“That’s…” I struggle for words, truly at a loss before I grasp on a thought tendril. “You’re trying to distract me!” I glare at him triumphantly.
“I’m really not,” Leo says, his voice going quieter. “I’m just stating a fact. You asked about my scar, I told you. Then you said I wasn’t horrible to look at, and I’m telling you that you’re considerably better than ‘not horrible.’ That’s just honesty.”
“Honesty,” I repeat, my heart doing the tango in my chest. “From the man who kidnapped me and won’t let me call my mother.”
Leo’s face draws in, the moment breaking. “Fair point.”
We sit in awkward silence for a moment before I force myself to speak again, needing to move past whatever that was.
This is Stockholm Syndrome, I tell myself firmly.
This is my brain trying to rationalize my situation by making my captor seem human and interesting and attractive instead of monstrous.
Except Leo is human.
And he is interesting.
And the more time I spend with him, the harder it is to hold onto the pure hatred I felt that first day in the cathedral.
Which is a problem I don’t know how to solve.
9
EMMA
I’m in the library on a Wednesday afternoon—or at least I think it’s Wednesday, the days blur together when you’re being held against your will—curled up in one of the reading chairs with a mystery novel, when the door opens.
I expect it to be a guard doing their routine check or maybe Leo coming to tell me dinner is ready.
Instead, a woman sweeps into the room with the kind of presence that makes me sit up straighter instinctively.
She’s in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, and impeccably dressed in a way that screams old money and elegance.
Her dark hair is streaked with silver and pulled back in a sophisticated twist, not a strand out of place.
She’s wearing tailored cream slacks and a silk blouse in deep navy blue, with a string of pearls at her throat and small diamond studs in her ears.
Her face is striking—high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that are dark and intense and unmistakably familiar.
Leo’s eyes.
This woman has Leo’s exact same eyes, that dark brown that’s almost black, with the same intensity that makes you feel like you’re being assessed and judged all at once.
This has to be his mother.
“So,” she says, looking me up and down with obvious assessment, her Italian accent subtle but present, “you are the Brennan girl my son has lost his mind over.”
I stand up, refusing to be intimidated even though this woman radiates authority so much that makes me want to apologize for existing.
The phrase “lost his mind over” is also irritating me for some reason.
“If by ‘lost his mind’ you mean ‘kidnapped on my wedding day,’ then yes,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “That would be me.”
The woman’s lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “I am Gianna Santoro.” She walks further into the library like she owns it—which, technically, she probably does or did at some point. “And you will show respect when you speak to me, young lady.”
Respect. She wantsrespect.
“Respect?” I can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes. “Your son locked me in this house. He won’t let me contact my family. He’s using me as revenge against my father for something I had nothing to do with. Forgive me if I’m not feeling particularly respectful right now.”