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One of them has the Virgin Mary tattooed on his neck, and for some reason that makes me hate him more.

I twist hard enough to get one arm free and grab the doorframe. The wood bites into my palm. A hand closes over mine and peels my fingers loose one by one.

Patient.

That almost breaks me more than the force. They're not angry. They're not afraid. I'm not a threat to them.

I'm a task.

A door opens on my right. They shove me through it.

I stumble and catch myself on my knees. The door shuts behind me, and the lock turns with a heavy clunk.

I spin and hit the wood with both fists.

"Let me see him. Hey. HEY."

Nothing.

Footsteps fade down the corridor.

"Amanda."

I freeze.

The voice comes from behind me. Low. Frayed.

I turn around.

A woman sits tied to a chair in the middle of the room, ankles bound to the legs, wrists pinned behind her. Lamplight cuts across one side of her face. Mascara runs in gray streaks. Her lip is split. Her hair has come loose on one side.

Even like this, I know her.

Francesca.

Francesca Renaud, who told me to stay in my lane. Francesca, who took my arm at the palazzo with her warm, professional hand and walked me down a corridor, talking about buyers like she wasn't delivering me to Aldo Basile.

She lifts her chin, and the movement hurts. I see it before she hides it.

"Amanda," she says again. The polish is gone from her voice. "Thank God. Listen to me. You have to listen to me."

I stand on the rug in one bare foot and stare at her.

The fear is still there. Valentino is somewhere in this house. Enzo has him. Men with guns are outside the door.

But looking at Francesca gives the fear somewhere else to go.

"Thank God?" I say.

My voice comes out steady.

"Interesting."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Valentino

The door opens behind me.