“Will you tell me what?”
“No.” The Russian’s jaw ticks, the skin around his eyes tightening, but his heartbeat stays calm, regular.
“Why not?”
He shakes his head. “Next question.”
“Do you know where Rocco is now?”
“No,” is his first answer, but he continues after a hesitation. “Your uncle has been pissing off a lot of people. Some of those people attacked his house. A lot of your family members are dead. The house was burned to the ground. But I don’t know if Rocco survived or died.”
Ah. So, his war with the Cerretis did turn around and bite him in the ass. Good. “I hope he’s dead.” The Russian doesn’t say anything, so I resume my questions. “Do you know how long I was locked in the basement?”
“Yes.”
My heart kicks into overdrive as I find the strength to ask the next one. “Do you know what he was planning to do to me?”
There’s no mistaking the fury in his voice when he says, “Yes.”
“Are you involved with that, what he was going to do?”
“No.” He holds my gaze for a beat before looking away. “Not directly.”
And there it is. The other shoe dropping. I let go of his wrist so fast it might as well be on fire. “That doesn’t make me feel better.”
“I didn’t realize that was our purpose here, making you feel better.”
“What, making me feel like I’m safe enough that I can go back to sleep without worrying you’re going to rape me, kill me, or drug me and ship me off to a human trafficking syndicate while I’m unconscious and helpless to fight back? That’snotwhat you thought we were doing?”
“Ah.” My rescuer/captor wraps a large palm around theback of his neck, squeezing the muscles as he studies an invisible spot on the floor. “Shit. I’m out of practice with this.”
“Interrogation?”
“Conversation.” Suddenly he’s the more uncomfortable of the two of us. I watch, confused, as he retreats across the room, that hand still gripping the hell out of the back of his neck. “I am sorry for what that asshole Pagano did you to. I’m even sorrier for what he was going to do next. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I hate Rocco Pagano for everything he is and does, including selling women to the highest bidder.”
He fists his other hand, skin pulled white across his knuckles. “I have my own reasons for getting close to Rocco. I never meant to find you in the process, but once I did, I couldn’t leave you all alone. But you need to know this—I’m not a hero. I never tried to save you before that night. The entire time I’ve known you were locked down there, I did what I could to bring you small amounts of comfort, but I never planned to break you out. Certainly not before my business with Rocco was over. The fact that I got you out when I did is pure chance. I didn’t plan it. I certainly didn’t think it through. I made a split-second decision and now we both have to live with the consequences.”
A split-second decision he sounds pissed about.
Wow. The Russian’s words are harsh but honest. I’ll take truth over dishonest silence any day. He doesn’t give me a chance to tell him that before he continues, “I don’t want you mistaking me for something I’m not. My reasons for getting close to Rocco Pagano are personal and the things I plan to do when I get my hands on him,ifI get my hands on him…”
The Russian squeezes his neck so hard a vein bulges. “My plans for him are violent, vile. No one would label me a good man,moya voitelnitsa, but I promise you this: you are safe in this house. Safe with me.”
“Safe from what, exactly?” I wet my lower lip and don’t trust my vision when he tracks the movement.
“Physical harm or pain. Starvation, deprivation of any kind. While you’re here, I’ll make sure you get all the medical care you need. Whatever you want to eat or drink, I’ll get it for you. Clothes, books, TV shows, music, makeup, whatever young women your age need—it’s yours, all you have to do is ask.”
Young women my age?What am I, a kid? And what’s he, an octogenarian?! He can’t be older than mid-thirties. I want to giggle at his strange choice of words until the wider context of his comment sinks in. “Wait—how long do you think I’m going to be here?”
The man’s gaze doesn’t falter, his posture void of all previous tension. He’s stoic, solid, fully in control. It would be a sexy look if it wasn’t so goddamn intimidating. “For as long as I say.”
“I can’t leave?”
“You cannot.”
“What? Uh-uh, no! No fucking way.” The claustrophobia is instant. The blankets too heavy, the room too small. My skin too tight. I’m out of bed before my limbs remember how to work, my knees buckling before my feet hit the floor.
The man—the Russian—says something that sounds like a curse, catching me beneath my elbows before I smack my face on his floor. Even at my fittest, I’d be no match for his strength. But with my muscles like marshmallows, struggling is beyond useless. I melt against him, my chin bouncing against a chest that’s less forgiving than the floor.