Chapter 2

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My, how the turntables.

Briar

Rowan Veleno is hotter than most of my victims. Bigger, too. As far as genetics go, he's won the lottery. I would not at all be surprised if I currently have three hundred pounds of pure muscle tied up in my bedroom.

Getting him to The Giungla from his base at The Casa was a bear even with Chip and Lace's help, and they're not exactly small people either. Kidnapping a mafia boss is something I'd qualify as hard work, but I am living for the reward.

It sends a unique thrill down my spine to see the leader of one of the most feared families between Pratt, Virginia and New York itself at my sole mercy. When it comes to crime syndicates, very few hold a candle to the long-standing New York mafias, but the notable exceptions trickle down the East Coast like a bleeding wound.

And here—in Evercrest, Pennsylvania, just northwest of Pittsburgh—Veleno is King.

Or, at least, it was…

"Bossette?" Lace asks, all her brawn towering above my very attractive mark. "He should be just about to wake up. Ya ready, or should I give 'im another dose of ketamine?"

I hum, stroking my moonglow boa's soft white head. Cupcake, my boa constrictor, rests around my shoulders while I recline in a leather chair in front of her vast enclosure, which takes up the entire back wall of my bedroom. I feel exactly like a Disney villain.

Which is, of course, intentional.

My single aspiration in life is abiding by when Megamind said the difference between a villain and a supervillain was presentation.

I've switched my frilly outfit into a vinyl romper, and the tight black something-something paired with a six-foot-long, pure white boa constrictor screams staged, but I am nothing if not committed to my role as princess of the Rosanera Family.

My papa always says to be a swan.

On the surface, I display flawless, graceful beauty marked by simplicity. Beneath the water, there's frantic kicking backed by hours of planning, moments of observed details, and decades of experience.

Be a swan.

Work hard, but never let anyone see how hard.

Seem effortless, and never let anyone know just how deep the roots of the Rosanera go.

Until, of course, it's too late.

And they're choked out like weeds.

A smile curls my lips. "I'm ready."

From the foot of my bed, Chip snickers. "You sure? I'm not positive the lighting is dramatic enough yet."

I glare at my underboss's husband in the precise moment Rowan's brows knit and a grimace overcomes him. His bleary near-black eyes open, squinting at the floor. One lip pulls into an annoyed sneer.

He's perturbed. Not frightened.

Waking up strapped to a chair in an unfamiliar place irritates him more than it scares him.

He frees a deep, not again sort of sigh, and my expression might tip subtly toward manic.

I thought it briefly when I first saw him—through his security cameras, after hacking into them—but now that he's seated in front of me, it's twice as apparent.

He looks like a Grim Reaper.

Eyes dark enough to steal souls. Skin pale enough to match bone. The messy black waves of his hair become living shadows whenever he moves. With a jawline as sharp as a scythe, I'm surprised he hasn't taken to wearing a tattered hood and gotten some good branding out of his simply phenomenal genes.

The ebony pools of his gaze pierce me, and my heart thumps, skipping an excited beat.

He swears, the single coarse word half-muttered, half-sighed.

"Is that a—" Rowan swears again. "—snake?"

I beam. "This is Cupcake."

Rowan's eye twitches, and he grumbles a dry, "What?"

"Cupcake the snake." Chip snorts, pointing. "She liked that it rhymed."

My smile ices over as I stand. "Chip, please don't interrupt me right now."

Lace chuckles as she strides to Chip's side, grabs his hand, and pulls him to his feet. While standing, he's an entire inch taller than her with twice the body mass, even though both of them are built like tanks. "Let's not piss off the bossette, 'kay? You only have so many fingers." She cups his chin, drawing him close as she whispers, "And I happen to like 'em right where they are."

Heat slathers itself across Chip's cheeks as Lace escorts him out of my room.

Ugh.

Soulmates.

My eyes roll as I approach Rowan and let gentility ease back into my expression. "Pardon the distraction, pet. They're insufferable in an adorable way. You get used to it."

Rowan tests the rough ropes binding his wrists to the armrests and growls deep in his throat, like an angry beast. Discovering that the binds won't give, he lets his eyes close. "Well, get on with it."

"It?" I inquire.

"I don't have all day."

My brow arches. "It's past midnight."

He lets his head loll against the back of the chair he barely fits in and fills his broad chest with air. The ropes tied around his midsection strain as he locks his attention on me. "Well then, I don't have all night."

I drop myself into his lap, and he flinches, biceps tensing against his binds.

He smells…good. Familiar.

Like metal and money. Leather and luxury.

I don't know what Cupcake can sense as she scents the air with her tongue and moves toward one of Rowan's strong arms, but, to me, it's almost like we've been cut from the same cloth.

"What are you doing in my lap?" he grates.

"Appeasing my impulses." I cross my legs and peruse the pure baffle rioting in him. It is entirely too much fun watching people squirm. The bigger and more powerful they are, the sweeter their distress tastes. I push a lock of hair behind my ear. "We've got a problem, you and I."

His throat bobs. "Is the problem that you're sitting on me?"

I skate my fingers across his knuckles, grasp his pinkie, and bend it backward. "Snarky."

"Thanks," he grits.

"It wasn't a compliment."

His eyes narrow. "Then why did it sound like one, princess?"

There's that thrill again, skating down my spine as though it has any right… My smile stretches as I release his finger.

He doesn't flinch. Not in relief. Not in anxious anticipation of a worse pain to come. Not at all. He is dark marble—cold, hard…and numb.

It's all too clear he's used to being in positions like this, even though he shouldn't be. People like us—the sons and daughters of the criminals who run the world—shouldn't be accustomed to having their own bones shattered and their own flesh scarred. It's our job to orchestrate that kind of pain from our ebony towers, not endure it.

Organized crime may not be a safe lifestyle, but it certainly has its perks up until the moment a stray bullet finds you or the half of the system that hasn't been paid off puts you in prison.

"Do you have any idea what happened to your parents?" I ask.

His narrow eyes give nothing away. "Good riddance."

"Am I to take that as a ‘no'?"

He drops his attention to Cupcake as she skims up his chest, heading for his neck. "Do you bring your pet to all your interrogations?"

"Cupcake isn't my pet. She's family. You're my pet, and you're evading a straight answer." I let my smile fall. "You weren't the only one whose parents disappeared, Rowan. I didn't go through all the trouble of dragging you here to be your therapist. Regardless of whether or not you want your parents back, I respect your leadership skills enough to know you wouldn't let their disappearance go unaddressed, in case you're next. Tell me what you know."

He watches me. Several long moments pass, ticking away in time with the grandfather clock beside the dormant fireplace across from my bed. Finally, he says, "This is no way to ask for a favor."

My brows rise.

"You could at least use your manners and say please."

I blink as Cupcake explores behind the thick column of Rowan's throat. It takes two quiet seconds for me to realize he's dead serious. Resting my elbow against his shoulder in order to deter Cupcake from circling his neck like a tree trunk, I murmur, "We've only just formally met. Aren't you being a touch forward?"

"What are you talking about?" he grumbles, glancing at Cupcake when she slithers down his other arm. "Since when are manners forward?"

He's not serious.

He is serious?

Oh my word. He is dead serious.

I scooch a little closer, putting our faces mere inches apart. The warmth of his exhale grazes my lips, and I wet them as his eyes dart to the slim space between us, separated only by a few coils of scratchy rope. "Are you usually this oblivious when women flirt with you, Rowan?"

His mouth opens, then every processor in him perishes. Gaping, he sits—frozen. The blank gleam in his dark eyes makes it horribly difficult to keep from laughing.

Nevertheless, I manage, and, finally, Internet Explorer comes back online. He says, "How…old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

He curses, closes his eyes. "Listen, princess—"

"I like the way you call me princess."

"—you're two thirds my age and—"

"Well, not for long if we give it another year."

"I was rounding up. We'd have to give it several years."

"Ooh." I get cozy. "A maths guy. Cute. Sounds like a plan to me. If you're game, I am."

His voice rises. "—I really don't think this is appropriate—"

"Since when do people like us worry about something boring like that?"

"Ma'am."

The iron-hard tone in his chastise makes me giggle. Covering my mouth, I angle my body away from him and battle to contain myself. "Ah, crap." I whisper a curse as I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. I knew Rowan Veleno wasn't just another monster in human clothing, living vampirically off the misfortune of others, but somehow I didn't expect him to be a decent person at quite this fundamental of a level.

There's a lot of moral gray area between shutting down the most horrifying rackets since he took over his family and trying to respect the woman who tied him up.

"Princess," he hisses, and I glance his way to find Cupcake circling back up and around his throat.

"Answer my question about what you know," I say.

Sheer incredulity snaps across his face.

I relax as Cupcake continues toward Rowan's other shoulder, rallying for another go round. "You can either answer my question, or take a chance with fate. If Cupcake does fancy strangling you—" I lean in close. "—I will make sure your obituary lists every detail of your demise and your tombstone's cause of death says choked by a Cupcake."

His jaw locks. A muscle ticks in his cheek. "All I know is the people responsible for my parents' disappearance call themselves the Maxim Project."

I lift my hand, setting it near Cupcake's head to guide her back up my arm. "I already know the name they're going by. Assuming they both left us with a calling card, that's all I've got. Anything else?"

He gives his head one firm shake. "I didn't realize other families were involved before now since I've found no mention of this Maxim Project anywhere. It's been three months and a lot of cold tracks. I don't think my parents could have vanished so completely if they'd done so willingly. All I've got is the card, too."

Sighing, I rest my back against his chest and let Cupcake slip over my shoulder, between my breasts, and into my lap. I mutter a curse and stare at the dimmed lights of my chandelier. "So we're in the same place, the only information we have comes from the—" I swear. "—card they left when they took our parents. We only know what they want us to. And since they want us to know their name, this entire scenario screams distraction. We just don't know from what."

Rowan's throat clears, so I tip my head back to look at his profile. He grumbles, "Great. Glad we've cleared this up. Could you get off me now?"

"Why? I'm not that heavy, am I?"

"Obviously not."

I gasp, horrified. "Are you calling me small?"

He winces. "No."

My lip trembles. "You're thinking I'm tiny, aren't you? You're thinking how easy it would be to pick me up and toss me around—if only you weren't tied up."

"I am not—"

I let my eyes widen as Cupcake spills onto the floor, slithering toward her open enclosure. Kneeling on Rowan's thighs, I frame his cheeks with my hands. "You're thinking that I'm—I'm trunk-sized. If I were a car, I'd be a moped! You have no idea how in the world a little thing like me overpowered you, and it's infuriating." I sniffle. "Well, I'll have you know I'm five feet, eight inches of pure muscle. Just because you're built like a skyscraper doesn't mean you have any right to look down on the houses."

His face screams lost confusion. "What in the—" He curses. "—are you talking about?"

I settle a hand against my chest. "It's not my fault I'm surrounded by giants. I'm above average. At least a two-story apartment." I make my voice pitch as I feebly shake him. "Stop calling me a cottage!"

Pain creases his brows, forming a deep valley in the center of his forehead. "Listen, kid—"

"Kid!" I shriek.

"Sorry. I did not mean that," he hisses.

I sniff, cupping my hands to my mouth. Obviously devastated.

He swallows, hard. "It is way too late for this. If you wanted to talk to me about a common enemy, we could have arranged a meeting."

My arms cross as I drop all my pitiful airs off a roof. "Where's your sense of adventure, skyscraper man?"

"Skyscraper man…?" Another thread of Rowan's will to live unravels at the seams. It looks so pretty as it floats gracelessly to the ground at my feet.

"I said what I said."

"Are you on drugs?"

"Not illegal ones."

His mouth forms a word that he chooses not to say, opting instead for, "What does that mean?"

Unraveling my arms, I trace my thumbs over the sharp definitions of his cheekbones, and it's genuinely a wonder my fingers don't come away bloody. I answer, "Prescription." A moment passes. I add, "Not because I'm crazy." Leaning near his ear, I whisper, "I actually quite like the voices. I would never medicate them."

Rowan shudders and jerks his head away from my lips.

I laugh and stand, checking that Cupcake found her way home to her cage. She's already happily tracing up one of the fake trees to perch in the boughs. Closing and locking the door, I say, "You only have one choice, pet. But there is an easy way and a hard way." I drop all sense of mirth as I pin Rowan with a withering glance. "Understand?"

He watches me for several hard moments, then mutters, "I'm listening."

How lovely. He's listening. What a pleasant—if rare—trait for a future husband to have.