I look up. One of Dante's men—the stocky one with the scar—gestures toward the door. "Boss says I'm driving you."
I don't argue. What would be the point?
I follow him into the hallway, my mind racing. Adrian fucking Morelli. I wasted three years of my life on that bastard and he sold me to the mob like I was a used car he needed to unload.
How did I not see it? How did I miss the signs?
I thought he was climbing the corporate ladder. Turns out he was just digging himself into debt with the kind of people who buy your girlfriend when you can't pay.
And now I'm paying instead.
The stairwell smells like urine and despair. I follow the man down three flights, my heels slapping against concrete that's cracked and stained with things I don't want to identify. When we step outside, the afternoon sun feels too bright, too cheerful for what just happened and I glare at it.
A black SUV is parked at the curb, windows tinted so dark I can't see inside. And leaning against it, checking his phone with the casual ease of someone who hasn't just destroyed a woman's life, is Dante Vitale.
He looks up when we approach. Those blue eyes—cold and calculating and somehow still managing to be beautiful—sweep over me like I'm a problem he's still figuring out how to solve.
He's tall. I noticed that inside, but out here in the daylight, it's even more obvious. At least six-two, maybe six-three, with shoulders broad enough to fill out that obscenely expensive suit. Dark hair perfectly styled, sharp jaw, the kind of face that probably makes normal women stupid.
"Change of plans," he says, pocketing his phone. "You're riding with me."
"What? No." The word comes out before I can think better of it. "He can take me home. Someone can pick me up tomorrow—" I point at the man who was just staring at him blankly.
"I said Marco would drive you. I didn't say where." He opens the back door of the SUV. "Get in."
Oh so his name is Marco.
“My car is still at my school…”
“They’ll pick it up.”
"I need to pack. I have things?—"
"They'll be packed for you."
I stop, stare at him in shock and try to calm my anger. “By who? Your men?" It’s not working, I can hear my voice rising but can't seem to stop it. "They're going to go through my apartment, touch my private stuff, decide what I get to keep?"
"Yes."
The casual brutality of it makes me want to scream.
"I'm not running away," I say, forcing myself to sound calm. Reasonable. "I can’t. You're blackmailing me with my mother. Where exactly would I go?"
"I don't care where you'd go. I care that you understand how this works." He steps closer, and I hate that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. Hate that even now, some stupid part of my brain registers how good he smells and how big he is. "When I tell you to do something, you do it. No arguments. No negotiations. We established this already."
"We established that I'd obey you when it comes to playing your fake girlfriend. You didn't say anything about?—"
"Everything." His voice drops, soft and lethal. "I own everything now, Miss Mancini. Your time. Your choices. Your Tuesday afternoons and your Saturday mornings and every second in between. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."
I want to hit him. Want to claw that perfect face and scream until my voice gives out.
Instead, I cross my arms and plant my feet. "No."
Something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, maybe. Or amusement.
Then he moves.
One second I'm standing on the sidewalk, the next his hands are on my waist and I'm being lifted—actually lifted like I weigh nothing—and deposited into the back seat of the SUV.
