“On it.” He hesitates, and I brace for more bullshit. “And you’ll let me interrogate her?”
Jesus. Guilty or not, the thought of his filthy hands on her … “I’ll handle her.”
“You’ll kill her, then?”
I shrug.
“Have it your way.” He’s smart enough to leave it at that. “We have Ciro’s girlfriend in a secure place.”
“Interrogate the friend but keep her alive for now.” Jesus, withdrawal is a bitch. I understand why Renzo can’t get clean. Everything hurts, inside and out. What the hell did they pump into me?
He gestures toward the room next door. “Where do you want her?”
Tied up in bed, begging for mercy, fully aware of who I am and why you don’t fuck with a Beneventi.
“Leave her there to rot until the cell’s ready.” I pause, the image of her asleep on the balcony burned into my mind.
“But the motherfucking vacation ends now.”
CHAPTER 10
RILEY
The mannext door’s freak-out was the beginning of my situation changing. The relentless banging on my bedroom door, at all hours, day and night, abruptly stopped.
So did my morning tea.
The Michelin-worthy meals are no more—replaced, with glee, by a hostile brunette, who tossed a half loaf of stale bread at me that next morning, then slammed an empty pitcher onto the table.
Fine,I’ll pretend it’s lasagna and red wine,I thought, hiding my reaction. Her glare turned into a manic smile, then she made a cutting motion with her finger across her throat—complete with gargle—and left.
Jaw falling open, I watched her departure in shock.
But this?
I cover my mouth and hold back a scream. If stale bread and questionable tap water aren’t enough reasons, this is why all my energy should be put toward escaping. While I was sunbathing, someone snuck into the room and left a dead canary on my pillow. The poor creature’s decapitated body and head are cradled in the indent I left behind.
Don’t react, Riley. They’re likely listening, gloating over tormenting you using a defenseless bird.
Although I feel sorry for the bird, what these vicious women don’t know is this isn’t my first encounter with death. This isfarfrom the worst tragedy I’ve stumbled upon.
I hold my breath and take the pillow outside, careful not to upend the bird, then heave everything over the railing. Seconds later, curses burst out. Two guards patrolling the grounds stand directly below and are staring, flabbergasted, at what may or may not have hit them.
Hastily, before they can see me, I back away and retreat inside. Knowing how it feels being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Lord, I need to find a way out of here.
Pacing gets me nowhere, so I sit on the bed corner, breathe in deep and calm my mind, then consider my options. The housemaids always lock the door behind them when they leave, and if I jump off the balcony, I’ll end up like the bird. So I need to be clever if I hope to escape.
I kick my foot, and my toes catch on the shaggy white carpet. And, just like that, an idea forms.
Rearranging the furniture takes more effort than expected. I drag the short bureau to rest against the same wall as the door, then push the table to the opposite side of the bed. The fluffy white rug, surprisingly heavy, resists as I roll it up and lift it upright. I wobble it across the room, steadying its weight as I maneuver it toward the bureau, wedging it tightly between the wall and furniture. The top half leans diagonally across the door, a barrier of soft fabric and stubbornness.
If the canary was a surprise …
Minutes change into hours as I weigh my next moves. Find a way downstairs and then outside. Get to the water. Hail asailboat or yacht or follow the shoreline to the beach I saw those teenagers swimming toward.
Or I can search for somewhere on the grounds to hide? The poolside casita?
