But there’s something else too, tangled up with the fear and the guilt. Something I can’t ignore at three in the morning when my defenses are worn down to nothing.
My father. Somewhere in this city—maybe in a safe house, maybe in a cell, maybe already dead for all I know—my father is suffering because of choices he made three years ago. Choices made under coercion, yes, but choices nonetheless.
And I had sex with his captor. In the back of a car, desperate and rough and so viscerally satisfying it makes me sick to remember how much I needed it.
What kind of daughter does that make me? What kind of person betrays her own father by having sex with the man who’s destroying them both?
The shame is almost physical, sitting in my stomach like a stone. I should be planning his rescue and fighting Luca at every turn, maintaining my hatred and my distance instead of?—
Instead of whatever the hell happened in that car.
I’m a traitor. To my father, to myself, to any sense of moral consistency I thought I had. I’ve slept with my captor and Iliked it, and that makes me as pathetic as my father was when he sold Marco’s life for gambling money.
The thought makes tears burn behind my eyes, but I blink them back furiously. Crying won’t fix anything. It certainly won’t make me less of a traitor or less dependent on Luca for survival.
My wandering feet have carried me to the wing of the mansion that I’ve been expressly forbidden to go to. Luca’s private domain. The hallway where I got caught a few weeks ago.
I shiver at the memory of that confrontation. The way his face had gone cold when he realized I was looking at his photos of Marco. He’d stripped away my privileges as punishment, leaving me counting ceiling fixtures until Danny convinced him I was losing my mind.
I shouldn’t be here. I need to get the hell out of here before I get caught and lose more privileges. I should turn around right now and?—
Light spills from under the door at the end of the hall. Not bright, but enough to indicate someone’s awake.
Luca.
He’s in there. In his study. The private office where he keeps Marco’s case files and photographs and all the evidence that points to the wrong enemy.
At three in the morning, he’s probably in there torturing himself over details that I could clarify with a few words and a recording I’ve been too terrified to share.
Fuck. I really need to leave. I need to go back to my bedroom and my guilt and let him suffer alone like he deserves.
But for some stupid, god-awful reason, I want to see him.
I’m an idiot. A traitor and an idiot and possibly the most psychologically damaged person in this entire fucked-up situation. I want to see the man who’s been destroying my life. I want to be near him after what happened tonight. That’s notnormal. That’s nothealthy.
That’s Stockholm Syndrome in its purest form.
But my feet are moving forward anyway, drawn toward that light. My hand reaches for the door, and I push it open before I can talk myself out of this monumentally stupid decision.
The room beyond is exactly as I remember it. Dark wood paneling, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the massive mahogany desk. And sitting behind that desk, still wearing his dress shirt from the Romano gathering but with the sleeves rolled up and the top buttons undone, is Luca.
He looks exhausted. The aloofness he usually wears is replaced by something raw and human. His dark hair is disheveled and there are shadows under his eyes that suggest he’s been awake as long as I have.
Even rumpled and tired, he’s so unbelievably good looking. The sleeves rolled up reveal forearms corded with muscle, and the open collar shows the column of his throat, the hollow at the base that I remember pressing my lips against in the car. His jaw is darkened with stubble he hasn’t bothered to shave, making him look less like the polished crime lord and more dangerous and untamed.
If this wasn’t such a serious situation, I would stamp my foot like a child and whine that it isn’t fair that someone could be so handsome.
It’s also not fair that someone who’s destroyed my life should be so beautiful.
The desk is covered with files. My stomach flip flops as I realize they’re crime scene photos, butthank godthey’re face-down. There are witness statements and maps marked with red circles and arrows.
It’s Marco’s murder investigation, laid out in excruciating detail.
I watch as he picks up a photograph. It’s not a crime scene photo, but one of him and Marco, younger and smiling. From this far away, I can tell it’s not the one of them at the barbecue but another photo. I want so badly to look at it. His thumb traces the edge of the frame with such careful reverence it makes me want to cry.
Then he sets it down and pulls over a yellow legal pad covered in his precise handwriting. I can’t make out the words, but I can definitely see my father’s name on it.
It’swrong. All of it is pointing at the wrong enemy while the real killer walks free.
