Page 19 of Wicked Sinner

CAESAR

Isit in my car outside Konstantin's mansion for ten minutes after the meeting, my hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles go white. The rage burning through me is unlike anything I've felt in years—a cold, calculating fury that makes me want to burn down everything in my path.

Konstantin wants me to pay Bridget off. Abandon my child and marry some vapid socialite who fits the criteria that he’s set out.

I’ve always been rebellious. But it’s not just rebellion that makes my jaw clench and every fiber of my body want to tell him to go fuck himself. It’s a protective possessiveness that I’ve never felt before for anyone.

The thought of abandoning Bridget and my child makes my stomach turn.

But I know Konstantin well enough to understand that this isn't a negotiation—it's an ultimatum. Fall in line or lose everything. The empire my father built, the respect I've been fighting to earn back, the chance to prove that my father was wrong all those years ago when he told me I couldn’t come back. That I didn’t have what it took to inherit.

All of it, gone, if I refuse to play by their rules.

As I finally start the engine and pull away from the mansion, I'm already formulating a plan. I'll tell them what they want to hear, buy myself time, make Konstantin think I'm considering his "wisdom." Meanwhile, I'll figure out another way. There has to be one.

I just need time.

By the time I reach the penthouse, I've managed to get my temper under control, at least outwardly. One of my father’s former men, Marco—who I called up yesterday for bodyguard duty while I was out—is waiting for me outside the front door.

His expression is grim. He’s not much older than I am, but he looks it right now.

"How is she?" I ask without preamble.

"Still hasn't eaten," he reports. "She asked for a phone to call someone named Jenny, said her friend would be worried. When I told her no phones, she started yelling about how people would notice she was missing."

Jenny. I file the name away for later. Someone close enough to Bridget that she'd expect them to notice her absence. Someone who might cause problems if they start asking questions. I’d never harm someone close to Bridget, but it’s good to know who I might need to deal with as things progress.

"Anything else?"

"She threw the lunch tray at the door," Marco continues. "Made quite a mess. Cleaning lady wasn't happy."

Despite everything, I almost smile at that. Even imprisoned, Bridget refuses to go down without a fight. I can’t help but respect it—even admire it—even if that particular personality trait is currently making my life hell.

"I'll handle it," I tell Marco, heading for the elevator.

The penthouse is quiet when I enter, almost eerily so. I can hear the faint sound of running water from Bridget's room when I walk upstairs to change—she's in the shower, probably trying to wash away the stress of the day. Or planning her next attack on my well-being.

I take my own shower, then change into sweatpants and a T-shirt, heading downstairs to give myself a moment to clear my head before I try to talk to Bridget.

I run my fingers through my wet hair as I pour three fingers of whiskey and walk to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the gorgeous, sunny late afternoon.

The Miami water sparkles blue, the skies clear, a paradise for me to overlook from my perch up here.

I could give her so much. I don’t understand why she doesn’t want it.

When I’ve finished my whiskey, I head upstairs and knock on Bridget’s door. The room is silent for a few beats, and then I hear her answer, her voice muffled.

“Go away.”

"We need to talk," I say calmly, resisting the frustration that bubbles up. I remember Danny’s perspective on the whole thing. I went about this in a way that made things worse. I get it. But we’re here now, and I need her to listen to me.

"We have nothing to talk about."

"Marco tells me you're concerned about your friend. Jenny, is it?" I let out a breath. “I’m coming in. Try not to throw anything heavy at me.”

I hear Bridget’s huff of breath, and then I unlock the door, stepping into her room.

The cleaning lady did an excellent job; there’s no sign of the lunch tray incident from earlier.

Bridget is still wearing the clothes that she had on when I took her from the garage—grease-stained coveralls over a black T-shirt.

I never in my life thought I’d be aroused by a woman in mechanic’s wear, but remembering what we did that first night—just the sight of her in the worn denim makes my cock twitch.

I remember the cool feel of one of the clasps when I unhooked it, flicking it open just moments before I saw her perfect breasts for the first time.

But she shouldn’t still be wearing any of this. I had clothes delivered to her this afternoon while I was out. I glance over at the chair near the window—several garment bags are thrown haphazardly over it, matte shopping bags stacked next to them, some of them overturned.

“You didn’t like what I sent you?” I ask mildly, and Bridget glares at me.

"What about Jenny?" she asks suspiciously.

"You're worried she'll call the police when you don't show up for work," I say, filing away the issue of the clothes to tackle after this. "File a missing person report, maybe."

Hope flickers in her eyes, and I feel a flicker of my own—of guilt for what I’m about to do.

But she has to lay this to rest. The sooner she accepts that this is how things need to be, the sooner we can move forward.

I don’t want to keep her locked in this room.

I want to look ahead to the future with her.

"She will," Bridget says firmly. "Jenny's been my friend since high school. She knows I'd never just disappear without telling her. She'll call the cops, and they'll come looking for me." She chews on her lower lip. “She’s going to be worried sick.”

The plaintive note in her voice pricks at my heart, but I do my best to ignore it. I lean against the doorframe, careful to keep my expression neutral. "Will they?"

"Of course they will. That's what police do when someone goes missing." The sarcasm in her voice is thick.

"In most places, maybe," I agree. "But this is Miami, bellissima. And the police here… well, let's just say they have a very good relationship with families like mine. Konstantin more so than me, but my name still holds weight when it comes to lining pockets in this city."

The hope in her eyes fades and dies, replaced by a gleam of horror. "You're lying."

"Am I?" I pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find the right number. I’ve updated them since I got back. "Here. Chief McCallan. Lovely man, very reasonable. His daughter’s college tuition is paid for, thanks to some generous donations from my father before he died. I’m sure the chief will want to hear you out, though. ”

Bridget stares at the phone like it's a snake. "You can't be serious."

"As the grave, bellissima." I slip the phone back into my pocket. "Your friend Jenny can call whoever she wants. File all the reports she likes. They’ll pretend to look. Give her updates even, if she demands them. But it will go nowhere.”

Bridget’s face pales. "You bastard," she whispers.

“It doesn’t have to be like this.” I let out a slow breath, looking at her.

She’s so beautiful, even like this. Her hair is damp, curling slightly around her face, and I want to reach out and run the wet ends of it between my fingers.

“You can stop fighting me. Make me believe that I can trust you. Then you can leave this room, have your phone, see your friends. Go back to work at your garage, even. But I need to know that you’re not going to run.

That you’re not going to escape and take our child with you. ”

Bridget’s entire body is tense, her jaw clenched. "Get out," she spits, her voice shaking with rage.

"Not until we finish this conversation." I close the door behind me and lock it. "I understand you're angry. I understand you feel trapped. But this doesn't have to be a prison, Bridget. It can be something much better."

"Better?" She laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You kidnapped me, Caesar. You dragged me away from my life, my work, everything I care about. How could this possibly be better?"

"Because I can give you things you never imagined.” I let out a long breath, wondering how I can possibly make her understand. "Security. Luxury. A future for our child that most people can only dream of. Neither of you will ever want for anything—"

"I don't want your money," she hisses, a startling amount of venom in her voice. "I want my freedom."

“Being here doesn’t have to mean you’re not free—”

"Says the man who ran away from home at seventeen because he couldn't stand being told what to do." Her eyes flash as she looks straight at me, and I feel my jaw tighten as the words hit their mark.

“How do you know about that?” I ask quietly, my voice deadly calm.

Bridget snorts. “I can read. I looked you up, remember? You running off made the news. ‘Local influential Miami billionaire’s son disappears.’ The cops looked for you for months.

I guess a mafia boss’s son does rate a first-class investigation.

” The sarcasm drips from her words, so thick I can taste it.

“I can guess at the rest. And the expression on your face tells me I’m right.

You thought this was all too stifling, so you ran away. What a fucking hypocrite.”

Her words slice like knives, carving into all the tender places I try to keep hidden, but I force myself not to let it show. Not to let her see how she’s managed to wound me.

"That was different," I say carefully.

"Was it? Or are you just a self-absorbed asshole who thinks freedom is only important when it's yours?"