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“If your roommate wasn’t swimming in cement,” he snaps, turning his anger on me, “you could ask him why.”
“Cement?” A shiver races up my spine.
A knock on the door interrupts us. I cover my breasts with an arm and my privates with my hand. Our eyes lock for the briefest of seconds. “Please, don’t.”
He ignores me. “Enter.”
My eyes widen when the bartender—Tommaso—steps inside.
So do his. “Jesus Christ, Sandro.”
“She blushes so fucking beautifully, doesn’t she?”
God, I want to die.
“Boss,” Tommaso pleads. Sandro has that power, to make people beg. “I don’t think she—”
“I don’t pay you to think. I pay you to act. To protect.”
Tommaso looks ashamed. “I failed you. You’ve every right to kill me.”
My eyebrows raise grow as Sandro stalks up to him, gun drawn. Where did that come from? He places it against Tommaso’s temple.
“Stop.” I bolt my feet. “Don’t shoot him.”
“Shut up.” Sandro leans in toward the man, then says in a low voice, “My father wanted you killed. But I saved your ass. Now, if you value your life, my advice to you is to locate Renzo while I hunt down Conti. Put all that thinking to good use. Understand?”
“Yes.” Tommaso swallows hard. “We’re close, boss. He’s here in Italy.”
“If that’s the case, bring him to me.” He lowers the gun and tosses it on the desk. “Before you go … any more thoughts about her?”
“No, sir.” He hands Sandro two packages.
“Good. Leave us.”
Tommaso rushes from the room without so much as a glance in my direction.
Sandro tears off the plastic covering a package.
“Come here.”
I don’t immediately move, fear overtaking every other emotion.
He begins counting. “One.” We’ve done this before, with him counting off and me racing around my apartment in search of the nearest place to hide. He thrives on the chase. Gets off on catching me.
“Two …”
He was hard earlier from pursuing me. I bite my lip forcefully, needing to feel the sting. Because what used to be foreplay is now nothing resembling a game—for me, at least. God only knows what this monster’s feeling.
I step forward, noting his disappointment. He’s sick. Sick to toy with me this way. Sick for making me, for the slightest second, consider running.
“Put your arms through the sleeves.” He holds out a uniform, and I slip my arms into the dress. He spins me around to zip the back, but the uniform doesn’t fit—the chest’s too snug.
His grunt fills the room.
I’m stripped, and we go through the process again, this time with the zipper in front. “Face me,” he demands.
“I can zip it myself.”
