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I squat down in front of her. “I am going to remove the tape, and you will remain quiet and not fight me. If you do, I will call my second back in, and tell him to put a bullet between those beautiful golden-brown eyes of yours. Understand?”
The eyes in question widen briefly, and she nods.
There is no easy way to remove duct tape. I rip the gray material from her wrists first, then her ankles, leaving her face until last.
“Ready, Bianca?”
She sits up, rubbing her red-marked wrists. After a moment, another stiff nod gives me my answer. I rip away the tape. The second I do, she scurries backward across the floor in a crab-like move until her back hits the edge of the sofa.
She swipes a hand over her face, attempting to clean herself up, before she speaks. “I don’t know who you are, but my name is not Bianca. You have the wrong person.”
Her voice is low and raspy. She wasn’t bound long enough to become dehydrated, so the hoarse effect must be from stress.
I stand and tilt my head, studying her. That welt across her face is starting to swell. Fear is evident in her taut features and the way she folds her arms across her middle, and yet she raises her chin and stares back at me with a defiant expression.
There are not many who would meet my gaze so boldly.
“I am Gregorio Agosti.”
The simple sentence has the desired effect. Her lips part slightly before she drops her gaze.
Good. That recognition means I don’t need to explain the danger she’s in if she doesn’t do what she’s told.
“You’re… I know that name. From the news. They call you Rio.”
“Indeed.” There have been many news stories about my organization, and about me.
Most, these days, are positive, focusing more on my donations to charity than other things. I have learnt over the years that money can buy anything. Including legitimacy.
She moistens her lips with the tip of her tongue. I am not sure what about the action catches and holds my attention.
“Did…did your men…kill my friends?” There’s a tremor on that last whispered word, and her brows come together in a frown.
Clearly, she does not like showing weakness.
My inner monster rears its ugly head. I will enjoy breaking this one in.
“No idea. I do not concern myself with collateral damage, Bianca.”
“Collateral…” She sucks in a breath before her knees draw up and she wraps her arms around them.
She looks like a broken little bird.
Something stirs in the emptiness deep within me.
Something that disappears quickly when she sits up straight and speaks in a stronger voice. “It’s Bree. Bree Walker. I’mnotBianca.”
Suddenly, I am bored with the conversation. I move to the door of the suite. “Bree Walker is dead. You were born Bianca Carlotti, and from now on, that is the name you will answer to.”
“Like hell.” Her mutter is almost not there at all.
I am not sure if she meant for me to hear it.
I don’t bother admonishing her. We both know she will do exactly as I say, in the end.
“There is a bathroom through there.” I point across the room. “Shower. Clean yourself up. Someone will be back with a change of clothing for you, and some ice for that welt on your face. One hour, Bianca. That’s how much time you have before I return.”
I close and lock the door, and when I hear the sobs begin on the other side, my inner monster begins to purr.
