Flicking over to the monitoring program, I pull up Angelo’s online activity.
Porn. Emails.
Since he’s typing, I can’t tell if he’s actually watching the video or if it’s just background noise.
Not that it matters. I don’t like what I’m seeing.
On screen, a man repeatedly swats a woman in full bondage with a paddle. She whines and thanks him for each strike. His fingers stroke between her legs and the camera shifts to show how wet she is.
My stomach tightens. The man works a toy over her, his voice low, commanding. “You haven’t earned my cock.”
I shake my head, disgust curling in my gut.
Angelo’s emails are in Italian, but it’s easy enough to translate. Business calls. Skype meetings. Nothing illegal.
An hour passes. He watches porn. Sends emails. Watches more porn. I try not to glance his way, but the images burn into my mind, anyway. I give up and pull out a book.
The female lead can bend people to her will—a skill I wouldn’t mind having right now.
If I had even a fraction of Emilia’s fury and confidence, I wouldn’t feel so unsettled around her brother.
Emilia wrapped my partner, Eric, around her finger in less than a week.
I never stood a chance.
Avoiding conversations with Angelo becomes second nature over the next five days. Anything beyond ‘Are you still alive’ is out of the question.
But by Friday night, I need space to breathe. A moment to myself. Wandering through the mansion like I have before, I find a small library tucked away in a study area.
Papasan chairs are arranged in cozy corners, each with a small side table. But the real surprise? No wall space at all. Just books.
I never figured Angelo for a reader. I would have been less surprised if he were hosting the Fight Club.
“Found my library?”
His voice comes from the doorway, smooth and knowing.
I glance in his direction, catching the way his eyes rake over me. Regret settles in—maybe a tank top and denim shorts weren’t the best choice.
He steps closer. I step back.
My gaze flicks to the shelves, then back to him. “I didn’t take you for the literary type.”
He barely contains his smirk. “You wound me, Topina.”
I huff, crossing my arms. “I’m surprised you don’t have a murder room.”
His smirk deepens, dark and slow. “A murder room, Topina?”
“With chains, blood-soaked floors, rusty medical ... things.” My brow furrows. “You know, like a place where a psychopath would feel at home.”
Angelo’s smirk doesn’t falter.
“You think I’m that bad, do you?” he asks, taking another step forward.
“Yes,” I hiss. “Considering everything I’ve heard about your family’s connections.”
He shakes his head, almost disappointed. “You should know better, Topina.” His voice drops, slow, deliberate. “I wouldn’t haverustymedical tools. Mine are shiny. Always washed. Frequently sharpened.”
