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His eyes narrowed, and he focused his attention on my neck. “What did he look like?”
“Dark hair, taller than me, Spanish accent,” I stuttered, his wrath engulfing the room, holding me in a tight grip.
That described most the guys working for Maurizio. But my face had been turned away the whole time, and the only thing I was sure about had been the revolting smell of cigarettes and his stale breath on my face.
With a growl, Santino pushed off the desk and turned his back to me. “Come. You’ve already been in here longer than you should have.”
After a tense and fast-paced walk where I had to run to catch up to Santino’s long strides, he deposited me in front of my room. I placed a shaking hand on the sensor, my handprint unlocking the door.
Santino watched me walk inside. “Stay inside, lock the door.”
I didn’t have to be told twice and locked the door as soon as it closed. Not wasting time, I stripped off my clothes and stepped into the shower, turning the water as hot as I could stand. The shower had become my refuge, closely followed by the closet.
Huddling in the corner under the warm spray, I shivered despite the scalding water encasing me. I dragged myself off the floor when the water had run cold. A glance in the mirror confirmed what I’d already guessed. I had bruises on my body, the worst one around my throat.
I set up my bed in the closet and curled up underneath the blanket. Sleep didn’t come easily, but thankfully the darkness found me eventually and I sank into blissful oblivion.
A steady stream of new clothes and little trinkets kept showing up in my room. It started with a few clothes. Then a hair clip. Nail polish. Conditioner. And not the cheap stuff either.
It had been two days since the incident, and I was more careful than ever.
I was hesitant to leave the room, the dread in my stomach intensifying as soon as I put my hand on the doorknob. But I didn’t have a choice. The man I was more scared of than my tormentor was due back in two days. And Maurizio wasn’t someone who would grant extensions.
Santino had been quietly brooding, talking even less than usual. But since I was all out of words, I didn’t mind.
I dropped onto my usual stool in the kitchen, mumbling a “Buenos dias” to Mariana. A hand gently cupped my cheek, and I looked at her friendly but frowning face. She inspected my neck, carefully prodding it. I winced but stayed otherwise silent. She’d been applying a cream to my bruises, and they had turned an ugly green-brown.
Santino talked to Mariana, his words clipped and his tone angry. That seemed to be his only mood lately—pissed.
After a tense and rushed breakfast, where every bite felt like needles going down my throat, he walked me to the office and left. I spent my day going over more numbers, making slow progress.
I didn’t stop for dinner, and Mariana came in to drop off my food. It remained untouched, and Santino took the plate with him when he picked me up.
He held up the plate of empanadas. “You need to eat.”
They were my favorite, something Mariana knew. From what I understood, she was from Argentina. She loved to cook traditional Argentinian food, and I usually loved to eat it. But today even eating seemed too exhausting. “I’m not hungry.”
My throat also still hurt, so breakfast had been a painful enough experience for me.
Santino pushed the plate into my hands when we made it to my room. “Eat.”
As soon as the door clicked shut behind me, I heard his retreating footsteps. I slumped against the door and slid to the floor, plate clutched in my hand. My body burned with the desire to go home. To get out of this prison.
The incident at the pool made me realize how shaky my position here was.
I rested my head against the wood, finally letting my tears flow. I wasn’t usually much of a crier, but I’d done more of it in the past two weeks than in the past ten years.
“Crying won’t help. It’ll make you appear weak,” a familiar voice said.
I startled, dropping the plate and spilling all the food on the gleaming floor. The tears immediately stopped, and I stiffly looked up at a tight-faced Lucius.
How did I not notice someone else was in the room with me?
He was sitting on the bed, elbows on his knees. But he was anything but relaxed. His fists were balled tightly, his eyes dark, his jaw muscles working overtime.
He sat up, his attention on my neck. “Give me something else about your attacker. His eye color. Height. Anything.” His eyes roamed over my face, his expression growing stormier with each pass.
I shrank back against the door. Right now, he was ten times scarier than the person who did this to me.
