Page 7

"Fuck you," she hisses, that aristocratic mask slipping completely now. "You have no idea what they've done."
I raise an eyebrow. "Tell me."
Her eyes flash dangerously. "Go to hell."
"After you, princess."
She launches into a string of Italian curses that would make a sailor blush. I'm genuinely impressed—the sheltered Lombardi heiress has quite the vocabulary. Each word reveals more of who she really is beneath the polished exterior.
When she finally runs out of breath I lower the partition further.
"Feel better?" I ask.
"We don't have much time," she says, switching tactics. Her voice an urgent whisper. "They'll notice I'm missing soon. My father has connections everywhere. Police, government?—"
"You don't need to worry about that."
"You don't understand," she insists. "Raymond will tear the city apart looking for me."
"Let him try."
She studies me, a new wariness in her expression. "You seem very confident for someone who just kidnapped the daughter of Antonio Lombardi."
I shrug. "I've read the instruction manual on kidnapping. It covers dealing with mouthy heiresses who think they know better than their captors."
She rolls her eyes, the gesture so dismissive I almost laugh. Even captured and locked in the back of a car, she's acting like she's the one in control.
"My bag," she says suddenly, sitting up straighter. "You better have left my bag where I put it, or I swear I will make your life a living hell."
I can't help it—I laugh. The throaty sound fills the car with my genuine amusement at this woman threatening me from inside what's essentially a moving prison cell.
"A living hell?" I repeat, meeting her furious eyes in the rearview mirror. "Piccola, you have no idea who you're talking to."
Her face flushes with anger but there's something else there too—cunning. She's not just worried about clothes or makeup. That bag matters.
"I'm serious," she says, her voice dropping. "That bag is important."
I noticed the bag when I grabbed her—expensive, but not flashy. She'd been clutching it like her life depended on it. I didn't have time to check it, too busy securing the driver in the trunk.
"Your threats don't mean shit to me," I tell her, reaching for the partition control. "Save your breath."
"Wait—" she starts, but I've already pressed the button.
The bulletproof glass slides up completely, cutting off her voice mid-sentence. Her mouth keeps moving, those full lips forming what I assume are more creative Italian curses.
I turn my attention back to the road. I'm not here to make conversation with Antonio Lombardi's daughter, no matter how intriguing she might be. Damiano gave me a job—grab the girl, bring her to the safe house, keep her contained until he decides what to do with her.
Simple.
This can't be happening. I planned everything perfectly. The fake schedule change, the encrypted messages, the timed distractions. I was supposed to be free by now.
Not in the back of this car.
I glance at my watch. The ceremony would be starting in less than ten minutes. Raymond will be waiting at the altar, that practiced politician's smile plastered on his face. The same face I saw in those horrifying photos on his USB drive.
My heart pounds painfully against my ribs. Raymond will notice the USB is missing soon. When he realizes I've taken it and disappeared on our wedding day he’ll...
I close my eyes, trying to breathe through the panic. The irony is almost too much to bear. I wanted to disappear and now I have—just not on my terms.