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"Thank you," I nod at him. I want to believe him, I truly do. "That smells delicious." I change the subject, pointing my chin toward the stove.

"Just some spaghetti with meatballs," he shrugs.

"Hmm, somehow I doubt it’s justjust." I force a smile to my lips. It's not going to help to cry in front of him.He is a gangster, I remind myself. A cold-hearted killer. He’s running this part of the Cosa Nostra organization now after his father's death. He is just as ruthless as Carlos is. If he and Dad didn't have thesame goal,I'm sure I'd be strung up in his basement.

I watch him add the pasta he just made into a pot of boiling water, and my stomach rumbles. I haven't had a full meal since… since before I went out with the girls, eons ago.Well, that's partly my fault, I amend. Good food was brought to my room earlier, three times. I could have eaten if my appetite hadn’t taken a leave of absence.

I don’t know at what point Antonio rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, but now I can't help but watch his muscles flex ashe grates parmesan cheese into a small bowl. Fuck, how can anybody look so sexy grating parmesan cheese? But more to the point, why the hell is he turning me on so much? For all intents and purposes, I'm his prisoner. He has the ability, know-how, and means to kill me at any given time. Still, I can feel my panties getting wet at the sight of him. I hope that is some deep-seated forgotten survival mechanism. As in like,screw your captor like there is no tomorrow, and he might let you see it.

"Those men… the ones who held me, are they dead?" I have no idea—absolutely none—why I asked this question, but for some unfathomable reason, I need to know.

He pauses his grating and looks at me through his thick, dark eyelashes. A dimple makes an appearance on his left cheek. God damn, why does he have to have a dimple too?

"They won't ever hurt you again," his voice is deep.

"That's not why I asked," I swallow, focusing my eyes on his hands resting on the counter. Long fingers with manicured nails drum slightly against the surface.

He walks around the kitchen island. "Why do you ask, then?"

He reaches my side, and a heated jolt moves through me. Instinctively, I lean back in my chair as he moves closer, caging me in against the island as his hands plant on either side of me. "Do you want them dead, Scarlet?"

His voice is nothing but a rasp; he is so close I feel his warm breath on my face, so close all I’d have to do is lift my head and we would be nose to nose. The flutter in my stomach increases.

Unable to say anything, I nod, while simultaneously wondering what the hell is wrong with me. How can I be turned on by thisman right now? Besides being my captor, we are talking about possibly dead men here.

Men who tortured you, part of me states. Not cries. Simply states.

"What if I told you two are still alive. Strung up like you were, Scarlet?"

I swallow and try to lean back further, but my back is already hitting the counter's edge. His hand lifts, his thumb moves underneath my chin, and a tremble moves through me. The worst part is that I have no idea if I'm trembling in fear or because Antonio is turning me on.

His thumb brushes against the underside of my chin. "What would you do, Scarlet? Hmm?" His voice is so deep and gruff that my hands cling to the edge of my seat. I need something to hold on to, to ground me.

"Would you ask me to see them? Would you want to carve them like they did you?"

My head jerks up. I was wrong, there is enough distance between us so that our noses don't touch. Barely.

"No, no, of course not," I protest, ignoring a deep, primal part inside me that wants to come to the surface and do just that.

Our eyes meet. His thumb is still underneath my chin, and I'm very aware of the contact between our flesh. I'm also aware of my rapidly beating heart.

A deep chuckle escapes him. He moves his thumb and caresses my cheek, causing my lower body to liquify. "Liar."

Well,I'll be damned, my little hostage is full of surprises.

There is a helpless timidity about her that calls to a deep-rooted protective instinct inside me, but I saw the little glint in her eyes. The prospect of exacting vengeance has her all hot and bothered. There is a lot more to this girl than I thought.

She is sitting across from me at the breakfast table. It seemed more appropriate to eat our dinner here than in the oversized dining room.

"Mangia." Eat, I tell her, pointing at the steaming plate in front of her.

Tentatively, she takes the fork and begins to twirl the spaghetti.

"Buon appetito," I say, watching her take her first bite.

For whatever reason, my body is coiled tight, waiting for her verdict on the food. The fork stops in front of her lips, and a tiny smile plays around their edges. "Bon appétit." She smiles and then takes a bite.

The smile deepens. "Hmm, this is good," she says with her mouth full, eliciting a chuckle from me. When was the last time I chuckled?