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Bree/Bianca
He’s a monster.Attractive. Intriguing. But at his core, emotionless and depraved.
Those news stories about him may skirt around the truth, but everyone in Boston knows Rio Agosti runs his Mafia crew with an iron fist and no ounce of compassion in his soul.
Does he evenhavea soul?
The wholecityfears the reach of the Agosti-Carlotti cartel and its terrifying boss.
Including me, even though I’ve never had any involvement in crime of any description, let alone the organized variety.
You were born Bianca Carlotti.
Goose bumps rise up on my skin at the memory of those words. It was all I could do not to burst into tears and beg for my life at his feet.
But I saw it in his eyes—the sudden desire for me to do exactly that. It was the only hint of emotion I saw in him at all.
I will not give that man the satisfaction of begging. Not for anything.
I have no idea if Dave and Shelley are alive or dead. I have no idea why the Mafia monster’s henchmen grabbed me. Clearly, it must be a case of mistaken identity. How can I convince him of that?
What if I can’t?
Nausea rises, and I stumble up and into the bathroom. Even as I locate the toilet and heave up the meager contents of my stomach, my brain whirs at my surroundings. This damn bathroom is nearly as big as my apartment.
And… Briefly, I turn my head. Is that a gold bathtub? Surely it can’t berealgold?
What sort of people live like this? Luxury and violence, side by side.
I heave again, until there is nothing left to bring up, and then I hug the bowl as I sob.
If I want to survive, I have to stop this pitiful crying and try to figure out how to escape.
Easier said than done.
I stand, and when I catch sight of my reflection in the intricately framed mirror, I recoil.God. I’m covered in flecks of blood and remnants of vomit, and there are wet splotches on my T-shirt where tears haven’t yet dried. My left cheek is swollen, starting to purple. I lean in and poke at the area gently, wincing at the pain.
Did that goon break my cheekbone? I hope I broke his nose with my kick.
I need to shower, not only because I’m filthy, but because my brain won’t stop imagining what may happen if I don’t do as he says. If I behave, maybe he’ll let me go.
Yeah, right. Because he seems like a decent guy who’ll take pity on me, for sure.
I ignore my inner voice and take a couple of minutes to explore the rest of the suite, checking the door first even though I heard the decisive snick of the lock when he left.
There doesn’t seem to be any other way out. There are windows in the bathroom, bedroom, and sitting room—the latter featuring huge floor-to-ceiling panes of glass that I’m sure are spectacular when sunlight filters through—but none of them open. Even if they did open, there is no balcony or even a fire escape outside. Only a fall several stories down to the concrete pavement below.
We must be in the city, judging by the view of other buildings outside, none of which contain any sign of people who may be able to call the cops. We are likely above a club of some kind, I’d guess, given the muted thrum of music rising up through the floor.
Is thishisbuilding? Does he run a slew of clubs, along with all his other business activities?
Figures. Ihateclubs.
Panic threatens, and I curl my toes in the thick white carpet beneath my feet, trying to ground myself. He probably won’t kill me here. I mean, who would want to spoil the pristine whiteness of this décor?
Textured wallpaper on the walls, patterned again in white with gold and silver overtones, provides a luxurious if slightly overdone feel, while the electric fireplace is flanked by white leather sofas and topped by a grand marble mantel that matches the marble featured in the bathroom.
