He raises the window again, cutting off the arctic wind. The return of warmth feels like a reward, and I hate that relief runs through me.
“Any more questions?” he asks with a grin.
I might as well find out now. “Areyou going to kill me?”
The car turns down a small street and pulls up to the curb. “Home sweet home,” he says, ignoring my question.
Damiano Orsini seems very eager to begin whatever he has planned, kicking the door open before the driver can even exit the vehicle.
I consider running. But where would I go? Barefoot and naked except for a thin gold cloak, caged and plugged, in the middle of Manhattan on a November night, with no money, no ID, no allies? I’d be right back where I started—worse off, actually, since the Bratva wouldn’t be any happier with me than Damiano would be.
On the other hand, he might kill me if I stay.
But I don’t think he will. Not immediately, anyway. He wants me to suffer first. And I certainly haven’t forgotten the reason I sold myself in the first place. If I stay with Damiano Orsini—assuming that he won’t just kill me as soon as we’re inside his house—I’ll have one year of relative safety. If I can survive whatever this monster has planned, ten million dollars waits for me. Enough to disappear forever.
Besides, I’m nearly certain now that Damiano isn’t the one systematically eliminating the Clemenza line. He’s a pro.Whoever killed the others, they were vicious, but they weren’t a professional. I’ve seen enough pro hits to know the difference. Which means the killer is still out there.
If I go back on the streets, IknowI’ll die. As for Orsini…
I think I can survive him. I can study him, learn him, find a way to control him.
He reaches in to grab up the golden leash from the floor and I hurry out of the limo before he can yank my chain again—literally.
A dark brick townhouse looms over me, commanding its corner lot with confidence. The brick shell is studded with tall windows, every one of them shuttered from the inside. Multi-story bay windows protrude from the center of the facade, the lowest level of which has a delicate wrought iron Juliet balcony. The front door, large and black, is set down a few steps from the street and sheltered by a long white stone portico with columns.
So the Beast lives in a castle.
I glance up and down the street, trying to get a lock on where we are. Mature trees line the cul-de-sac, but their branches are bare of leaves, allowing me a view of the East River. I can see the Pepsi Cola sign across the water, and that’s the 59thStreet Bridge to the left. Yes, it’s Midtown East. Turtle Bay, maybe.
Damiano knocks twice on the top of the car and it pulls away, leaving me alone with my new owner. The promise of a bitter approaching winter bites through the thin fabric of the gold cloak, and the sidewalk might as well be ice beneath my bare feet.
Damiano smiles as he watches me shivering.
“Better get you warmed up,” he says.
I follow him down the three steps of the portico and watch him open the heavy wooden door with a keypad lock, but I don’t catch the code he enters. He pushes the door open and gestures me inside first, as though I’m an invited guest rather than a purchased prisoner.
As I cross that threshold, the warmth inside washing over my frozen skin in a cruel mockery of comfort, it feels like I’ve just willingly walked into hell. The heavy door locks behind me with an ominous click—the sound of my freedom disappearing.
One year. I just need to survive one year.
But as Damiano’s hand comes to rest possessively on the nape of my neck, guiding me deeper into his lair, I wonder if what emerges from this house after a year will stillbeme.
CHAPTER 10
CALIGULA
My new ownergives me a little shove with the hand on the back of my neck, directing me to a roaring fireplace right there in the foyer. I give a quiet sigh of relief as the warmth hits my face.
The hand on my neck disappears. “Better?” Damiano stands close enough behind me that I feel his body heat.
“Peachy.”
“I always heard you Clemenzas run cold, just like your snake symbol. That was a good choice, whoever picked it.”
It’s not asnake. It’s an ouroboros, a mystical and philosophical symbol well beyond this man’s understanding.
“I’m warming up,” I tell him.