“And how long has he been here?”
“Including today, seven days,” I reveal hesitantly.
“Seven days.” He repeats the words, shocked. “Seven days and he hasn’t spoken.”
“Only twice. Barely a whisper when I found him and then tonight.”
Uncertainty flickers across Basili’s face, quickly replaced by pain, the pain of a father who feels as though he has failed his child.
“I think you and I should speak,” I tell Basili, looking down at Emmanuel, catching his gaze, “in private. Just for a few minutes.”
Basili’s eyes narrow just as quickly as Emmanuel’s widen.
“Why?”
Meeting Basili’s gaze once more, I swallow hard, unsure yet completely sure all at once. “Because your son is terrified of what is beyond these walls right now. And if you drag him out there without an ounce of understanding or consideration, you’re only going to make things worse for him in the long run.”
For a moment, I fear he will refuse my request. His jaw clenches, working as he grinds his teeth, and his shoulders tense. I can see the war playing out behind his eyes. This man is so used to control, driven so harshly by the need to protect what is his, fighting with the realization that something is very wrong, something that he doesn’t understand.
“Boss, we should go.” The bald brute holding Jay speaks for the first time.
Basili stands then, sliding to his full height mere inches from me. This close, I realized he towers over me, and the proximity makes my heart stutter. He is beautiful yet terrifying. I gulp as he stares down at me, but doesn’t move otherwise, waiting for his decision.
“Omero. Take him,” he finally says with an unreadable expression, still not taking his eyes off of me.
It’s a command. One that the man who had spoken moments ago, Omero, steps forward to obey. His massive hands are gentle as he moved to pick Emmanuel up, peeling him off of me with a gentleness that surprised me. The boy doesn’t fight him, doesn’t protest, transferring his death grip from my waist to the man’s shirt.
It was obvious that the child was familiar with Omero, as comfortable with him as anyone else currently in the room.“Boss, are you sure about this?”
“Stay here,” Basili instructs, still not taking his eyes from mine. “Contain the situation.”
He reaches out and grabs my arm, then, striking hard and fast like a viper. The unexpected movement startles me, and I gasp at the contact.
Only then does he turn to the other man — younger, lean, with tattoos visible across his knuckles. “Raffaello. Front door. Nobody comes in or out. Understood?”
“Boss.” Raffaello nods, his eyes flickering between the two of us with obvious concern for a fraction of a moment before he retreats through the doorway toward the front of the house.
Basili turns, dragging me along with him through the small space to where Jay still kneels on the floor, where the men had cast him aside as they’d received their orders. He points a finger at his face. “You will keep the children upstairs and out of the way. Don’t try anything, you got me? Or your pretty friend here will suffer the consequences of your choices.”
Jay spits bloody spittle onto the floor at Basili’s boots. “Fuck you.”
Basili just smiles at that, wicked and harsh, patting Jay’s cheek harshly. “Glad we understand each other.”
Turning back to me, ever the predator, he demands in a silky voice, “Now, where would you like to have this private talk? Your room, perhaps?”
I swallow hard again. Oh, this is such a bad idea…
“The office,” I manage to stammer.
“Pity,” he says in that same tone, pushing me forward. “Lead the way then.”
I move up the hall, acutely aware of his presence at my back as we walk down the narrow hallway toward Jay’s office. Behind us, I can hear Omero murmuring something in Italian to Emmanuel, his voice deep and soothing.
Jay’s office feels even smaller than normal with Basili in it. I slide around the desk, trying to preserve what small amount of reprieve I can find. He closes the door behind him, the soft click of the lock flipping as he turns to face me. He pins me with a blank, unreadable expression, though I can see the tension in every line of his body.
“Talk quickly,” he commands, his voice flat. “You have five minutes.”
I drag in a deep breath, trying to organize my thoughts as quickly as possible. I prepare myself for the fury that may ultimately be unleashed after my first question.
