"Normal is overrated."
“Did you…did you know who I was that night? Were you stalking me?”
He smirks. “I was there enjoying a drink. You arrived shortly after the man I was meeting with left. If I was stalking you, you’d never know.”
I want to scream. Or hit him. Or do something other than stand here while he toys with me like a cat with a mouse.
"This is insane," I say. "My father doesn't owe you anything. He's never even mentioned you."
"Richard Quinn," Dante says quietly. "Certified public accountant, works for Sokolov Enterprises. Lives in Lincoln Park. Wife died twenty years ago—cancer. One daughter, Hannah, who sells real estate and thinks her father's biggest client is a construction company."
My mouth goes dry. He knows things—specific things about my father that he shouldn't know. But none of it makes sense.
I shake my head. “You’re wrong.”
I think about my father. I remember the stories about boring financial reports. The man who taught me to ride a bike and helped me with my math homework and cried at my collegegraduation. He’s a boring accountant. I grew up in a small house in the suburbs. He’s not a thief.
"You're lying," I whisper.
"I don't lie, Red. Not about business."
I can't process this. Can't reconcile the father I know with whatever Dante is suggesting. My dad is the most honest person I know. He returns extra change to cashiers and won't even jaywalk when the street is empty.
"I want to call him," I say. "Right now."
"That's not going to happen."
"Why not?"
"Because until this situation is resolved, you belong to me."
The possessiveness in his voice sends a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the memory of his hands on my skin.
"I don't belong to anyone," I snap, moving toward the window like I might throw myself through it rather than stay here with him.
"We'll see."
I whirl around to face him. "You can't just kidnap people because their fathers supposedly owe you money! This isn't the Middle Ages!"
"No," he agrees. "It's much more civilized now. We use collateral instead of public executions."
The casual way he mentions executions makes my blood freeze. What kind of world does this man live in? What kind of world does my father apparently live in?
"This is insane," I repeat. "Even if my father does owe you money—which I don't believe—I had nothing to do with it. You can't punish me for his mistakes."
"I'm not punishing you." Dante moves closer. I find myself backing up until I hit the window. "I'm protecting you."
"Protecting me from what?"
"From the people who want to hurt you to get to him."
His words don't make sense, but the sincerity in his voice is unmistakable. He actually believes what he's saying. Which means either he's delusional, or my entire life has been built on lies I never knew existed.
"I want to leave," I say quietly. "Please."
"I can't let you do that."
"Then you're no better than those people you claim to be protecting me from."
