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Erin plucks at a sheet corner in her lap. “Why would I do that?”
“An exchange.” I tilt my head, heart drumming. “Ask me for something in return.”
“A plane ticket to Australia,” she says immediately, and something inside me ices over. She’s fleeing to Australia? That’s—that’s as far away from me as she could possibly go.
But what did I expect when I set out to ruin her family? And a trade is a trade. I’m a man of my word, though not much honor besides.
“Alright,” I agree, the words stiff. “But not right away. Not until this is all over.”
“By January,” she fires back. “Or there’s no deal.”
So soon. But… maybe it’s better this way. I’m already far more attached than is wise, and it’s not like I could ever keep her. Not like she’d stay here willingly with me.
“By January.” I put out my hand and she shakes it, her fingers so small in mine. “I’ll have food and clothes sent up to you. Be ready in an hour, and for god’s sake, drink some coffee.”
Five
Erin
Iwill never admit this to Santo De Rossi, but I feel like crap after climbing down that stupid rope last night. I’ve strained muscles in my back that I didn’t even know I had, and the bruise on my right thigh is tender when I poke it.
“Relax,” he mutters as I walk by his side through the mansion, but he’s not the reason I’m holding myself so stiffly. My back aches like hell, and I’m tired and grouchy and…
And like I said. Not a morning person. But the last thing I want to do is ruin the fragile peace between us, so I gust out a long breath and force my shoulders to drop.
“Sorry.” He’s startled by my cautious smile, ice blue eyes bouncing over my features. “I drank, like, a gallon of coffee but it didn’t touch the sides.”
Santo frowns as he holds another door open for me. “I’ll let you sleep in next time.”
Aw. Well now I’m all warm and fuzzy.
The De Rossi mansion is all fancy oil paintings and chandeliers, like my father’s house but grander. I follow my captor through the hallways, peering around with mild interest, but nothing truly steals my breath until the conservatory.
A wall of humid air hits us the second we walk inside. It’s muggy in here, with glass walls and ceilings high above, and tropical plants cover almost every surface. Vines dangle and trees loom, sunshine sparkling through the glass, and the faint sound of trickling water cuts through the quiet.
“Oh my god.” I point stupidly at a flash of red high above. “There are birds in here.”
Santo’s mouth twitches. “So there are.”
You’d never guess it was snowy outside. That we’re in the depths of winter. For the first time in months, I’m warm to the marrow of my bones.
“Well, I don’t know why you made me wearthis, you weirdo.” I pluck at the woolen Christmas sweater I found left on the coffee table after my shower: black with a sequin reindeer. Paired with jeans and sneakers, the backs of my knees are already sweaty. “It’s an elaborate torture, I’ll give you that. Death by heat rash.”
He rolls his eyes, but the mob boss seems almost cheerful as he leads me over cobbled paving stones, weaving between garden furniture and trestle tables. “So dramatic.”
My grin falters when I realize we’ve got company: one of Santo’s henchmen is setting up a camera on a tripod. There’s a bench swing dangling from an overhead beam, already wound with tinsel and string lights, and the display is professionally lit with a warm glow.
“Oh shit,” I mumble, my brain finally catching up. This looks like…
“Our holiday card,” Santo confirms with an evil smirk. He takes an offered bundle from the stranger and sets it on the bench, then flicks open the buttons of his waistcoat. It’s dove gray today. “Trust me, the idea that the Governor’s daughter is dating a mob boss will kill his political career in ten seconds flat.”
I’ve never thought of myself as a vicious person, but that statement gives me a mean little thrill. Over the years, my father has made an art form out of putting me down and making me miserable. Controlling my life and trapping me under his thumb. Payback time.
“When you told me the plan, I thought you meant sexy photos.”
The man fiddling with the camera chokes quietly at my confession. He’s brawny and bearded, with a scar running down his cheek, and he stares at the screen like he’s trying to burn a hole through it.
Santo peels off his shirt, folding it carefully and setting it to one side. Thosemuscles.There are faded scars too, white lines criss-crossing his ribs where old blades slashed his skin. Knife fights with the mob boss?
