“Philosophy texts?” I pull out a volume of Nietzsche and stare at it like it personally offended me. “He thinks I want to readNietzsche? Does he think I’m going to have some kind of philosophical awakening about the nature of good and evil while I’m locked in this room?”
I shove it back on the shelf with more force than necessary.
“Clearly you weren’t watching closely enough, Leo,” I mutter, moving down the shelf. “If you had been, you’d know I hate pretentious Italian literature. You’d know I read trashy romance novels and true crime and occasionally some literary fiction if it doesn’t take itself too seriously. You’d know I think Hemingway is overrated garbage and that I threwA Farewell to Armsacross my dorm room after forcing myself to finish it.”
There are a few English classics mixed in—some Austen, some Brontë, a copy ofWuthering Heightsthat actually looks promising—but mostly it’s Italian authors and philosophy texts, like Leo decided what an educated young woman should read rather than what an actual young woman would want to read.
“Next time you kidnap someone,” I tell the empty room, turning away from the bookshelf in disgust, “maybe do better research on their reading preferences. Just a thought.”
The sketchpad on the desk by the window catches my eye.
My chest tightens.
He knows I draw.
I don’t want to think how closely he must have been watching me to know that.
Drawing is private.
It’smine.
It’s the one thing I do that has nothing to do with being Connor Brennan’s daughter or the perfect mob princess or any of the roles I’m expected to play.
When I’m drawing, I’m just Emma, and the fact that Leo Santoro knows about it feels like a violation.
But the sketchpad is here.
The pencils are good quality.
I can tell from across the room that they’re not cheap drugstore pencils but actual artist pencils, the kind that cost money and produce the kind of lines I like.
And the temptation to give in just a little more and lose myself to something I can create with my hands is too much to ignore.
“Fine,” I say aloud, walking over to the desk. “But this doesn’t mean I’m grateful or anything. This just means I’m boredand you happen to have provided the materials I need to not continue to lose my mind.”
The retort doesn’t make me feel any better.
I sit down, open the sketchpad to a fresh page, and pick up a pencil.
The weight of it feels good in my hand, familiar and grounding.
I close my eyes for a moment and let myself just breathe, let the panic and fear and rage fade into the background.
Then I start to draw.
My mother’s face takes shape first, flowing from my pencil like muscle memory.
I draw her the way she looked the morning of my wedding—before everything went to hell—when she was helping me into that dress and her hands were shaking slightly because she was trying not to cry.
I capture the soft waves of her auburn-and-silver hair, the pearls at her throat, the champagne silk of her dress.
But mostly I focus on her face.
Teresa Brennan is beautiful, even at fifty-two.
Age has refined her features rather than diminished them, given her a kind of elegant grace that younger women can’t quite achieve. But it’s her eyes I work hardest on.
The eyes I inherited.