I swallow hard and set the frame down with careful precision, like if I handle it wrong, I’ll shatter something inside me.
My eyes fill with tears, and I know I’m close to breaking. I need to get out of here, to go home . . . because the guard is right, this place isn’t my home. It’s not his either. It’s a museum of what he became. And now it’s supposed to be my cage.
Fantastic.
I start to walk back out of the room to find somewhere else to hide away with my depressed thoughts.
A corner desk sits beneath the windows, and while that’s not anything special, what’s sitting on top of it is.
A phone.
Perfect.
Ever since Lorenzo took my phone away after the wedding, I’ve missed having a line of communication to the world.
I’m not a big texter, and social media is not my thing, but I like having it. But I guess in Lorenzo’s mind, prisoners don’t get to make calls after all.
I grab the receiver and dial my parents.
“This number is temporarily unavailable.”
I frown and dial again. Same response. I try my mother’s direct line. My father’s office. The estate. Every number, and every time I dial, I get the same thing . . . Nothing.
Just that same calm, automated voice, saying, “This number is temporarily unavailable.”
“Seriously? They can’t all be unavailable.”
A throat clears behind me.
I jump and spin, heart slamming like it’s trying to break out.
A man stands in the doorway. He’s in his mid-thirties, tall, dark hair trimmed neat to his face, tattoos crawling down both arms. He’s handsome, but not like Lorenzo.Lorenzo is something else entirely.
“Sorry.” He lifts his hands slightly, palms open. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t,” I lie automatically.
His gaze flicks to the receiver still clutched in my hand. “Lines are blocked.”
My throat tightens. “Blocked?”
He nods once, like this is normal. “Boss’s orders.”
The word boss lands heavy. Lorenzo might work for his uncle, but this scary man works for Lorenzo . . .
I steady my breathing. “So I’m cut off from the world.”
He shrugs, a small movement that reads like resignation. “That’s one way to phrase it.”
“And your way would be . . .?”
“Safe.” He says it like a rehearsed line. Then his expression shifts. “I’m Nico.”
He steps forward a half pace, then hesitates. What is he doing? Then his hand reaches into his jacket, and my whole body tenses. This is when it happens . . . I’m going to die. Lorenzo told him to kill me if I try anything.
But instead of a gun, I’m met with a small phone. I’ve seen enough movies to know it’s a burner. He holds it out discreetly, palm flat, like he’s offering contraband in church.
I stare at it like it might explode. “Why are you helping me?”
