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“I wouldn’t be so sure that you got away with letting the prisoner escape,” I mutter under my breath.
Fernando jerks his attention to me, a frown once again turning his mouth down. He checks the hallway behind us and then pushes the door open.
“Get inside,” he says gruffly, and I know he knows he messed up.
He probably had strict instructions to keep me inside, and here, a dark-haired angel came and got him to disobey his commander. How easily men fall at the promise of a soft touch and some pussy. It’s why women are easily the stronger sex.
Take that, Bertrand. You ass.
“Well, I’ll leave you here,” Lilliana says, pulling me into a hug, and the shock of it causes me to stumble slightly before I awkwardly wrap my arms around her. She’s so delicate; I feel like even I could crush her with too hard of a squeeze. “I’ll be back another time.” She winks and turns, and then she’s gone.
I pinch myself to see if I imagined the last forty minutes or so.
I stand in the bathroom.It seems to be a theme these days—staring at myself in bathroom mirrors. It’s not like I have a lot to do otherwise, except start my book over, which I’ve done. I’m earmarking pages that I like since I don’t have anything to write with. I think I’ll take it with me when I get out … if I get out. After the rap sheet I’ve built up, stealing a book seems like such a small offense.
I smooth the black dress over me, twisting and turning in some sick need to look my best for dinner. I’m putting it on like armor, steeling myself for whatever will be thrown my way. I wonder if it will be us or if Lilliana will be there. I think I desperately want her there. Surely, he wouldn’t try and kill me with his sister present.
I lean in, raking my teeth over both lips to plump them and give them a deeper color. Once I run my fingers through my hair, I sigh. It’s the best I can do with no makeup or personal-care items. I’ve been brushing my teeth with toothpaste on my fingers.
“A woman’s best defense against a man is her appearance,” one of my foster mothers used to say as she got ready for another night out.
I remember sitting on the side of the vanity as I watched her put her face on. Fascinated by the colorful eye shadow and the way she could transform her appearance. I think that’s a woman’s greatest weapon—the way she can transform herself from one thing to another.
I feel woefully unprepared for this war I’m entering. And I think that was done on purpose. Even prisoners are given more than I have been. But all bets are off when you are in the dark underbelly of the Mafia with a target on your back.
My bare feet pad across the wooden floor, and I stop in front of my closed door, taking a deep breath. I grasp the knob, half-expecting it to not turn because it’s locked from the outside but it does, and my eyes instantly find my heels from the other night placed in front.
Ah, my old nemesis.
I bend down and grab them, aware of Fernando’s eyes on me as I slip my feet in and secure the straps around my ankles. I stand and look at him, watching as his eyes dart away.
“Let’s go,” he says, clearing his throat and motioning for me to go in front of him.
He stops outside two large oak doors that look like they should lead into a ballroom, but when he opens the right door, it’s actually a normal-sized dining room. The table is long with twelve chairs around it, a large floral spray is in the center, and there are three places set. One at the end and to the left and right along the sides.
I look around, and once I see that I’m alone, I take a second to wander the room, looking at the paintings on the walls. I don’t know anything about art, but they look fancy and expensive. I bet the price of one would cover an entire year of rent—or maybe multiple years—at my apartment.
I run a finger along the bottom of a gilded frame, staring up at the scene. A boat, tossing on wild waves. It’s how I feel inside—unmoored, angry, and unstable.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Connor’s deep voice right behind my shoulder has me whirling and backing up against the long side table, right underneath the painting.
He’s in my space, so close that his cologne assaults my senses. I want to breathe him in and get away from him simultaneously. His nearness makes my skin prickle and the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
I feel like a cornered cat, my hackles raised and claws extended, as my fingers grip the wood behind me.
“Yes,” I say, swallowing thickly.
He looks up at the painting. He’s holding a glass of something dark brown, and his other hand is stuffed in his pocket. The picture of ease as his dark eyes scan something he probably knows by memory. I would if I lived here.
“It’s an accurate hand-painted copy ofThe Storm on theSea of Galileeby Rembrandt. My father bought it for Sylvia when they were married, which I always thought was odd. Who gives a ship on a storm as a wedding present?”
I feel like there’s so much to unpack in that statement. Sylvia must be Lilliana’s mother.
And what does it mean to give such an ambiguous gift to your new wife?
“How old were you when they were married?” I ask instead.
He swirls his liquid, still staring at the boat instead of looking at me. I get the sense that he’s not fully with me in this room right now. After a few moments, he glances down and then takes a sip.
