The casual way he says it that sends a chill through my spine. But—“If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead already.”
I don’t dare look at him, but a moment later, he gives a chuckle. “You’d get along with my brother, I think. Perhaps you’ll meet him tonight.”
JulianCastellani? A sick chill runs through my gut.
Alessandro pulls up in front of an enormous house, long and symmetrical, the facade filled with thin, rectangular windows on the first and second stories. “Stay there.”
He gets out of the car, but I stay where he told me to, right there in the car, quivering again. I know I’ve fucked up, letting him take me here. It’s the number one rule with any killer—neverlet them take you to the second location, the one they’ve set up, where they’ll have all the control. But there are four guards outside the house, heavily armed, and the gardens around the house don’t offer much to hide behind, except a big statue of Botticelli’s Birth of Venus.
They’d get me before I got there.
Alessandro says something in Italian to the men, who laugh and relax, stepping back into position. He comes around the car, pulls open the door, and grabs my arm. I stumble out and then, before I really know what’s happening, he’s swung me up and over his shoulder. The breath goes out of me and my head spins as I dangle upside-down.
Even if I had the breath to call out for help, no one here will help me.
Alessandro gives me a slap on the butt that makes me squirm, kick, and he says something again to his men. I don’t understand the language, but the sentiment is clear, underlined by the lewd laughter of the guards. One of them opens the front door and closes it again after we get inside.
Alessandro flips me right-side-up again, standing me on the floor in front of him. He takes my chin in his hand again, looking down at me impassively. “Well, little mouse,” he says. “Time for the cat to play.”
CHAPTER6
SANDRO
He’s even lovelierthan I first thought, now that I can see him properly. Back in the warehouse, cowering on the floor, hands covering up his face, it was harder to tell—but when I pull him into the grand salon, the long receiving room that stretches a full quarter-length of the house, and I see this little mouse in better light, I have to force myself not to stare too hard.
“Drink?” I pour him out a bourbon despite his silence, then one for me. He’s standing where I left him, staring around, though he’s stopped shaking now. There’s still dirt and dust smudged on his face, peppering his hair, but he is certainly the most beautiful young man I have seen for a long, long time.
I like blonds. I have a fondness for them, which must explain why I took him, why he is standing here alive, instead of lying in a pool of his own blood on that warehouse floor.
I walk toward him, and he takes a step back.
“Drink.” This time it’s a command. I hold out the glass.
He reaches out and takes it, but his hand is trembling again. I hold my own glass up. “Salute.”
I take a sip, and after he’s watched me swallow, he takes a sip of his own. Then another. Then he drains the glass, gasping afterwards, grabbing at his chest as the fiery bourbon lights him up from the inside. “Another?” I ask, but he shakes his head. “Go and sit down.”
He stumbles to the nearest seat, a high-backed eighteenth-century replica, which I know from experience is extremely uncomfortable. But he sits ramrod straight, clutching at the carved wooden arms as though he’s been strapped into the electric chair.
I stay where I am, allowing him the illusion of safety with distance. “What is your name?”
“T-teddy.”
“T-teddy?” He cringes as I repeat it with the stutter, his spine weakening now as he curls in on himself. Such mockery was a needless cruelty, and I feel a flicker of shame. He’s powerless enough; we both know it. “It suits you,” I tell him. The eyes flash up to mine, confused. “Such a cute little teddy bear, soft and sweet. So tell me: for whom do you work?”
“I don’t work for anyone,” he says, the elegant brows knitting together. “I…I run a website.”
“You run a website.” I almost laugh at the response, but the way he looks at me, bewilderment and fear and...what is that? I can’t place it. “What website?” I come in closer, lean in, put my hand on the back of the chair and loom over him, let him look into my ravaged face. Fear will draw out answers. It always does.
He swallows, and I see his pupils grow larger.
Desire? Isthatwhat I saw?
Desire?
I stand back at once. The bourbon must have gone to my head.
“Um,” he says. “It’s calledCute Crims.”
