I kick out, surprised I can move with the pain in my body, but he’s stronger, leaning over me with a shadowed face, covered like a coward in a ski mask and fists like stone. His knuckles crash into my ribs, once, twice, stealing the air from my lungs.
“Stop!” I gasp, curling around the pain, arms wrapping instinctively around my stomach. “Stop, please?—”
“Shut up.” He yanks me upright by the front of my shirt, his grip bruising. “I have a message for you. Know that Matteo’s watching you, sweetheart, and unless you wanna keep getting visits like this, you’ll do what he says.”
I suck in a shaky breath, gripping his wrist to try to pry it away from my clothes. “I’m not doing anything for him,” I wheeze through the pain.
He leans closer, so close I can smell rancid cigar smoke clinging to his jacket. “Then you better learn to take a beating.”
I shove at his chest, but he only laughs, shoving me backward onto the floor. My elbow smacks hard against the edge of the coffee table. I bite down on a cry, fury sparking through the terror.
“What does he want me to do exactly?” I choke out, dragging myself upright against the sofa.
The man steps closer, looming over me. “You work for Moretti. That makes you useful. Matteo wants ears in that office. He wants eyes. He wants you to tell him every little thing that crosses Moretti’s desk. He wants his downfall.”
“No,” I whisper. My ribs throb with every shallow breath. “I won’t.”
His expression hardens, but he doesn’t hit me again. Instead, he points a thick finger at me, voice dropping into somethingcolder that makes me shiver. This man is a killer, and he’d have no second thoughts on breaking my neck if asked. “Then expect more house calls.”
He turns and leaves as abruptly as he came, the door slamming shut behind him.
I sit there on the floor for what feels like forever, one hand pressed to my ribs, the other clinging to the sofa cushion like it’s an anchor keeping me from floating away.
My entire body shakes. My dinner lies overturned on the carpet square, salad scattered like debris.
Like my life.
For a long, trembling moment, I think about doing nothing. Pretending this didn’t happen. Pretending I can handle it.
But I can’t.
Not this. Not alone. Not again.
My hands fumble as I grab my phone, scroll through my contacts, and press Mr. Moretti’s number before I can think better of it.
He picks up on the first ring. “Miss Locke?”
I close my eyes, clutching the phone to my ear. As much as I don’t want to admit it, his voice is like a life raft, there to help, to try to save me. “I’ll move in,” I whisper, voice cracking. “The loft. I’ll take the offer.”
Silence stretches for a beat, taut and sharp. Then his voice drops, smooth but edged with steel. “Where are you?”
“At home,” I manage, my breath still shaky, trying to hide what had just happened to me. I probably should have thought more about when I should call Mr. Moretti. Straight after the assault wasn’t a good idea.
“I’m on my way.”
I want to argue, but the words won’t come. I end the call and drag myself off the floor, forcing myself into movement. I throwessentials into a small overnight bag, wincing at every bend and twist.
By the time Mr. Moretti’s car pulls up outside twenty minutes later, I’ve locked every bolt on the door and checked it twice. I move stiffly, pressing an arm against my stomach as I walk out of my apartment building into the damp night air.
The ride is silent, the hum of the engine the only sound. He doesn’t ask questions, not yet, his jaw tight as he stares out at the street ahead. Does he suspect something is off? His quiet contemplation makes me nervous.
We pull into the underground parking garage beneath a tall building, the sleek steel-and-glass structure glowing softly against the skyline. Inside, the elevator ride feels endless, the polished mirrored walls reflecting a pale, shaken version of myself I barely recognize.
There are dark circles under my eyes, and my hair is messy. I look like I’ve been in a tussle. I probably should have at least run a brush through it.
When we reach the top floor, Penthouse loft if the button on the elevator means anything, Mr. Moretti swipes his thumb over a keypad, and the door opens. The loft is vast, sweeping clean lines and city views. I barely register any of it. My ribs scream with every step, with every breath.
“Briar.”
