Page 15

My legs give way beneath me. I feel myself falling, only the impact never comes.

Instead, there’s just darkness, creeping in from the edges of my vision, consuming everything until there’s nothing left just the echo of Adrien’s voice and the certainty that I’ve failed—failed to escape, failed to protect him, failed to change the course that was set for me long before I understood what it meant to be a Morretti’s daughter.

The last thing I hear before consciousness slips away completely is Vittorio’s voice, calm and satisfied: “Take them both.”

And then nothing.

I wake to the soft hum of a heater, my mind swimming through the fog of disorientation.

Pain blooms across my face, my ribs screaming in protest as I try to shift positions.

Where the hell am I? The sheets beneath me feel expensive, not the scratchy cotton blend I have at my apartment. This isn’t my bed. This isn’t my room.

The air smells of leather and expensive cologne, the kind that costs more than my monthly rent.

I blink against the warm light leaking through a crack in the curtains, my vision still blurry around the edges.

Hotel room. Definitely a hotel room, and not the kind where you find a bible in the drawer and mysterious stains on the comforter.

My tongue feels like sandpaper, my mouth as dry as cotton. I try to lift my hand to my face, wincing as pain shoots through my wrist. Every inch of me aches, like I’ve been tossed down a flight of stairs. My fingertips find my cheek, tender and swollen.

I push myself up slightly, the movement sending knives through my ribcage.

Fuck. Breathing hurts. Existing hurts. The room spins for a second before settling into focus—cream walls, dark furniture, one of those generic hotel prints of a seascape that’s meant to calm you down but just reminds you that you’re nowhere near home.

Something feels wrong against my skin, and I glance down. My heart stutters. I’m in my bra and panties, nothing else. The pale blue lace looks obscene against the white sheets, like a bruise on snow. I jerk the thick blanket up to my chin.

“South Africa perhaps. Coastal. It would be quiet there.”

I freeze. I’m not alone. A figure stands by the window, his back to me. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, the muscles shifting beneath skin as he peels off an expensive watch and sets it on the desk.

“I know someone who owes me a favor in Cape Town.” His voice is thoughtful and conversational, as if erdiscussing vacation plans over coffee. “Or we go to the Dolomites mountains. I have a property there. Snowy this time of year, and remote.”

As he turns slightly, I catch the profile of his face, his sharp jawline, straight nose, and dark hair swept back from his forehead. Vittorio Pressutti.

I lie perfectly still, barely breathing, taking inventory of the man who’s apparently kidnapped me.

He’s shirtless, revealing a body that looks carved from stone and inked heavily.

A crown of thorns wraps around one lean, muscular shoulder, the detailed barbs seeming to actually pierce his skin.

Roses coil around a dagger that runs along his ribs, each petal showing in perfect detail.

Between his shoulder blades, the bold Pressutti family crest sprawls like a declaration of ownership over his flesh.

“You’re awake.” He doesn’t turn fully, just casts the words over his shoulder like crumbs. “Good. We need to move soon.”

I swallow hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. “Where am I?” My voice cracks, betraying the terror clawing at my insides.

“Somewhere safe. For now. How do you feel about mountains? The air is clean. No one will hear you scream.”

“I don’t—” I start, then stop as he finally turns to face me fully. His eyes are darker than I expected, almost black in this light. “What happened? Why am I here?”

His mouth quirks up at one corner, not quite a smile. “You’re asking the wrong questions, Gina.”

What does he want with me, my father already refused his hand, so why all this?

“The right question is why you’re still alive.” He steps closer to the bed, and I press myself against the headboard, clutching the blanket like it’s bulletproof. “Most people who cross my family don’t wake up at all.”

“I didn’t—” I try again.

“Didn’t what? Didn’t humiliate me at that restaurant with your parents last summer?” His voice remains calm, conversational even, yet there’s an edge beneath it sharp enough to draw blood.

He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. I curl my legs up tighter, making myself smaller. “Your father chose wrong for you, and I’m fixing that mistake.”

His hand reaches out, and I flinch. He only traces a finger along the bruise on my cheek. The implication turns my stomach. I feel naked in a way that has nothing to do with my state of undress. “What do you want from me?”

Something catches my eye. A shadow. Movement.

My gaze drops to the corner of the room and freezes there, my breath stopping mid-inhale.

No. No, no, no. How did I miss it before?

The slumped figure cuffed to a metal chair isn’t a pile of discarded clothes or luggage.

It’s a person. A man. Adrien. His head hangs forward, dark hair matted with blood, fresh cut leaking blood over his pants.

I blink hard, willing the image away, only he remains—broken, bound, and bleeding.

“Who—what is he doing here?” The words tumble out before I can stop them.

Vittorio doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he strolls over to Adrien with the lazy confidence of a man who’s never had to hurry for anything in his life.

He yanks Adrien’s hair, jerking his head up like he’s inspecting a piece of meat at the market.

Adrien’s face comes into view—one eye swollen shut, lips split and crusted with dried blood, a strip of silver duct tape sealed across his mouth.

His one good eye flutters open, unfocused at first, then locks onto me with desperate recognition.

“I already told you, do you not remember?” Vittorio’s voice isn’t a question. He smooths his tone to something almost cordial. “First, we find out if he dies slowly, or if it will be quick.”

Adrien groans behind the duct tape, the sound is animalistic and desperate.

His chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow breaths.

The front of his once-white shirt is stained rust-brown with old blood and bright red with new.

His hands strain against the zip ties, wrists raw and bleeding from previous struggles.

“Please,” I whisper, the word barely audible. “He’s just ? —”

“Just what?” Vittorio cuts me off, his fingers still twisted in Adrien’s hair. “Just a friend?”

“No!” I shake my head, sitting up on the bed, arms tight around the blanket. “Please. Let him go. He has nothing to do with this.”

Vittorio laughs.

He pulls a small blade from his pocket. A switchblade. He flicks it open and presses it to Adrien’s chest.

The blade slices. Adrien cries out behind the tape. I scream, leaping off the bed.

“Stop! Stop it, please! I’ll do whatever you want, just—please, don’t hurt him!”

Vittorio tilts his head. The blade moves higher, pressing against Adrien’s throat.

Adrien looks at me. His eyes are glassy, terrified. The blade presses harder, dimpling the skin of Adrien’s throat just below his Adam’s apple. A bead of blood wells up, trembles, then slides down the column of his neck in a thin scarlet line.

“Take off your underwear and bra.”

I freeze, certain I’ve misheard. “What?”

“Your underwear.” He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t need to. “Remove them. Now.”

My hands tremble at my sides, fingers curling into fists then uncurling. “Please, don’t make me ? —”

“I won’t ask again.” The blade twists slightly, drawing another drop of blood from Adrien’s neck. “And he’ll pay for your disobedience.”

I look at Adrien, whose one good eye is squeezed shut now, as if he’s trying to remove himself from this room, this moment. This horror that’s unfolding because of me.

With shaking hands, I reach behind my back and unhook my bra. The straps slide down my arms as I pull it away, exposing my breasts to the cool air of the hotel room. Shame burns through me, hotter than any fever, as I drop the bra to the floor.

“All of it,” Vittorio says, a hungry gleam lighting up his eyes. “Then spread your thighs so he can see what I now own.”

Tears spill freely down my cheeks as I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my panties and slide them down.

They catch on the curve of my hips, and I have to wriggle to get them past my thighs, the movement making me feel like a stripper performing the world’s most pathetic routine.

When they finally drop to my ankles, I step out of them, leaving them crumpled on the carpet like the last remnants of my dignity.

“On the bed,” Vittorio orders, never taking his eyes off me. “Sit back. Legs apart.”

I back up until my calves hit the mattress, then sink down onto it. The blanket is still bunched nearby, and I reach for it instinctively.

“Don’t.” His voice stops my hand mid-motion. “Leave it.”

Swallowing hard, I lean back on my hands and slowly, reluctantly, part my thighs. Tears blur my vision, and I can see the satisfaction spreading across Vittorio’s face as he takes in my exposed body.

“No more,” I plead, my voice breaking. “I’m a virgin, I swear. Please. Just let him go.”

Something flickers in Vittorio’s expression—surprise, disbelief, then a deeper, more predatory interest. “A virgin?” He laughs, the sound sharp and unpleasant. “After the way I saw you both last night, I don’t trust your word.”

“It’s true,” I insist, though I’m not sure why it matters, why I’m telling him this. Perhaps I think it will earn me some mercy. Maybe I just want him to know what he’s taking from me.