My mother’s voice echoes:When did my son become the kind of man who kidnaps women?
I should feel guilty, but I don’t.
Or at least, I’m not letting myself.
Emma Brennan is staying right where she is.
For her own safety, whether she believes that or not.
Someone betrayed me and someone’s manipulating this conflict and I’ll be damned if I’m going to hand her over to whoever’s really behind this mess until I understand what game they’re playing.
At least, that’s what I tell myself as I close the security feed and pour a third whiskey.
The truth is probably more complicated, but I’m too tired and too angry to examine it right now.
Tomorrow I’ll find out more about the Corsicans and figure out who’s really behind Zima’s betrayal.
Tonight, I just need Emma to stay in that room where she’s safe and Connor to stay the hell away from my property.
Everything else can wait.
7
LEO
It’s been a week since I took Emma, and somehow I’ve fallen into a routine I didn’t plan on having.
I visit her twice a day—morning and evening—for purely practical reasons.
I need to make sure she’s eating after that hunger strike bullshit and that she’s not plotting some escape attempt that’ll get one of my guards hurt or killed.
It’s important that I verify that Connor’s failed rescue hasn’t made her desperate enough to try something stupid.
That’s at least what I tell myself.
The reality is probably more complicated, but I’m not focusing on it because I’m too fucking irritated about the Corsican situation to deal with additional complications.
Every lead Dante has followed has hit a dead end. The shell companies trace back to other shell companies.
The Corsican contacts in New York have gone silent or claim they don’t know anything.
The two million dollars disappeared into financial black holes that even our best people can’t crack.
It’s like whoever set this up knew exactly how to cover their tracks, and it’s pissing me off.
So when I unlock Emma’s door for my morning visit, I’m already in a shit mood that has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the fact that someone is playing me and I can’t fucking figure out who.
Emma’s sitting at the desk by the window, sketching something I can’t see from this angle.
Her dark auburn hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s wearing jeans and a blue t-shirt from the wardrobe that really brings out how pale and porcelain her skin is.
She looks up when I enter, and I watch her expression shift from concentration to irritation in about half a second.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I say dryly. “How’s captivity treating you today?”
“Oh, fantastic,” she shoots back without missing a beat, her green eyes narrowing. “I woke up in a locked room held prisoner by a psychopath, so really it’s just another day in paradise. How’s being a kidnapping piece of shit treating you?”
Despite my bad mood, I feel a grim smile tugging at my lips.