recognize from Italy.
I only know him as Sidorov. No one has used his first name.
But this is the man who hurt me.
He hurt me.
He strikes me hard across the cheek. “I don’t care who your daddy is, or whose whore you are. You better mind the way you speak to me.”
I shake my head slowly, keeping the fake smile painted on my face, not revealing that his slap stung like a bitch. “You should care.”
I don’t know where I’m getting all this courage. But I know that if I have any chance of surviving, I have to present myself as one of them. I have to dance in their shadows right along with them to earn this man’s respect. If I cry and grovel, I know he’ll not go easier on me. In fact, I know my tears willmake his dick hard, and he’ll fuck me rather than grill me for information. If I’ve learned anything at all from Nick, it’s how to put on that fake smile and exude power even if it’s as far away as possible from what I’m actually feeling.
Reaching for a small knife in his belt, the man cuts a line through my shirt and into my chest, a thin line of blood staining the lacy material of my bra. The cut isn’t deep, but I know it’s meant to scare me. He stares at me directly in the eyes, assessing, waiting for me to cry out in pain, to beg for him to stop his torture and have mercy on me.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction, remaining silent, barely flinching as the blade cuts into my skin even though the fire sizzles along my flesh.
“Did Nick cut you too?” the man asks close to my ear, the blade still threatening, this time at my throat. “I’ve heard rumors that Nick likes his sex dark.”
When I don’t answer, the man slices my chest yet again, deeper this time.
“Did he like knife play? Does he use that blade of his on the cane?” the man demands, his anger bubbling over at my minimal reactions.
“When he sees these marks on me,” I finally say, “he’s going to cut your fucking fingers off. And then”—I swallow against the searing pain—“he’s going to shove them down your throat before he kills you.”
The man strikes me across the face again, blood spilling from my lip. “Why does he seem to care about you? Why was he trying to protect you? Why would he risk pissing off the Morellis and the Constantines?” He slices the knife across my chest again, drawing a bloody line from one nipple to the other. “Are you in the Morelli will? Are you going to inherit an ungodly amount of money?”
I endure, remaining nonreactive, though blood now freely trickles down my chest. The man is grasping at straws, and I like that he can’t read me or read my situation.
“This isn’t the Nick Hudson I know. This is not the life of the party man who’d rather be in Wonderland than the dark streets of our world.” The man’s eyes again narrow, his fist raises, ready to strike again. “What does he know that we don’t?”
“Ask him yourself, asshole,” is my only reply. “Or at least try before he kills you.”
With that, the man’s clenched fist lowers, and walking behind me, he uses the bloody blade of the knife to cut the binds loose from my wrists.
“I don’t need to. I saw at Wonderland just how much the men around the table were willing to pay for you,” the man says as he walks toward the door. Looking over his shoulder, he adds, “We’re going to auction you off to the highest bidder tonight. I think you’re going to be a great payday for us.” He laughs. “Let’s see who wants you more. Daddy? The Constantines? Nick Hudson?”
Daddy wanted me more.
I want to throw up. I want to hit the man, scratch his eyes out, scream at him. I want to tell my father what he did to me just so I can watch Bryant kill him for daring to lay a hand on his daughter. But I also know the likelihood of Bryant caring enough to do anything to the weasel and his nephew before us is unlikely. Bryant probably will feel I had it coming. It was my penance for leading him to Italy on a wild goose chase. I deserved every last bit of the abuse.
The butler enters the room and asks, “Can I get anyone something to drink?”
“We’re just going to enter the dining room since we’re running behind schedule. Drinks can be served there,” Bryant announces, not giving any room for discussion. He doesn’t want to have a cocktail hour, and I can’t say I blame him. The tension in the room is thick, and I feel as if I can smell the perspiration from Pavel as he clearly is uneasy standing before us.
Chapter Six
Lyriope
“Will anyone elsebe joining us?” Sidorov asks Bryant. “Your sons? Daughters?”
“Everyone is busy right now. Other engagements and such.”
I know Bryant is lying to some degree. I’m like a cancer that Bryant and Sarah want to prevent their family from catching. If they keep me away until I’m handed off to the Sidorovs, then they succeeded in sweeping this little mishap under the rug.
“I have a few questions for Lyriope,” Sidorov begins, seemingly accepting Bryant’s poor excuse of why it’s just me at the table with Bryant and Sarah and no one else.
My father takes a sip of his wine, nods his approval and looks at me with eyes of warning.
