Arno comes to a complete stop. “You left her unguarded?”
“You told me to keep aneyeon her,” I point out. “She won’t run.”
My voice comes out self-assured. Despite not being restrained or beaten or threatened, the woman won’t run. I know that without being able to explain it. Besides, to leave the upper level, she’d have to march right through this very room on her way out or take her chances by jumping out the damn window—and suicide isn’t very ladylike.
“You better fucking hope not,” Arno mutters darkly, but he has enough sense to keep the words from becoming a threat. “I’ll do it today,” he swears. “I’ll gather the boys. Make a game of it. Tie the little bitch up like a pig.”
“Where?” I ask purely out of curiosity. Arno has my loyalty, but I won’t stick around for his little party. There are more important bones for this mutt to sniff at. Other old hydrants to check for new piss. First and foremost, I need to find Espi.
“The basement,” Arno says, but he doesn’t sound sure. It’s like he’s pulling the details out of his ass, too blinded by rage to come up with a solid plan.
“And what if her man comes looking for her?”
The thought makes him chuckle. “He can try, but he won’t find her here.” He shoots me an icy grin from over his shoulder. “Don’t forget: Even you couldn’t sniff me out when I didn’t want you to,Kitty.”
Fair enough. I stare up at the ceiling and picture the woman whose fate is about as fragile as the bottle in my fist. How a woman like that fell into the hands of a man like Stacatto, I’ll never know. Maybe boarding schools don’t keep a tight enough grip on their budding debutantes these days? She has to be some rich man’s daughter. There’s an air of aristocracy about her—though definitely the degenerate kind with more debts to their name than money. Her mask is similar to the ones worn by disgraced stockbrokers or vengeful widows who were desperate enough to seek out a man like me in order to enact their “due justice.” Every little breath she takes is a carefully crafted lie. A part of me wants to dissect it—the meaning behind those scars on her ass or the dark hint of a tattoo that crosses her torso. The fact that I’m curious makes me clench my jaw, and I drain my beer of every last drop. Everyone knows what happens when curiosity meets the fucking cat.
“You gonna stick around?” Arno doesn’t seem surprised when I shake my head.
“I have business to take care of,” I say.
“You mean finding Espi?”
I don’t deny it. I don’t exactly use the opportunity to have a fucking heart-to-heart, either. While I trust Arno with my life, some things are best kept only between brothers.
“I’ll try to keep a low profile.” It’s the least I can do.
Van Hallen’s countdown is still going. I have three days left to make a full week free from bars. Maybe I’d send the bastard a thank-you card when I finally pass that deadline. On the other hand, maybe he’d gloat over my ass in a prison cell by that time.
“Can...” Arno hesitates. He won’t make eye contact. “Can you at least bring the bitch down to the cellar? I’ll have one of myboys watch her. I know you’re not a fucking babysitter,” he says before I can respond. “But I can’t... I’ll kill her, Dante. With my own fucking hands.” He flexes the limbs in question as if imagining them wrapped around her throat. “It’s best if there’s a fucking camera around when I see her again.”
I nod. “No problem.”
My muscles protest when I stand and stretch both arms over my head. How ironic. I thought that it might take longer than four days to fall back into some semblance of my old life. The shackles of the animal I am have found me again without my even having to seek them out. It’s one thing I’ve always been good at: letting trouble find me first before I even begin to hunt for it.
With a sigh, I leave Arno and head for the stairs. It’s a short trip to the upper level, where a handful of doors lead to separate apartments. Mine is the third from the right, and when I brace my hand against the knob, I’m surprised to find that I left it unlocked. Entirely by accident or out of some sick test devised for the woman within? Even I’m not sure. Not really.
An unexpected tension tightens my spine when I push the door open and enter the narrow entryway. Excitement? Anticipation? The thrill of the hunt never ceases to amuse a rabid dog, after all—but I don’t find her in the small living room or the tiny kitchen nook that branches off it. The entire level is silent. The little bitch could have truly pressed her luck and run, if I couldn’t still sense her scent, even from here. It’s faint, but with a pull like that of a fishing line dragging me forward, down the hall, and to the doorway of the only bedroom.
She’s on the bed. Scratch that—she’s passed out, deep-as-fuck asleep on the bed. Her hair is a nest around her shoulders. One of her legs is twisted within the navy comforter and something that could be drool dribbles from her slightly parted lips and onto the pillowcase. Her chest rises and falls heavily. It’s like she’s sleepingon a fucking cloud. Hell, it’s almost ironic: She’s Goldilocks, curled up on the bed of a killer.
“Get up.” I cross over the mattress in two strides and kick the edge of it—hard.
She jolts awake, blinking as she struggles to get her bearings. She mumbles something, and her right hand flies out toward me, the fingers outstretched. It’s a silent but universal command.Help me up.
That act more than anything proves that the little bitch is old money, used to having someone wait on her hand and fucking foot. She seems dazed when I don’t take the hand she’s offering. I see her eyelids flutter as she slowly registers the unfamiliar scenery of the room. Then she sees me, and her hand flies to her side, the fingers clenching tight.
It takes her three tries to stand upright on her own, but she’s already steadier than she was less than an hour ago. I know she’ll follow when I jerk my head toward the doorway and turn on my heel, leaving her to catch up. She staggers after me, clinging to the wall for balance. The steps are tricky. She takes her time, and I have to wait at the foot of them for nearly five minutes before she finally descends the bottom step.
The little princess’s modesty is showing now that we’re on the lower level. Her nostrils flare like a wounded doe sensing the inevitable stench of nearby predators; she can hear Arno pacing just a few feet away. Her fingers flutter to the edge of my shirt, which hangs down past her knees. She flattens her hands out as if to glue the fabric in place as I lead her to the basement door.
I don’t wait for her to descend the stairs this time. She flinches when I take her wrist and haul her forward; I ignore how she pants as she’s forced to keep up. The basement’s already fully lit. Either someone was here before us or no one bothered to lock up after last night. The table and the chair are still there. So is that fucking laptop.
“Sit,” I tell her, cutting my gaze toward the center of the room.
She takes her time, moving with such regal little steps. It’s as if no one’s told her yet that she’s no longer in her high palace. A part of me wants to ruin the fantasy for her. My hands twitch at my sides, aching to shove her forward just to see how she’ll react if she’s pushed onto her knees. Arno’s invitation makes for a sick temptation. I never got off on violence against women, but something in me just can’t fucking resist the curiosity of what she’ll do when those men surround her. How she’ll react. What kind of pleas will that haughty mouth form in order to save her own life?
“It won’t work.”
