Three feet.
I swing the bat.
I do not aim for his knee. I aim for his ribs. I put every ounce of terror, rage, and betrayal into the arc of the heavy ash wood. The bat slices through the air with a vicious swoosh.
He does not flinch.
His left hand snaps out. A blur of motion and dark ink. He catches the barrel of the bat mid-swing.
The impact sends a jarring shockwave up both my arms. My shoulders wrench forward. The bat stops completely, caught effortlessly in his massive, scarred palm. He holds the wood with absolute ease, as if I gently handed it to him instead of swinging it with the intent to break bone.
I yank backward. The bat does not budge a single inch.
"Good swing," he rumbles. The corner of his mouth ticks up the slightest fraction beneath his coarse beard. "Terrible follow-through."
He twists his wrist. Brutal torque rips the handle right out of my cramping hands. Friction burns my palms. He tosses the bat casually over his broad shoulder. It clatters loudly across the hardwood floor, rolling away into the dark shadows of the living room.
Disarmed. Defenseless.
I stumble backward. My spine hits the cold, unforgiving edge of the black marble kitchen island. Trapped.
Matteo closes the final gap. He steps entirely into my personal space. The sheer heat radiating off his massive body staggers me. He blocks my only exit with his heavy frame, reaching out to slide a single, calloused finger under my chin, tilting my face up toward his brooding stare.
He leans down. His face hovers mere inches from mine.
The scent of him washes over me. It is completely wrong. I expect the sharp bite of gunpowder. I expect blood and stale smoke. The signature, metallic cologne of a monster.
He smells like toasted flour.
The warm, comforting scent of baking bread mixes violently with the sharp, intoxicating bite of dark rum. Beneath it all lingers the rich, earthy scent of warm skin. The contradiction short-circuits my brain. It makes absolutely no sense. The leader of a brutal syndicate smelling like a late-night bakery. It is maddeningly intoxicating.
A heavy, gravitational pull sinks deep into my stomach. The floor drops out from beneath me. The only thing tethering me to the earth is the terrifying man pinning me against the cold marble.
I stare up into his dark eyes. They focus entirely on my face. They drop down to my lips, lingering there for a long, agonizing second. They track down to the curve of my hips pressed desperately against the counter. He studies my softness against the brutal reality of his world. He looks at me with a primal hunger that has absolutely nothing to do with money or stolen shipping logs.
"Clara Reeves," he murmurs. The gravel in his voice drags violently along my nerve endings. "Twenty-six. Third-grade teacher at Lincoln Elementary. You drink cheap Pinot Grigio, you grade papers on Sunday mornings at a diner in Logan Square, and you have exactly six hundred and forty-two dollars in savings. Fifty-two in checking."
"You have been watching me." My voice is a breathless whisper. I hate the weakness vibrating in my vocal cords.
"I verify my investments. Before I bought your father's debt, I needed to know exactly what I was acquiring. You are remarkably ordinary, Clara. A civilian living a quiet, heavily subsidized life. Until Arthur handed you over."
"I am not an acquisition."
"You are right now." Disgust curls the edge of his upper lip when he mentions my father. "Arthur sold a teacher to the mob. Pathetic."
"Let me go."
"No." The word is absolute law. A steel door slamming shut and locking forever.
He leans closer. The coarse hair of his beard grazes the sensitive skin of my cheek. A sharp, involuntary gasp tears out of my throat at the sudden, abrasive contact.
"You belong to the Costa family now," Matteo says. His breath runs hot against my ear. The dark rum scent intoxicates me up close, overriding my survival instincts. "You belong to me. This penthouse is your entire world until I say otherwise. You will not leave. You will not call anyone. You will exist right here, where I can see you."
He pulls back. His dark eyes burn with a feral, possessive intensity. My knees tremble uncontrollably against the cabinets.
"Understand?"
I swallow hard. Defiance burns bright under the suffocating layers of fear. "And if I fight you?"
