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One
Santo
She takes far too long to wake up. Under normal circumstances, patience is my forte: I will happily wait weeks, months or even years to ruin a man if it means my victory will taste all the sweeter. But Erin Edwards takeshoursto wake up after being kidnapped last night, and by the time she stirs against the pillows, my temper is frayed.
I’ve already worn a track along the guest suite rug with my pacing. Already irritated myself with the constant need to check her pulse, her temperature, her rolled-back eyes.
“Mmph,” she slurs, shoving her freckled face deeper into the pillows. Finally.There’s a patch of drool beneath her chin, and I scowl at the damp fabric. Those cases are Egyptian cotton. “Wha’timesit?”
I suppose being drugged and abducted would be a blow to anyone’s dignity. Still, I wrinkle my nose at her bedside, leaning back in the armchair and checking my watch.
“It is seven minutes past eight.”
I stifle a smirk when she jolts against the bed. The Governor’s daughter scrambles upright, blinking around the room with bleary eyes, and it’s clear that last night’s sedative is still making her thoughts soupy. She hadn’t even noticed I was here.
Amateur.
“Wha’s… where am I? Who areyou?”
Erin Edwards sways on the mattress, one arm pulled at an awkward angle behind her. Chocolate brown curls are wild around her shoulders, and those freckles spread over the bridge of her nose, blurring together like a permanent blush. We took her from her bed last night, and she’s wearing a matching pajama set—a cream pinstripe shirt and tiny shorts.
The shorts are… compelling.
“I am Santo De Rossi, and you are at my home. As an honored guest,” I add with a cold smile.
Has she noticed the silk tie leashing her wrist to the bed frame yet? I don’t think so. Good lord, how has this woman survived to adulthood?
Miss Edwards shivers, her eyes growing wide. “De… De Rossi?TheDe Rossi?”
I wait for an actual question, the fire popping in its grate across the room. It’s hot in here—uncomfortably warm, really, but I had an odd flash of panic after bringing her in here that she might have gotten chilled outside in the snow. There were goosebumps on her bare legs.
I’ve only just kidnapped her, after all. Failing to take good care of her would be terribly wasteful. She’s no use to me struck down by the flu.
“Oh!” My captive finally gapes at her wrist, wrapped tightly in blue silk, and yanks hard on the leash. The bronze bed frame doesn’t even creak.
Solid. Every object in this mansion is well made—I pride myself on that fact.
“The more you pull, the tighter it gets.” The muscles in my back twinge as I stand, crossing to a side table with a jug of lemon water and two glasses. “I suggest you stop for the sake of your circulation.”
Cool water splashes into the first glass as I roll my stiff shoulders. Seems I’m getting too old to stand vigil all night without back strain. How troubling.
“I don’t understand,” she mumbles.
No, she wouldn’t. Why would this sheltered society girl ever expect to meet a mob boss? When would our paths ever cross without my divine intervention?
Erin Edwards is kept far from her father’s shady political dealings. Far from everything important in her family, in fact. Apparently Edwards daughters are mere decoration.
Bizarre. When I held my own baby sister for the first time, I knew immediately that I’d burn the whole world down for her—and I am not a sentimental man. Governor Edwards is a dinosaur.
“Here. I expect you’re thirsty.”
Raul told me the sedative would dehydrate her, but my captive eyes the glass of lemon water in my hand like I’m holding out a hissing cobra. I suppose that’s fair. Ihavedrugged her once already in the last twelve hours.
“Watch,” I command, then take a small mouthful from her glass, swallowing it down. There’s less water now, but at least she accepts the glass, sipping cautiously and peering up at me with wide eyes. Unexpected warmth spreads through my chest at the sight, chased swiftly by irritation.
Does this girl always look so guileless? Innocent and freckled and fuckingsweet? Have I kidnapped a milkmaid? Good grief.
“Your father has made an error in judgment, Miss Edwards.” The armchair creaks as I sink back into it, my own glass in hand. I don’tneedto explain myself, of course, but I’d prefer she stopped trembling. “Several errors, in fact, and I’ve taken you as insurance that he won’t make any more.”
