A faint smile curves his lips, not mocking but something darker, more resigned, like he expected this resistance and finds it almost amusing.Or perhaps intriguing.
The thought sends a fresh wave of irritation through me—does he think this is a game?That I’ll fold under his stare?Blood continues to trickle from the cut at his temple, a slow rivulet that now stains the collar of his shirt.
He doesn’t seem to notice or care.Hs focus is entirely on me, and his dark eyes search my face as if cataloging every microexpression, every flicker of emotion I can’t quite hide.
His thumb strokes my wrist again, a deliberate caress that sends an involuntary shiver racing up my arm, raising goose bumps in its wake.
His touch is light, almost absentminded, but it feels intentional, probing for weakness.
My stomach twists, a mix of revulsion and something sharper, more primal, that I shove down deep.How dare he?After everything—after carrying me here like a sack of goods, undressing me with those same hands.Fragments of memory tease at the edges of my mind: the gentle slide of a zipper, cool air on my skin, soft murmurs that might have been soothing if they hadn’t come from him.
Determinedly I angle my chin.He has no idea who he’s dealing with.And it’s time he remembered.“I will not have you touching me.Step back.”
“I won’t.”His voice is low, gravelly, carrying a finality that makes my breath hitch.
“You have no idea the hell you’ve unleashed on yourself.”
“Mmm.”
Again, he seems totally unconcerned.
My mind races as I piece together the puzzle of everything that’s happened.He knows my name, called it earlier like it was familiar, expected.
My kidnapping wasn’t random.It was calculated, planned.
Personal.
For the first time, real fear coils tighter in my gut, cold and insistent, mingling with the anger until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.
I have to get out of here.
I twist my wrist in his grip, but he tightens his fingers to hold me fast.I doubt he cares if he leaves bruises.
Pain flares again, a dull ache that radiates up my forearm, reminding me of the failed swing.The lamp is shattered on the floor, its glass fragments glinting in the low light like scattered diamonds.
The room feels smaller now, and the walls close in.The air is thick with the scent of him—citrus, whiskey, blood—and the faint ozone tang of my own adrenaline-fueled sweat.
“Who the hell are you?”I demand, my voice steadier than I feel, each word pushing against the pressure of his arm.
ChapterFour
Valentina
My chest rises and falls rapidly, brushing his forearm with every breath, the contact sending unwelcome tingles across my skin.Emotions churn inside me—fury at my helplessness, curiosity sharpened by survival instinct, a thread of dread weaving through it all.He’s bigger, stronger, but I’ve faced down men like him before, in boardrooms and back alleys, where a wrong word could mean a knife in the dark.
“Who am I?”He hesitates, his eyes narrowing as if deciding how much to reveal.The muscle in his jaw ticks again, and I feel the subtle tension in his body, the way his thigh still pins me, unyielding.
Heat builds where our bodies connect, a slow burn that I ignore, focusing instead on the cut at his temple, the way the blood has slowed to a sluggish seep.Good.At least I marked him, left a reminder that I’m not some fragile doll to be handled.
“Dante Moretti.”The name drops from his lips, simple and unadorned, but it lands like a grenade in my mind.
Moretti.
Oh God.
No.
The pieces snap into place—Houston, the Gulf ports, the Four Corners Alliance my father navigated so carefully.Raffaele’s son.The enforcer, now underboss after his father’s death.
