“I bet you respect the hell out of that guy.” He chuckles. “I’m sure it just warms your heart to know he’s raw dogging his side piece every chance he gets.”
“If that’s what you think, then sure.”
“It’s real generous of you,” Harry says. “You gonna raise her brat when he knocks her up?”
At that, my stomach revolts—triggering the memory of my father bringing Franny home. There was no apology when he saw the quiet devastation on my mother’s face. He demanded she take care of her as her own, and that’s what she did.
“I suppose he figures he can’t marry the mistress,” Harry remarks. “That ain’t widely accepted in your circles. Sounds like he’s got himself into a real pickle.”
“Maybe you should marry her,” I suggest.
“I got my own problems,” he says. “Don’t need to add someone else’s to the mix.”
I shrug. Clearly, they’re trying to get under my skin, but I can’t figure out why. Maybe this is how they think you’re supposed to torture a woman.
“What’s your goal here?” I ask. “Are we going to chat all night, or are you going to get to the point?”
Harry casts a sidelong glance toward the darkened space beyond us, and when I follow his gaze, I freeze.
He’s still here.
Twenty feet away, he sits in the shadows, his large body casually draped back in a chair that looks entirely too small.
All black militia gear, tactical boots, and a skull mask obscure his features. Every inch of his skin is covered, right down to the black leather gloves. He’s bigger than the other men, probably well over six feet tall and packed with muscle—his shirt pulling tight across his chest and arms.
Even in silence, he’s calculated and controlled as he watches his game of psychological manipulation play out. Only now do I see how easily I fell into his trap. He’s toying with me, hiding in plain sight as he observes this sham of an interrogation. Did he know I was biding my time until he came back? Did he want meto feel this false sense of comfort in his familiarity—and long for his return?
My gaze anchors to his. From this far away, I can’t see his eyes, but I want to. I have a burning need to know who he is. There’s an opening in the mask that appears as if it unhinges so he can talk, but right now, I can’t see his lips either.
“How much do you think Matteo will pay to get his little woman back?” Marv asks.
“I want to talk to him.” I nod at the man in the skull mask.
A beat passes as my request hangs in the silence, drawing out the tension. When he emerges from the shadows and advances toward me, my lungs stall.
This man is so much larger up close, and I was mistaken if I thought he was the safe one. He radiates darkness—the kind most people cross the street to avoid. It’s in the way he moves, the unmistakable imprint of danger some men carry in their DNA.
Why did I summon him back to me?
“Well?” He stops in front of me and cocks his head to the side. “You asked for my attention. Now what are you going to do with it?”
“So I guess this isn’t a stalking-me-because-you-have-a-crush type of scenario, is it?”
He lets out a brittle laugh. “Big ego for a woman who can’t keep her own fiancé’s attention.”
“Just tell me what you want from me,” I snap.
“Right now...” He prowls a slow circle around me, winding my hair around his fist until my head tips back. “I want you to answer the question.”
My heart hammers against my chest as I search his shadowed gaze, trying and failing to discern the eye color behind the mask.
“What question?” My breath catches.
“How much is your life worth to Matteo?” The heat of his words touches my lips, and that warmth bleeds down the length of my body. How is it possible that I could be so affected by someone I don’t even know? Never mind the fact that he’s a rare hybrid: a psychopath and an asshole.
He tightens his grip on my hair, sharpening the pressure on my scalp. The brush of his fingers against my cheek softens that roughness, but only for a moment. His palm slides down to my throat, pressing into the tender flesh.
“Nothing,” I choke out. “It’s worth nothing.”
