“What?”
“If you come downstairs looking like you're dressed for a hostage situation, he will enjoy that even more than if you wear that dress.”
I hate to admit that he is probably right. Omar closes the door, leaving it unlocked.
I stand in the center of the room for a moment, listening to Omar’s footsteps retreat just far enough to be polite and not far enough to matter. My body feels cleaner after the day with the children, though not rested. Erin’s attempt at braiding my hair left my scalp aching in three separate places. Heath’s quietokaystill sits under my ribs, small and dangerous. I have barely known them a day, and already I understand the problem with children in a way I had forgotten.
I unzip the garment bag. It is a deep, blood-wine shade that looks almost black until the light touches it, fitted through the waist with a neckline that pretends to be respectable until I hold it up and realize respectability depends entirely on the angle of the person looking. The fabric is soft, heavy, expensive, and the tag has been removed. Apparently, Stefano’s version of captivity comes with tailoring and plausible deniability.
There are heels too. Black. Strappy. Annoyingly beautiful. And lingerie. I stare at the delicate scrap of lace for a long moment before lifting it with one finger.
“No,” I chide, pushing the lace back to the bottom of the bag. “Absolutely not.”
I shower quickly, needing to rinse the last day off my skin. The hot water stings every scrape and bruise. My wrist looks ugly when I unwrap the bandage, swollen along the cut from the zip tie, but clean. Whoever tended it knew what they were doing. That irritates me. Bad men should do bad work. It would make sorting the world easier.
By the time I finish, the mirror has fogged and the last of the drug feels scrubbed from my skin, even if the bitterness still lingers when I swallow. I undo what is left of Erin’s braid with as much care as possible, comb my hair out, and put on the dress because refusing to wear it would accomplish nothing except giving Stefano proof that he can make me react with fabric.
It fits perfectly. That annoys me too. I leave the lingerie on the bed out of spite and use underwear from the small stack placed in the drawer. Clean. Folded. Taken from wherever my undercover belongings ended up after the raid. The fact that my things are here means his men went through them. The fact that they returned any of them means Stefano wanted me to notice.
Nothing in this house is careless. That is what makes it dangerous. When I open the door a few minutes later, Omar’s gaze moves over me once, professionally blank, but I catch the hint of masculine appreciation behind his eyes.
“Well?” I ask.
He clears his throat, “You look presentable.”
“Try not to overwhelm me with praise.”
“I survived the urge.”
“Heroic.”
His mouth tightens into that tight line I’m becoming familiar with. “The Don is waiting.”
“The Don sounds needy.”
That earns me something close to a look of pity, which from Omar, feels almost intimate. He leads me downstairs through a route I recognize enough to resent. Past the sconce camera. Past the landing. Down the staircase. Across the foyer, where the front doors gleam under too much security and not enough honesty. Men glance at me and look away quickly, not because I intimidate them, though I am willing to make the case, but because Stefano has given orders about how I am to be treated.
Not a prisoner. Not a guest. Something undefined enough to make everyone cautious of my presence.
The dining room tonight is not the breakfast room. Of course, there are multiple rooms for eating, because men with blood money apparently require options. This one is darker, lit by low sconces and candles placed along the table, with a view of the back lawn and the black shine of water beyond it. Only two places are set.
Stefano stands near the window with a glass in one hand, speaking quietly to a man I do not recognize. He stops mid-sentence when I enter.
The man with him looks at me once, then immediately decides he has urgent business elsewhere.
Smart.
Omar remains at the door for half a second, long enough to look unhappy about leaving me alone with his boss, then disappears into the hall. The door remains open behind him. Not courtesy. Strategy. Everything in this house is strategy.
Stefano’s gaze moves over me with appreciation, and no apology. It doesn’t feel oily or repulsive. Not like the men at the auction. I keep reminding myself of that difference, even though it should not matter. The auction men looked as if they wanted to take something and prove they could. Stefano looks as if he has already taken inventory and is now deciding which part of the room to burn down first.
The bruise on his cheekbone is darker tonight. His mouth curves up at the edges when he sees me. “I wasn’t expecting this.”
I lift my brows. “You’re pretty easy to impress.”
“No.” He sets his glass down. “I’m not.”
His eyes stay on mine when he says it, and that is worse than if he had looked at the amount of skin exposed by the dress. Worse, because it doesn’t feel like admiration. It feels magnetic. And interest from Stefano Savarese is the kind of thing sensible women should cross borders to avoid.
