He carries himself with the kind of authority that comes from power, not just physical strength.
He’s fuckinghuge, maybe six feet five inches tall and probably two hundred and twenty pounds of solid muscle beneath a well-fitting charcoal suit.
His brown hair is buzzed close to his skull, military-style, and his green eyes study me with an expression that manages to be both kind and utterly professional.
Then his gaze catches on my face—the split lip, the bruise across my cheekbone—and something flashes in those jade eyes.
Horror?
Regret?
It’s gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it, his expression smoothing into careful neutrality.
“Dr. Conti.” His voice is a low rumble that probably sounds soothing when he’s not explaining the terms of your captivity. “Welcome to the Marchetti estate. I’m Danny Grasso. I work for Mr. Marchetti. I’ll be showing you around and explaining how things work here.”
“Where’s my father?” The question bursts out before I can stop it. “Is he okay? Can I see him?”
Danny’s expression softens slightly, which somehow makes everything worse. “Your father is safe and being cared for. Mr. Marchetti will discuss visitation arrangements with you at an appropriate time.”
That was zero help whatsoever and the noncommittal answer makes me feel sick. “What does that mean?” I demand. “I need to know if he’s?—”
“He’s alive and his injuries are being treated,” Danny says firmly, cutting off my rising panic. “That’s all I can tell you right now. If you’ll follow me, please.”
He turns and walks toward the house, leaving me no choice but to trail behind him like an obedient dog.
I try to keep pace despite the ache in my ribs, not wanting to show weakness.
The front doors are massive things, probably ten feet tall and made of dark wood carved with intricate patterns.
They swing open as we approach, and I catch a glimpse of someone in a dark suit pulling them from the inside.
Another guard, another set of eyes tracking my every movement.
I want to cower.
I only remember the impossible size of the man who beat me two nights ago, his smaller features lost to me.
Is that him?
Is he here?
The thought frightens me.
The entry hall takes my breath away despite my fear.
Black and white marble floors stretch toward a sweeping double staircase that curves up to the second floor.
Crystal chandeliers hang from a ceiling painted with some elaborate fresco of clouds and angels.
Original oil paintings line the walls, looking like something that belongs in museums, not private homes.
“The estate covers twenty acres,” Danny explains as we walk, his footsteps echoing on the marble. “The main house has forty-two rooms, including your private suite. There’s a gym, a pool, a library, and extensive gardens. You’ll have access to most areas, with certain exceptions.”
We pass through hallways lined with more priceless art, rooms furnished with antiques that probably have historical significance I’m too terrified to appreciate.
Everything is beautiful and cold.
A dentist’s office is more inviting than this.
