“If you want, I’ll off her,” he adds.
“You will not touch her,” I growl and hit him again.
Guido stumbles backward, falling onto the couch. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he mumbles into the cushion he’s pressing to his face. “And you’re bleeding on my rug. What the hell happened?”
Yes. What the fuck is wrong with me? I grab a discarded T-shirt from the back of the recliner, then take a seat and start wrapping the garment around my forearm. “The girl cut me with a broken wine bottle.”
Guido blinks at me, confusion written all over his face. “Is she a trained agent or something?”
“I don’t think so. She just caught me off guard.”
“Rafael De Santi. Caught off guard.”
“Yes.” I nod as I secure the makeshift bandage on my arm. “Do we know her name? She fainted, so I didn’t get the chance to ask.”
“No. But I took a picture of her. I’m running it through facial recognition and cross-referencing Illinois DMV records and some local government databases in Chicago. I’ll see if we have a match.”
Guido rises off the couch and heads toward his desk that’s shoved to the side and overflowing with crap. “And it looks like we have a match. She’s— oh, shit.”
“What is it?”
He glances at me over the screen of his laptop, a slightly frantic look in his eyes. “Vasilisa Romanovna Petrova. She’s Roman Petrov’s daughter.” He swallows, hard. “We kidnapped the Russian Bratva’s princess.”
“You don’t say.” I lean back and throw my arm over the back of the recliner. “Small world.”
“We have to take her back. Right the fuck now! I’m calling the pilot to get the plane prepped.”
Yes, sending her home would be the wisest course of action. It’s been close to twenty-four hours since Hank and Vinny grabbed her off the street. Knowing Petrov, he’s already gathered his men and is ready to annihilate whoever is responsible for his daughter’s disappearance.
My mind drifts to the woman I left sleeping in my bed. “Put down your phone.”
“What?”
“Now, Guido.”
“Fucking with Bratva is a very bad idea. And I’m not talking about kissing potential future jobs with them goodbye. Even if it was a mistake, Petrov can’t be reasoned with if it affects any of his people, never mind family members. She’s flying back to Chicago tonight.”
“I’m not sending her back. Not yet, anyway.”
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.
