Page 11

I never understood what those men meant. But now, I think I'm starting to get it.

Criminals are quick to pull a gun when they have a problem.

And when laws are meaningless to you, the idea of killing someone isn't scary.

The room I'm kept in has been silent for most of the day, save for the three times the men entered to bring me a protein bar, bottled water, and a short bathroom break. I hear footsteps, but this time, they sound different. The shoes click against the cement and slowly come closer. I swallow hard and try to brace myself for whatever’s coming next.

I think of my dad getting hit by those men, the way he fell to the ground, and try not to focus on my anxious thoughts, each fabricated scenario ending with my death. Maybe the Marcheses aren't a brave family.

And then, as the footsteps finally reach me, my mind drifts to my grandfather. The man who sold me out to these gangsters. But he doesn't know any better, not with his mind slipping away day by day. Who's going to take care of him if I'm not here?

I try not to think too hard about it, try not to focus on the ending I'm afraid of. Mostly because I don't want to cry and prove to this man just how weak I am.

The figure halts before me, and I inhale sharply in anticipation.

"Who are you?" It's a deep voice that speaks, the words rumbling from his chest like distant thunder. With my eyes covered and my heart hammering against my ribs, my other senses work on overtime, desperately trying to piece together any information about my captor. He smells like bourbon and spice, the scents masculine — it’s like heaven compared to thedamp earthy stench I've been breathing in. Each breath I take fills my lungs with his intoxicating presence, making it harder to keep my composure.

Running my tongue over my chapped lips, I decide to tell him the truth. Honesty is the best policy and all that. Though, I'm not sure if murderers abide by the same code. "Olivia," I breathe out, and when he doesn't immediately respond, I add, "Marchese. Olivia Marchese."

"Olivia." I shouldn't like the way my name sounds on his lips, intriguing and sensual. I'm startled when his fingers find the edges of my blindfold, yanking the material over my head. I blink furiously, my eyes adjusting to the flickering florescent lighting. They dart around, trying to see where I am. It's a large, open space with high ceilings and concrete floors that are stained with God knows what. There's a metal table not far from me that's bolted to the ground, with cuffs dangling from the sides. I swallow the lump in my throat.Please, don't let me end up on that thing.

"Eyes on me," the man says, and my eyes snap to his obediently. "Good girl," he praises, and my stomach does a flip-flop. I'm not sure if it's from the praise or the sight of him.

I recognize him immediately — the stranger from the alleyway. Now that he's near, I can study every detail. He's breathtaking, his features raw and magnetic, impossible to ignore. Those dark chocolate eyes bore into me with a silent power. His midnight hair falls with perfect messiness around his chiseled jawline. A golden tan has his complexion glowing, and his frame ripples with lean muscle.

He's studying me, and I shrink beneath his penetrating stare.

"Marchese." He says my last name thoughtfully. "Your father is Sal?"

I nod. "He's dead."

"I heard. I'm sorry for your loss." He doesn't sound sorry, but I'm not going to accuse him.

"Who are you?" I ask, my voice hoarse.

A tic in his sharp jawline has his lips turning into a lopsided smile. "You don't know?" he asks, and I get the feeling he's not going to offer up his name, considering what I witnessed.

Feeling uneasy, I shake my head.

"Probably better that way, huh?"

"Are you going to—" I can't manage to say the words, but my captor smiles at my attempt.

"Are you comfortable?" His eyes drift to my restraints, completely ignoring my question.

"No."

"Didn't think so," he muses, and my brow pinches. "I can untie you if you promise to be a good girl and stay seated in that chair."

There he goes, calling me agood girlagain. I don't like the way it makes me feel. No one's ever called megoodbefore. Granted, no one’s ever called mebadeither. I'd have to be seen for either of those things to happen. I've always been in the background—there, but not acknowledged. My parents were too focused on their constant arguing to pay attention to me. And even after the divorce, I was just a reminder of the other person. The most attention I was paid was when one was pestering me with questions about the other.

Even in school, I was invisible. The quiet girl who sat in the back with her nose pressed between the pages of a novel. It was safer that way. Standing out felt dangerous.

But I'm not invisible now. This man stares at me as if he's trying to embed me into his memory. And there's nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. I'm forced to be seen.

There's a lump in my throat preventing me from answering, so I simply nod once again. The fear from earlier is still here, butnow it's swirling with too many other emotions, and I can't make sense of how I'm feeling.

He pulls a knife from his pocket, flipping it open and showing me the blade as he leans down. The ties around my ankles snap loose with a quick flick, and then he walks around me, doing the same to the ties around my wrists.