He helps me off his lap eventually, fixes my dress with surprising gentleness while I try to make myself presentable. My hair is disheveled, my lips swollen, and I probably look thoroughly debauched.
I can’t bring myself to care.
14
GIULIANA
Three thirty in the morning.
I know because I’ve been staring at the digital clock on my nightstand for the past two hours, watching the minutes crawl by with agonizing slowness while my mind refuses to shut down.
Sleep is impossible. Every time I close my eyes, I see Rico Romano’s face too close to mine, smell his cologne mixed with whiskey, and feel his hands gripping my arms. Then the scene shifts and it’s Luca slamming him against the wall, Luca’s voice dropping to that deadly register that made even me want to back away despite being relieved by his presence.
Then it shifts again to the car. To his hands on me, his body claiming mine. To the way I clung to him not out of desire exactly, but out of desperate need for the safety only he can provide in this nightmare world.
You’re mine. In this world, that’s the only thing keeping you safe.
The words echo in my head on repeat, along with my own pathetic response.Yes, please?—
I press my palms against my eyes, trying to block out the memory, but it’s seared into my brain. The way he looked at me in the dim light of the car, possessive and fierce. The way my body responded despite everything my rational mind knew to be true. The way being claimed by him felt like the only solid thing in a reality that’s become increasingly unmoored.
I hate him. Ishouldhate him. He destroyed my clinic, imprisoned my father, forced me into this engagement, stripped away every piece of my old life until nothing remained but compliance.
But I also, god help me, I also feltsaferin his arms tonight than I’ve felt since this nightmare began. When he appeared in that hallway, when he put himself between me and Rico with such absolute authority, some twisted part of me feltprotectedin a way that has nothing to do with logic and everything to do with primal survival instinct.
I bark out a laugh, still pressing the bottoms of my palms against my eyes. God, what iswrongwith me?
Stockholm Syndrome. That’s what this is. It’s not a real diagnosis, but that’s the only thing this can be. Why else would hostages develop emotional bonds with their captors, confusing control with care, mistaking possession for protection? That’s what this is.
Knowing what it is doesn’t make it any less easy.
I throw off the sheets and grab the cashmere robe draped over the chair. The mansion is quiet at this hour, just the ambient hum of climate control and security systems keeping watch.
I should try to sleep. Force myself to lie still and count ceiling tiles or sheep or whatever the hell people do when insomnia has its claws in them.
Instead, I find myself padding barefoot across the plush carpet to my door. It’s unlocked—one of the small mercies granted after I proved I wasn’t going to immediately attempt escape. Or maybe it’s just that Luca knows there’s nowhere for me to run, that the walls and gates and guards make physical locks redundant.
The hallway outside my suite is dimly lit by wall sconces set to their lowest setting. My feet make no sound on the thick runner as I move through the mansion’s second floor, not really sure where I’m going, just needing to move.
Then there’s the other weight pressing on my chest. The one that’s been suffocating me since we left the Romano estate.
Salvatore’s voice. The voice that’s haunted my nightmares for three years. Hearing it again tonight, watching him play the gracious host while Luca negotiated business with Marco’s real killer—it made the secret feel like acid eating through my insides.
“The wrong one died. I told you Marchetti would be there?—”
The words are burned into my memory, along with my father’s terrified response and his broken sobs.
I have proof. A recording that could redirect Luca’s revenge toward the right target and could maybe clear my father’s name. It could change everything.
But revealing it could also destroy me.
If Luca believes me, I become valuable. If he doesn’t believe me, if he thinks I’m lying to manipulate him or save my father, I don’t want to imagine what his fury would look like then.
Biting my lip, I wrap my arms around myself to ward off a sudden chill. But what if he’s angry I’ve kept this from him all this time? His anger would make his fury toward Rico look like child’s play.
And if Salvatore Romano discovers I have evidence against him? He’d eliminate me without hesitation.
So I stay silent, and the silence is killing me almost as effectively as speaking might.
