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“You’re a monster.”
He abruptly lunges for me.
I duck, and then run.
Away from a man far more complex, far more dangerous, and far, far more experienced with this ugly world I’m now part of.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
My first week at the villa passes in the same way, with Sandro’s hawklike eyes watching me and with me avoiding him. I’ve taken to hiding in the kitchen and occupy my time by helping his kind and elderly chef, Mama Biello, cook.
I have pasta flour all over the place, much to Mama Biello’s amusement. “Presto, Riley, sarai una pasta,” she chuckles, the gleam in her eyes indicating she’s teasing me.
“Sorry. No hablo Italian.”
She exits the kitchen with a shake of her head.
“You’ll soon turn into pasta.”
I whirl around and spy Sandro lurking a few feet away. It’s the third time today he’s made his presence known. I’ve successfully avoided him, only this time, there’s no escape.
“Presto sarai una pasta. ‘You’ll soon turn into pasta’ is what she said.”
“You adding translating services to your rap sheet?” I glare at him, confused by his change in behavior. “What do you want?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
Ignoring him, I return to shaping the fresh pasta by rolling one-inch pieces between two fingers.
He washes his hands in the sink behind me, then to my surprise moves beside me. Sprinkling flour onto the counter, he begins shaping pasta.
“Don’t you have people to murder or a casino to build?”
“I do.”
“Then why are you here?”
He falls silent, like he doesn’t have an answer. Well, isn’t that a goddamn shame?
I spin and poke him in the chest with a flour-coated finger. “You can’t keep me here against my will.”
He frowns down at my finger, then ever so slowly raises his head.
I gasp at the feral gleam in his eyes.
He closes in on me and forces my back against the kitchen island. “My baby’s grown ballsy.”
I lift my chin, refusing to cower even if all I truly want to do is run. “Maybe I’ve always been this way but tragedy’s muted me.”
His body shifts as he places his hands on the counter, caging me in. His left eye is an unnatural blend of yellow and blue, but his lips have healed. I’m both horrified and yet still attracted to him.
What is wrong with me?
He drags a flour-coated finger across my clenched jaw, from my earlobe to my lips, continuing downward along my throat before dipping deep into the V of my uniform.
I shudder—with need, with mortification.
“Tell me the truth, Riley,” he begins in a whiskey-laced tone. So familiar. So seductive. “Do you want me to test your theory? That the dirty little twisted side of you doesn’t beg to be constrained?”
