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Sandro’s sitting in a chair beside my bed when I wake up. Watching me sleep, like he did the night before the explosion. Looking every bit as troubled as he did then.
My heart leaps. “You’re home.”
Home. Really, Riley? You sound like a 1950s housewife welcoming her man back from the office. Except, this isn’t my home or even his primary residence. He isn’t returning from a hard day at the office.
I’m not his wife but his hostage.
“Play your cards right.” That was Tommaso’s advice. Advice I grasped with both hands.
“You haven’t tried to escape.” His tone’s flat, his expression cold.
“No.”
“Why not?”
Seriously? So much that remains unspoken between us, and this is the conversation he’s intent on having?
“You’d catch me.”
He always does. Once, he found me hiding on the fire escape. He bent me over the windowsill and fucked me so hard, the metal platform supporting us violently shook. I was gasping in need and afraid the fire escape would collapse beneath us the entire time.
I didn’t understand then how sex laced with fear causes such an intense high.
His pupils darken. “What would you do if I removed the tracker right now?”
“Stay.”
“Wrong answer.” Is that disappointment in his expression? God, he remembers. He thinks about our time together, the sex we’ve had, the kinky things he introduced me to?
“A safe answer.”
He leans forward on his elbows. “Should I remove it, and find out?”
I tug the sheet higher over my naked body. A bikini, the occasional towel, and a new uniform every day—that’s the extent of my wardrobe.
A few tense seconds pass, like he’s contemplating doing just that. Except this thing between us is no longer about fun and games and getting off. That requires trust, and ours has been shattered into unrecognizable pieces.
“Ciro never touched me. No one has since …”
He stands without the slightest acknowledgment.
He’s proud, so damn proud.
“You’ll accompany me to a business dinner. I’ve selected a dress, shoes, makeup for you to wear. And this.” He places a box on the nightstand. A necklace? Stockings? Underwear?
“Be ready by eight.”
“Eight is late for dinner, isn’t it?” I shake off my disappointment. He’s being civil. I’m leaving the villa. We might still clear the air.
“When in Rome,” he answers before departing.
Easy banter. Familiar banter.
A heartbreaking memory of what’s lost.
My stomach growls as I climb out of bed. But the box on the nightstand catches my attention.
I pick it up with widening eyes.
