Guido lowers his cell while he stares at me in disbelief. “Are you out of your fucking mind? What are you going to do with her?”

“I haven’t decided, yet.”

Chapter 4

The sun is on my face. I can feel its warmth. A faint scent of brine is in the air, mixed with a masculine fragrance. Strange buzzing not too far away. Crickets? No, it can’t be. There are no crickets in Chicago.

The sound of steps. Retreating.

“Mom?” I mumble into the pillow. “Draw the damn drapes.”

More footsteps, but further away now. The unmistakable click of a shutting door.

I squint my eyes open. Then, spring up in bed, madly looking around the unfamiliar room.

The walls are the color of pale-terracotta, adorned with stucco detailing and oil paintings depicting Mediterranean landscapes. An aged white wooden bookshelf, filled with dozens of leather-bound tomes, occupies the space between two sets of opened balcony doors. Long sheer curtains sway with the morning breeze.

I scramble down from the bed and do a quick assessment of myself.

My feet are bare. Someone removed my sneakers and socks, but I’m still dressed in the same outfit as yesterday—gray jeans and an oversized shirt—wrinkled to hell from sleeping in it. And then, there are my wrists. Both are wrapped in gauze, right over my injuries from the handcuffs.

Bewildered, I focus on the two doors on the opposite wall, wondering where they lead. As I head across the room and past the couch that faces the fireplace, the soft plush rug tickles the soles of my feet. That masculine essence in the air is stronger around this spot, but there’s another smell here, as well. Coffee. I look down at the low table in front of the couch. A single espresso cup sits atop it. The tiny cup is half-empty, as if whoever was drinking the rich-brown nectar left in a hurry. As heavenly as that aroma is, the male scent lingers. Cypress and orange.

Panic grips me. Someone was here while I slept.

“I see you’re up and about. I hope you like your accommodations.”

My head snaps up, eyes zeroing in on the blond dude from yesterday. He’s in jeans again, and a bright-green T-shirt. Leaning on the doorjamb, he’s holding a plate overflowing with food. My mouth waters just looking at it.

Swallowing hard and willing my stomach not to rumble, I take a step back. “Were you here the whole night, creep?”

“Excuse me?”

“You left your coffee.”

His gaze slides to the espresso cup, eyebrows furrowing, then casually strolls inside, lowering the plate onto the coffee table right next to the abandoned drink.

“You’re free to roam around the house and go outside on the patio, but please don’t try to run away. The property is surrounded by an electric fence, and cameras monitor the grounds. The security staff are authorized to shoot if they find you trying to escape. Rafael will come to see you later today to discuss your situation.”

“My situation?” Eyes flaring, I can’t believe he has the gall to make that remark.

“Exactly. It would be to your benefit to behave until my brother returns.”

“Your brother? So he’s in charge around here? I assume he’s the one who ordered me kidnapped?”

“Yes. Yes. And yes, again.”

“Then, kindly relay this to your brother.” I fist my hands and march across the room until I’m standing right in front of this arrogant pissant. “When my father finds out about this, he’s going to chop both of you into tiny little pieces. And then, he’ll throw those to our dogs. I’m going to enjoy watching them feast on your flesh while I drink margaritas and relish the sound of your intestines being chewed to bits. After, I’ll happily wait until the pooches shit out your digested remains.”

Guido’s lips widen into a lopsided smile. “Thank you for such a detailed explanation, Miss Petrova. I’ll be downstairs if you happen to need anything.”

I gape at his back as he leaves the room and shuts the enormous door behind him.

The bastards found out who I am. Or, more importantly, who my dad is. Well, no wonder I got upgraded from the basement to this lavish bedroom. I’m certain the “high-and-mighty Rafael” is currently quaking in his boots, trying to find a way to fix his fuckup. I can’t wait to see all these assholes on their knees, begging for their lives—in vain.

I reach out and snatch a pastry off the plate, letting the sweetness of the flaky buttery dough and custard dissolve on my tongue. As I’m chewing, I approach the first of two doors on the left side of the room. It opens to a huge office space. The decor is all dark colors, with more bookshelves along the walls. On the far side, an oversized recliner and an occasional table are set on another thick area rug. But toward the front, a massive desk faces the opened French doors that lead to a balcony.

Hurriedly chewing on the croissant, I rush toward the desk, hoping to find a phone or a laptop, anything really, that would let me contact my family. I come up empty. The blond guy—what the hell was his name? Guido?—said I’m free to roam through the house, and I intend to do just that. Just as soon as I go to the bathroom, because my bladder is about to burst. I head back into the bedroom and straight toward the door I’ve yet to explore.

As I’m drying my hands and planning on returning to the office to search it again, my eyes fall on the enormous bathtub. It’s one of those vintage claw-foot tubs, big enough to fit at least three people.

I throw a look at the mirror, eyeing my reflection. Dreadful doesn’t even come close to describing my current appearance. My hair is tangled, my shirt and pants are filthy, and I have dirt smeared all over my face.

Lovely.

I’m betting the bossy Rafael probably already called my dad, which means he and Mom are on their way here to come get me. If they see me looking this ragged, God knows what they’ll think happened to me. Mom will cry. Dad will lose his ever-loving shit. Likely before I get the chance to tell them I’m fine.

It would be better to clean myself up before the ’rents arrive.

I fill the tub, then take off my clothes and submerge in the warm water, letting the images of my kidnappers writhing in pain on the ground crowd my mind. Although I haven’t yet met Rafael, I picture him looking similar to his brother. Blond hair cut close to the scalp, green eyes, an athletic build, but more lean than muscular.

Oh, I can’t wait to see them all pay.

I surge back up and search for a shower gel. There’s only one option, and a bottle of shampoo next to it. Both with that distinct manly scent. I guess I’m staying in Guido’s room, using his toiletries. I squeeze a hefty amount of the body wash onto my palm and continue cleaning myself while the crickets’ chirping carries inside through the open window overlooking the garden.

Only after I’m bathed and dried, do I realize that I don’t have a change of clothes. Holding the fluffy brown towel tightly around me, I tiptoe out of the bathroom directly to the walk-in closet I spied while snooping. There have to be T-shirts and shorts in there. I can’t say I find the idea of wearing Guido’s clothes appealing, but it’s either that or my soiled outfit.

The door to the walk-in opens soundlessly. Several small pod lights flick on, revealing the huge interior and its contents.

Suits. Dozens of them line the rack on my right. Black. Gunmetal gray. Charcoal. I lightly glide my fingers over the exquisite fabrics. I’ve always found men in suits hot. Maybe because of the serious air that seems to engulf a man dressed in a fine suit. There’s always something commanding about his presence. Potent. Seductive.

A few months back, there was a party at Don Rossi’s house, with a specific dress code for the evening. Long elegant gowns for women. And of course, suits for men. My ovaries nearly imploded just from the sight alone. Unfortunately, my excitement was short-lived. At Yulia’s insistence, I wore her body-hugging black gown with a high slit on the side. My sister also did my makeup. Every man who approached me ended up either staring at my face or my boobs and mumbled nonsense. A few who managed intelligent words, quickly turned whatever meaningful conversation we were having into something they thought would make me fall into their bed.

An almost identical script, with very few minor variations. Do you know you’re the most beautiful woman in the room? Or, You look like an angel who descended from the heavens. And my absolute favorite: Marry me. We’ll make such beautiful babies. Really, dude? And my sister wonders why I don’t go to parties more often.

There is absolutely no worse feeling than chatting with a guy you’re beginning to like and realizing he doesn’t actually give a fuck who you are, what your interests are, or even what you’re talking about. It makes me feel so . . . hollow. Like I’m nothing more than my looks.

I’m a person, damn it! Not just a shiny trinket to play with.

I have thoughts and feelings, and if any of them bothered to ask, I’m actually capable of getting things done. Things where being a female has no bearing.

Maybe, one day, I’ll meet a man who’ll like me for who I am on the inside, and won’t simply be enamored with my exterior. And who won’t hightail it when he meets my dad.

Maybe, he’ll be a suit guy.

I let go of the lapel on the light-gray jacket I’ve been fondling and move over to the shirts. Guido, with his laid-back attitude and washed-out jeans, doesn’t strike me as someone who likes to wear suits, but he must, considering the obvious. I have only a vague recollection of last night. The post-adrenaline crash and drowsiness hit me hard, but I remember trying to slash Guido’s throat with a . . . broken bottle. Guess that didn’t work out for me. Then, I was floating. Probably, being carried up the stairs. And there was a rough palm against my cheek. The blondie had to have brought me to his bedroom. That faint scent I smelled when I woke up, I recall inhaling it while I was draped around his neck. Such a shame that a tool like him has such nice taste in clothes and fragrances. I can only hope he wears one of his bespoke suits when Dad kills him.