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Agent DiMedio.
555-637-8290
I can’t keep it. For all I know, Nero is having every square inch of my space searched the minute I leave. And if he found it…
I commit the phone number to memory, then find the pack of matches I have in the bathroom to light candles and burn the tiny scrap in the sink until there’s nothing but ash.
I rinse it down the drain, breathing easier once all trace of the meeting is gone.
I know, the Feds won’t quit so easily, but for now, I have bigger things to worry about.
Like this weekend away with Nero.
I turn my attention to packing and make quick work of the task. We’ll only be gone the weekend but running in these circles requires being ready for anything. That means lots of clothing and accessories—for the both of us. For daytime, I’ve assembled all kinds of casually glamorous outfits to fit in with the other wives and girlfriends, but when it comes to nightwear, it’s all bulky flannel, as loose and unflattering as they come.
Just in case Nero get any ideas.
Or I do.
I tryto get my game face on during the ride to Nero’s office. I’ve only had to be around the man for a few hours at a time, so the prospect of a whole weekend playing loved-up fiancée is making my stomach tangle up in knots.
Just how far will our act have to go?
Holding hands? Touching? Kissing?
I flash back to him in the shower, and feel my whole body tighten with the memory. His body under the water, the low animal groans he made, the sheer power of his masculine sex appeal…
I can’t help it, the attraction that burns whenever he’s nearby. And if that power was unleashed, on me…
The car comes to a stop. “Inside,” Kyle orders, so I climb out and follow him down an alley and into a back entrance of a building. I can tell from the noise and smells that it’s the same building I was brought to when I was bound and blindfolded. This time, I’m able to look around.
Just as I suspected then, we’re at the club on 14th street. The Barrettis used it as a meeting spot and general hangout when I was younger. The place has had a revamp since I saw it last, with chic leather booths and dark corners draped in brocade curtains. I clock Avery, the brunette woman, behind the bar, and a few guys drinking, before heading through another door and into the bowels of the club.
Here, the walls are concrete, and doors are locked tight, hiding what sins, I don’t even want to know. But as I follow Kyle deeper into the maze of hallways, I hear noise up ahead.
What sounds like muffled cries of pain, and a man begging.
“Please… Stop. I can’t…”
A door flings open, just as we pass, revealing a terrible sight in the room: A half-naked man dangling, bruised and bloody, his wrists bound to a pipe above his head.
His face is cut and bleeding, features mangled, with terrible cuts and bruises all over his naked chest.
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth in shock at the horrific scene.
He lifts his head at the sound. “Is someone there?” he slurs, pitifully. “Please…”
And then Nero steps into view. His knuckles bloody. Splatters on his shirt.
And a cold, merciless look in his eyes.
He balls his fist and strikes the man in the face with a dull crack, then follows with a brutal set of jabs to his ribs and stomach.
The man howls in pain.
“I’m sorry.” He sobs. “Please…”
“Sorry isn’t good enough,” Nero replies calmly, hitting him again, but the man keeps begging, even when the sound is garbled by the blood in his mouth.
