What the hell is wrong with me?
My brother Vincent would be so disappointed. He spent his whole life trying to keep me away from men like Luca. Men who solve problems with violence. Men who take what they want and call it love.
And here I am, kidnapped by a man who's been stalking me for months, and some sick part of me is wondering what he's making for dinner.
I need to get my head straight.
I stand up and go to the door and open it slowly, carefully. The hallway is empty. I can hear sounds from deeper in the apartment. Running water. The clink of dishes. He's in the kitchen, like he said, making us dinner as if this is normal, as if we're a normal couple on a normal night.
I step into the hallway. To my right is the way back to the living room and front door. To my left, the hallway continues. There's that closed door I saw earlier. I try the handle.
Locked.
His office, probably. Or his bedroom. Somewhere he doesn't want me.
I move past it, following the sounds to the kitchen.
The penthouse opens up into a massive space. Kitchen, dining area, leading back to the living room, all flowing together with those damn windows everywhere. Luca's at the stove, his back to me. He's taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves. I can see the muscles in his forearms as he stirs something in a pan.
The smell hits me. Garlic. Tomatoes. Basil. My stomach growls traitorously.
"Sugo al pomodoro," he says without turning around. He knew I was here. Of course he did. "Mynonna'srecipe. She taught me to cook when I was eight years old. Said a man who can't feed himself is only half a man."
"Your grandmother taught you to cook." I don't know why that surprises me. Maybe because it's hard to imagine him as a child. Hard to imagine him as anything but this dark, dangerous thing.
"She taught me a lot of things." He turns now, and there's a softness in his face I haven't seen before—almost human. "How to tie a tie. How to dance. How to treat a woman with respect." Something shifts in his expression, goes hard. "How to claim what's mine and keep it."
I laugh. I can't help it. It's a sharp, bitter sound. "Respect. Right. Is that what this is?"
"Yes." He doesn't even hesitate. "I respect you enough to be honest about what I want. To give you the truth instead of pretty lies. Most men would have taken you weeks ago. Used you and thrown you away. I'm giving you everything, Francesca. A home. Protection. Me." His voice drops, goes rough around the edges. "Every part of me. Forever."
"Except freedom."
"Freedom to do what? Work yourself to death in that hospital? Walk home alone through streets where men like me wait in the shadows? Live in that apartment with its joke of a lock?" He sets down the spoon and faces me fully. "You think you were free before, Francesca. But you were just lucky. And your luck was running out."
"You don't know that."
"Don't I?" He moves toward me and I force myself not to back away, force myself to stand my ground. "I've been watching those streets for months. Watchingyou. I've seen the other men who watch you. Not just me. Others." His jaw tightens. "They'venoticed my woman. Your routine. Your vulnerability. It was only a matter of time before one of them decided to take what's mine."
"And you decided to take it first."
"I decided to claim what was already mine." His voice is absolutely certain. Final. "There's a difference, Francesca. You just don't want to admit it yet."
He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne. Something expensive and subtle. Cedar and bergamot. He shouldn't smell so good. I shouldn't notice.
"Dinner will be ready soon," he says quietly. Too quietly. "You can eat with me at the table like my good girl, or you can go back to your room and I'll bring you a tray. Your choice,tesoro."
It's not a choice. Not really. But it's the illusion of one, and right now that's all I have.
"I'll eat at the table."
He looks pleased. Satisfied.
"Good."
He goes back to the stove and I'm left standing there, wondering what the hell I'm doing. But the truth is, I'm starving. I haven't eaten since breakfast and my body doesn't care about my pride or my fear. It just wants food.
And maybe I want to see what he's like when he thinks he's won.
