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I spit in his direction. “Leave my mother’s name out of your fucking mouth!”
“—but one day you’ll learn this is your only choice. You will have a good life, Willow. You’ll be given a house to call your own, plenty of food and clothes and jewelry—”
“I don’twantany of those things!”
“You will. You will, because at the end of the day, we’re your family. Family is all you have left.” Arturo snaps his fingers. “Knock her out. Let’s get her out of here quickly.”
“Don’t you fucking da—”
I feel something sharp jab into my arm. I’m vaguely aware that I’m being transported somewhere.
I have only one thought as exhaustion drags me under.
Zane.
Chapter 13
Willow
One Month Later
My father has tripled the amount of security around the compound. Three times as many armed guards, three times as many guard dogs, three times as much scrutiny. I’m not even allowed to cross the hall to go to the bathroom by myself. One of the maids has to come with me and stand by the door to make sure I’m not up to any funny business.
What little sliver of trust there was between my father and me is now gone—pulverized to bits.
I spend most of my days in my room, staring out the window. Bars cover the glass. My father had them installed while I was in Vegas. They obstruct my view of the sky.
He sits across from me, a piece of paper in hand. His expression is blank, but the pulsing at his temple is a dead giveaway of the fury just beneath the surface.
“Just fucking tell me,” he grumbles for the umpteenth time.
I say nothing, too tired and too stunned.
“Who is he?” my father growls. “Tell me his name. I’ll have him shot in the street.”
Marianne, bless her soul, makes the mistake of entering the room with a tray full of sandwiches and tea. “E-excuse me, sir. It’s t-time for lunch.”
My father rises, swiping his cane down onto the tray. The clatter of metal against the hardwood is louder than thunder. Bread, ham, cheese, lettuce, and tea flies everywhere as Marianne yelps, stepping back in fear.
“This is no time for lunch!” he hisses.
Marianne nods, scurrying out of the room. “Y-yes, sir. Sorry, sir!”
I exhale slowly, surprisingly calm. “I don’t know why you’re so adamant about finding him. It’s been a month. Let it go.”
My father points the sharp end of his cane at me. “You managed to evade me for a week, Willow. I need to know the name of the fucker who helped you so I can put him in the ground.”
“I don’t know,” I lie. “I had a right old time in Vegas, you see. Plenty of drinks and parties. I was eager to celebrate finally escaping your clutches.”
“You little—”
“Enough.”
Esteban steps into my room without knocking. He’s a tall man with broad shoulders and wide chest. He has a crooked nose that’s clearly been broken several times and healed incorrectly. His hair is dark brown and caked with way too much gel. He wears a white shirt tucked into dark blue jeans and a golden bolo tie hanging around his neck. A toothpick sticks out from the corner of his lips, tucked between one of his fake golden teeth—he has four on the top row.
“You need to learn to relax, old friend,” Esteban says coolly. “Smoke some weed or something.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. This fucking guy.
