Chapter 20
Chapter twenty
Reality slammed into me hard enough to steal my breath.
I stood in the hallway between his office and the guest suite, arms wrapped around my waist, staring at the polished floor, wondering how I’d ended up here—locked inside a mafia man’s penthouse with nothing on but his T-shirt. My heart kicked against my ribs as the panic threatened to overwhelm me.
Too wired to sit still, I paced back and forth, chewing on my thumbnail and muttering under my breath.
I shouldn’t have let that jester drag me onto the stage. I fucking knew better—knew exactly what would happen—and I let it. I let the King shove his hand into my panties and finger-fuck me. I let them spread me out on that table so the entire goddamn place could gawk at me for their cheap thrills.
Dumb, Scarlett. So fucking dumb.
I worked in a sex club, for Christ’s sake.
I understood how this shit went—the difference between consent and coercion, between performance and entitlement—and I still let it happen.
I just smiled and played along, giving them what they wanted, because I was so desperate to have Sofia help me escape that I would’ve done anything.
It wasn’t her fault; she had no idea what was happening in my life. And if I were being honest with myself, I’d wanted to impress her—to show her that I was as fearless as she was.
I dragged a hand through my hair and turned back toward the kitchen, my stomach rolling.
After draining the rest of the water he’d left for me and refilling the glass at the sink, I swallowed the headache meds with another long gulp.
My head already throbbed, a dull warning that tomorrow was going to be brutal.
He was right about that much—the amount of alcohol I’d downed could’ve flattened someone less stubborn than me.
I opened his fridge, scanning the shelves for something to settle my stomach. Coconut water caught my eye.
Perfect.
I grabbed the bottle and reached for the bread. As I opened a drawer, I froze.
Knives.
Not cheap ones. Long, razor-sharp blades laid out with military precision.
I ran my fingers over their handles, thinking about how I might hide one. But considering I was only wearing a T-shirt, probably not a good idea.
Was he so much of a badass that he wasn’t worried about anyone coming after him? Or did he think I was so pathetic there was no chance I could hurt him, even if I tried?
The thought twisted my gut either way.
I shut the drawer and shook off the thought, too nervous that this place probably had cameras tucked into corners I couldn’t see. I scanned the room, but found nothing that was obvious.
I slid a piece of bread into the toaster and wandered toward the massive windows, drawn by the view—it was breathtaking.
The river stretched out below, dark and restless, the wind slicing sleet across its surface. Lights skimmed over the water, reflections shuddering with each gust. Along the riverbank, the city lights glowed in the mist. It was ominous and beautiful all at once.
I pressed my forehead to the glass, palms flat against it, and stared down.
This was the prettiest cage I’d ever been in.
If the circumstances weren’t so awful, I might’ve loved this place.
My thoughts slid to Sofia and Margaretta. God, they must be worried sick. Too bad I didn’t have a phone.
And after what Mr. Shadowman had said—about his men controlling camera feeds—it was obvious just how far his reach went. If he could erase me as cleanly as he said, my father and the police wouldn’t be finding me anytime soon.
A chill slid down my spine, and it had nothing to do with the grim weather outside.
If I had any chance of getting out of this situation, I’d have to do it myself.
I drifted through the apartment, still half-wound, half-numb, telling myself to breathe.
He’d told me to make myself at home, a strange offer from a kidnapper, but at least it gave me the chance to learn more about the man.
The living room was massive—white sofas broken up by brightly covered pillows that looked carefully chosen. There was a giant TV hanging above a sleek, modern fireplace, and modern art accenting the expansive walls. Everything was expensive without trying too hard. Clean, but lived-in.
He didn’t strike me as the type to pull this off alone. Did he have a wife, a girlfriend, or just a talented decorator?
I ran my finger along the edge of the fireplace and came across a small, recessed panel. When I pushed it, the door popped open, revealing a row of controls. I pressed one.
The gas logs ignited with a sudden rush of flame, and I jumped back like an idiot.
Jesus. My nervous system was so fried I startled at gas logs.
I stood there a moment, letting the heat soak into me, the warmth chasing away the winter’s chill. From the kitchen, the toaster popped, loud in the quiet space, and I flinched again before laughing at myself.
Honestly, I needed to get it together.
I went back for the toast, pulled it from the toaster, and took a bite. Then I couldn’t stop myself from snooping some more.
You could tell a lot about a person from their kitchen.
Nothing about his kitchen felt staged. It was built for use—pans stacked within reach, knives arranged with care, and a surprising variety of food.
There were spices and teas I recognized sitting beside others I didn’t.
The wine fridge was tucked under the cabinet, and he had a liquor cabinet that would’ve put most bars to shame.
The whiskey selection stopped me, mostly Irish and undeniably expensive.
I thought about his accent—softened by years here, but still definitely Irish. Rough in all the right ways. Panty-melting, if I were being honest. Not that I cared. He wasn’t my type. Not that I had a type.
I’d never dated anyone. Sex, for me, had been a paycheck—something I did the bare minimum of to survive long enough to get back home. Feelings had never been part of the deal.
I took another bite of toast, and suddenly the way my life had veered off its tracks caught up with me. After the wild night, the violence, and the frantic escape from the club, the exhaustion hit all at once. I was bone-tired.
I grabbed a banana from the bowl on the counter and my water, then moved to the sofa closest to the fireplace. The heat was comforting.
Maybe I should sit for a minute. Let my stomach settle before I puked up the little I’d managed to eat. Mr. Shadowman probably wouldn’t appreciate vomit on his pristine white floors.
I noticed the ottoman in front of the sofa and lifted the lid. Inside was a thick, fluffy blanket.
Perfect.
I curled up, pulled the blanket over myself, finished the banana, and let my head rest back against the cushions. The fire crackled softly. The apartment hummed with quiet and distant city noise.
Surely, if he were going to kill me, he would’ve done it by now.
My eyes drifted shut, whether I wanted them to or not.