23. Trilby

T rilby

The thick, heavy bass is welcome music to my ears as we walk back into the house. I'm lightheaded from the cigarette I just took a few sips from. I don't smoke—I don't like the taste or the smell—but I'm in the mood for rebellion, and no one knows I'm here. Well, no one except Lorna, one of Savero's maids, who saw me escape under the veil of darkness.

Since the night I met Cristiano I've hardly recognized myself. Not since I was a young girl have I felt the need to rebel. It's as though that young girl is still inside of me, itching to get out, but years of concealing my grief and trying to protect my family from the strength of my feelings have muzzled her.

Savero barely spoke two sentences to Cristiano when he arrived to collect me two days ago. I'm beginning to wonder how close they really are. I sat in the back of his car watching the streets pass by, getting no prettier as we entered the sunnier streets of Long Island. My fiancé spent the entire journey scrolling through his phone and occasionally ranting in Italian to his browbeaten capos. Then, if I weren't already feeling surplus to requirements, he deposited me in a deserted wing of the house, which had been sparsely furnished with little to no heart, and promptly left again to go who knows where for who knows how long.

I felt relieved, when I should have felt disappointed. I still have no idea where he's gone, and forgive me, Father, but I can't bring myself to care.

While I hated being alone in that enormous, silent house, I needed the space to process the fact I'll have to forge a relationship with my new "brother." The thought makes me want to crawl into a hole and never come out, and I don't especially want to deal with it now.

I just want to dance my sorrows away.

That's why I took the risk and slipped out from beneath the noses of Savero's security guards, under the guise of visiting my supposedly "sick" sister. And now, as the lights of the house party follow the swirling nicotine in my brain and ill-advised punch as it trickles down my throat, I'm beyond smug that I did.

"Not going for the ripped hem and pink hair tonight then?" Sandrine jokes as we walk toward the makeshift dance floor. We're at a fellow classmate's house party – a venue I'm pretty sure isn't owned by a Di Santo.

I arch a cocky brow. "No need. No one knows I'm here."

She high-fives me as I twirl around, then she slurps on her drink. "What happened with the gun-toting pimp?" she asks, laughing.

"He is not a pimp," I gasp with an eye roll.

"He certainly behaved like he owned you, honey. And jeez, how did he get into that place with a gun? There were metal detectors, like, everywhere ..."

I groan into my glass. "His family owns the bar."

"Well, that's one way to get around the rules," she replies. Another slurp. "So he's going to be your brother-in-law ?" She has a glint in her eye that makes me feel uncomfortable.

"Yes, that's right."

"And . . . is he single?"

My chest hollows. "I think so."

"In that case, honey, I need an invite to that wedding."

I gulp down half the liquid then force a smile.

"Did you know, something like thirty percent of women meet their future husbands at their friends' weddings? This could be it, Tril. He could be the one. And we could be sisters . Wouldn't that be amazing?"

Something bitter twists inside my chest. "I think you're forgetting you snuck out the back with a stranger that night."

She stops dancing and stares at me. "Trilby, what on earth do you take me for? I'm joking . The man couldn't take his eyes off you, and when I came back inside, he'd cleared out the entire club because—what, you danced a little too close to some guy?"

Every part of my body tenses. I know I just got caught in that forbidden land of acting all jealous over someone who isn't mine, then getting called out for it by someone who's seen the truth.

I don't have time to dwell on it, because Sandrine's focus narrows on something over my shoulder, and her face pales.

"Um, Tril, are you sure no one knows you're here?"

"Yeah. Why?"

A loud crash stops the music dead, and a few screams of surprise ring out from the edges of the room.

I spin around to follow Sandrine's gaze and immediately wish I hadn't.

"Castellano . . ."

My heart trips over itself as Cristiano Di Santo roars his way toward me. My instinctive reflex is to put my hands up—if not to surrender, then certainly to slow him down so he won't humiliate me in front of my friends.

But he's not getting the hint, and he's not slowing down.

I start to back away, but it's too late. He reaches me too quickly, bends forward, wraps an arm around the back of my thighs, and hoists me over his shoulder.

Everything is a blur when he turns sharply and strides back the way he came. Gasps follow us out of the house like little gusts of wind.

As soon as the cool night air kisses my skin I come to my senses.

"Put. Me. Down! " I scream, but it's breathless.

When he doesn't even acknowledge me or break his stride, I beat his back with my fists. The hits are small and insignificant, but I keep at it. I once read somewhere that if you think you're too small to make a difference, you've never shared a room with a mosquito. Well, I'm determined to be one hell of a mosquito.

If only my fists would leave just a fraction of a mark on him ...

I lift my head to see people flooding out of the house to gawp at me being hauled out to the street upside down. I'm so mortified it burns.

Behind me a car door opens, and then I'm floating through the air, only to land with a humiliating thud in the passenger seat of Cristiano's car.

The second he lets go of me, I grab the door and push it hard in a vain attempt to escape. In response he drags the seat belt across my body, the back of his hand brushing against my breasts, and fastens me in tightly. When I try to release it, he whips off his tie and yanks my hands above my head, and with more speed than my half-drunk brain can handle, he ties my wrists together behind the headrest of my seat.

I wriggle uselessly even as the passenger door slams shut.

Cristiano walks calmly around the front of the car and slides in beside me without so much as a glance.

"You can't keep me tied up," I say, practically spitting. "It's unsafe."

"Not as unsafe as you trying to shove open the door while I'm driving down the freeway," he answers smoothly.

My chest expands and contracts as I pant with frustration, and I'm mortified further by the fact with each breath I take, my breasts are pushed out brazenly.

"I'm not comfortable," I huff.

"You should have thought about that before you put up a fight."

He starts the engine and pulls serenely out onto the street.

My chest rumbles with frustration. "Where are we going?"

"Back to my apartment. You clearly can't be trusted to stay in the house alone."

My awareness darkens. "How did you know where to find me?"

"It's amazing what the promise of a new car and a few personal days can get you, especially from those who have nothing to bargain with."

Lorna.

Guilt quietens me. "Please don't punish her."

He chuckles darkly. I pan my glare out the window.

"Why were you at the house?" I snap.

"I was checking on you."

I shake my head, exasperated. "It's not your job anymore. You don't need to keep checking on me."

"No? I should just let you run out to parties at the wrong end of town with no protection?"

"No one is going to hurt me," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Don't be so sure about that. Besides, pain isn't the only thing you need protecting from, Castellano."

I grind my teeth together. "Then what?"

"Capture." He strokes a hand across his chin. "You'd make excellent ransom collateral."

Oh .

His words twist like a knife in my abdomen. He doesn't care that someone might want to hurt me to avenge my new family; he only cares about preventing his family from having to spend money on protecting me.

My lip curls. "So don't pay the demands. Just keep your money and let them have me."

His voice is like flint. "That might be the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard come out of your mouth."

Savage.

I don't understand why, but I like that I got a rise out of him. I want to do it again.

"Better yet ..."—I narrow my eyes—"do it after the wedding. That way, Savero gets his share of the port but doesn't have to contend with a wife he doesn't actually want."

A low growl erupts from his chest, setting my skin alight.

"I swear to God, Castellano, if you say one more word tonight, I might have to shove you out that door myself."

I'd hide my smile behind my fingers, but my hands are tied, so instead I turn to look out the window, content that he can probably see my triumphant expression in the reflection.

We drive in silence for a long ten minutes. All the blood drains from my hands.

I turn to him accusingly. "I can't feel my fingers."

"Good thing you don't need them for anything right now."

I pout. "I'll need to pee when we get there. How do you propose I'll remove my underwear?"

His jaw grinds, the sound audible over the smooth engine. "What did I say about talking?"

I tip my head. "You said I couldn't say one word. You didn't specify several."

"I said ‘one more word.' Are you baiting me, Castellano? Because if you are, let me say this. When it comes to dishing out punishments, I don't discriminate."

"You mean you don't play favorites?"

"I don't have favorites."

I chew my lip, weighing up the sense or senselessness of my next retort. "Not even your new sister?"

He stops working his jaw and swallows hard. His voice thins when he replies. "You're not my sister yet."

"No, but I bet you're counting the days," I taunt.

"Not exactly."

"Whyever not? I've got lots of experience being a sister. In fact, if you were to ask Serafina, she'd say I'm the best ."

His jaw continues to grind as he focuses on the road.

"I give the best cuddles," I joke, determined to get more of a rise out of him.

"I'm not a cuddler," he bites out.

"You could have fooled me," I say, in reference to the way he held me all night after my bad dreams.

"That doesn't count," he says through gritted teeth.

"I bet I can convert you." I arch my brow in a challenge. "At the very least, I'll tickle you until you submit."

"If you dare tickle me, I'll break your fingers."

"Bit harsh," I mutter, secretly pleased to be getting a response— any response. "I make the best midnight feasts at pajama parties."

He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth but doesn't manage to completely stifle a smile. "I don't wear pajamas."

A bolt of fire barrels toward my pelvis and takes my breath away. I swallow, bat away the image of Cristiano wearing zero clothes, and press on.

"I'm not very good at pillow fights, so you'd win at those," I muse, almost to myself. "My upper-body strength is terrible. Even worse now the blood has drained entirely from my arms."

Cristiano drives the car down the ramp into the parking garage with more speed and force than necessary.

"But I promise you this," I say with a cunning smile, "you'll never beat me at hide-and-seek."

He spins the car into a space and switches off the engine, then he turns slowly to face me. I almost gasp at the heat in his glare.

"Wanna bet?"

My brows knit together as my tipsy brain struggles to understand. He reaches behind my head and releases my bound wrists. They flop into my lap and immediately start throbbing as blood courses back through the veins.

Then he leans forward and pushes his fingers through my hair to my nape, tugging me into him. His lips brush across my jaw, and he breathes heavily.

Hotly.

"I'll give you a head start, sis ."

When he releases me, his eyes are the darkest I've ever seen. They look like blood moons against a ravaged sky. He breaks eye contact to lean across me for the door handle. He pulls it toward him and opens the door up. His shoulder presses into my breasts, and God help me, I push them into him, devouring the way he halts with awareness.

The sound of our heavy breathing fills the car, and as he draws back slowly, his hand brushes across my thigh, skimming over my pelvic bone and making me jump in shock. When his face is level with mine, he stops and drops his gaze to my lips.

There's only an inch or two between us.

I'd barely need to move to feel the brush of his lips against mine, and suddenly, it's all I want. A throbbing sensation ticks up between my legs, and my breaths shorten.

As his lips part, he runs his tongue slowly along his bottom lip, chasing it with his teeth.

I'm watching every movement as if I'm studying him beneath a microscope, so when his eyes flick to mine and he silently mouths, "Run," I'm already one step ahead.

The seat belt snaps into place, my shoes clatter to the footwell, and my bare feet touch the ground. I turn back once to see his eyes fall shut and his head drop back against the seat, then I run.

I search for the most obvious places I could hide—under cars, in doorways, behind a dumpster. Then I look some more. My heart pounds as the sound of his voice counting backward travels up my spine with the adrenaline.

When I finally settle on a hiding place—one I'm convinced will fool him—I hear the sound of a car door closing softly.

His voice is thick, molten steel.

"Be careful what you wish for, Castellano. Ready or not, here I come."