Chapter 15
Lorenzo
Elizabeth goes straight to the bedroom and shuts the door behind her. The soft click of the latch echoes down the hallway like a gunshot.
Then I hear her crying.
I stand there for a second, unmoving, staring at the closed door while something ugly twists low in my gut.
What in the fuck happened back there? One minute she was furious—spitting nails, fighting me, looking at me like she wanted to draw blood. The next, she looked… terrified. And that came out of nowhere.
I drag a hand over my jaw, replaying every second in my head.
The boutique. The street. The SUV. The moment her face changed.
One instant she was raging at me, the next she’d gone white and wild-eyed, like she’d seen a ghost reach out of the dark and put its hands around her throat.
That wasn’t about me throwing her over my shoulder.
That was memory. And the second that realization hits, something cold settles over my skin.
Whoever did that to her is still breathing. For one violent heartbeat, that is the only thought in my head. I’ll kill them. Not threaten. Not punish.
Kill.
One of my men appears at the far end of the hall, smart enough to keep his distance.
“Sir, Cesaro is on the phone in the office.”
I nod once.
By the time I get downstairs, I’ve shoved the worst of my expression back into place. Not all of it. Just enough.
I step into the office and close the door behind me.
“This is Conti.”
“Boss, Mrs. Conti is asking when you’ll be home.”
I close my eyes for a brief second and bite back a sigh sharp enough to cut. “In a few days. Did she find an apartment yet?”
“No, sir. She said she’s not leaving.”
Of course she did. Fine. Then I’ll leave. The decision comes easy. It’ll be better that way, since I’m sure Elizabeth won’t want to go back to my penthouse.
I lean back in the chair, my gaze drifting to the dark window. “Anything else?”
A pause.
“I got word you were in Italy. That there was a scene.”
My grip tightens on the phone. Cesaro is smart enough not to elaborate. He doesn’t need to. News travels fast when blood, money, or humiliation are involved, and I delivered all three before I left.
“You found Miss Miller?” he asks.
My voice goes flat. “That is none of your concern.”
“Understood, boss.”
“As for my business in Italy,” I continue, “you may need to come out here. There are loose ends to tie up.”
That gets his attention. “Loose ends?”
My gaze lifts toward the ceiling—toward the room where Elizabeth is still crying behind a locked door.
I think of the panic on her face. The way she clutched at her neck.
The way she recoiled from the SUV like it was a coffin on wheels.
And I know, with a certainty that feels like a blade sliding between my ribs, that whatever happened to her before was not random.
“No mistakes this time,” I say quietly. “I want names. I want dates. I want to know who touched her, who moved her, who gave the order, and who helped bury it.”
Cesaro goes silent for half a beat.
“You think this is wise, Boss?”
I let the question hang there while my temper goes black and cold.
“I think,” I say, each word precise, “that someone took something that belongs to me and thought they’d get away with it.”
My reflection in the office window looks like a stranger. Harder than usual. Meaner. The kind of man men pray they never give a reason to come looking.
Upstairs, I can still hear the echo of Elizabeth’s tears in my head.
When I speak again, my voice is deadly calm.
“Book a flight. Bring the files. And Cesaro?”
“Yes, Boss?”
“If anybody asks questions about Elizabeth, I want their names too.”
“Understood.”
I end the call and set the phone down slowly.
Then I sit there in the silence, staring at the desk and listening to the pulse pounding in my ears, trying to decide what burns hotter—the need to go upstairs and kick down her door until she tells me the truth, or the need to hunt down the men who put that look in her eyes.
After an hour, I go back upstairs. The door is locked, which lasts all of three seconds against my pocketknife.
When I step inside, she’s curled on the bed in that oversized hoodie again, like she’s tried to disappear back into it.
She isn’t crying anymore, but her eyes are still wet, lashes clumped from tears she clearly hates me seeing.
I close the door behind me.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
For a moment, she just looks at me. Then, flatly, “Are you going to let me call Dante?”
I make the decision right then.
“Yes.”
She sits up so fast the blanket tangles around her legs. “What?” Suspicion and hope war across her face. “Really?”
I walk farther into the room. “I’ll let you call him if you tell me what happened back there.”
Her fingers worry the hem of the hoodie, twisting the fabric. She looks down at her hands like she hates that tell and can’t stop herself anyway.
“It was the SUV,” she says finally. “Being inside it reminded me of something.”
Every muscle in my body stills.
“Tell me.”
She swallows. “It’s all jumbled up. I remember waking up in a van or an SUV. I couldn’t see properly. Everything felt…” She shuts her eyes for a second, like dragging the memory up hurts. “Wrong. Then I remember something pricking my neck.”
When she looks at me again, there’s fear in her face, but also anger—at herself, at the memory, at the fact that she’s giving me this.
“I think it’s from whoever took me.”
The room goes very quiet.
“From when Russo took you.”
She shakes her head immediately. “It wasn’t Dante.”
The certainty in her voice hits me wrong.
“How can you be so sure?” I ask, too sharply. “You barely know him.”
“I know enough.”
My jaw tightens. Enough for what? Enough to trust him? Enough to defend him? Enough to look at me like I’m the villain while she protects another man in my house?
She extends her hand, palm up. “Now give me your phone.”
A humorless sound leaves me. “No, cara. That’s not how this works.”
Her expression hardens at once. “You said—”
“I said I would let you call him.” I hold her gaze. “You can. From my office. After dinner.”
Her eyes flash. “That was not part of the agreement.”
I shrug, because I know exactly how much it will infuriate her. “It is now.”
She stares at me, fury brightening her face, and for a second I almost admire it. Almost. Then she throws the blanket off and rises from the bed.
“You’re unbelievable.”
“No,” I say quietly. “I’m right. You need to eat.”
I can still see her in the SUV—white as a sheet, clawing at the door, panic written across every inch of her.
I can still hear the way her breathing broke apart.
And now all I can think about is a needle at her neck and some bastard leaving ghosts in her head that surface years later in the back of my car.
My voice drops. “If that memory is real, then someone put their hands on you. Drugged you. Moved you.” I pause, watching her face. “And if it wasn’t Russo, then I want to know who the hell it was.”
For one fragile second, something shifts in her expression. Not softness. Not trust. But something dangerously close to being shaken. Then she folds her arms tighter over herself, the oversized hoodie swallowing her whole.
“I told you what I remember. That was the deal.”
“No,” I say. “That was just the beginning.”
Her chin lifts. “You don’t get more.”
I study her for a long moment. The stubborn set of her mouth. The fear she’s trying to bury. The way she says Dante’s name like a shield and looks at me like I’m the blade. Maybe, right now, I am.
“Get dressed,” I say at last. “You’ll have dinner. Then you can make your call.”
Her mouth opens, no doubt to argue again, but I’m already turning toward the door. Because if I stay in that room much longer, I’m going to start asking questions neither of us is ready for. And if Dante Russo had anything to do with this… God help him.
In the kitchen, I make us roast beef sandwiches and cut up raw vegetables to go with them. Simple and fast. Something to keep her occupied long enough to get the call she wants and me the answers I still don’t have.
I’m pouring wine when she finally comes downstairs.
She’s changed into slacks and a blouse, her face scrubbed clean of tears, but she still doesn’t look like herself. Not entirely. Not with that false brown hair muting something essential in her.
I set one of the glasses in front of her. “Tomorrow, we’ll get your hair dyed.”
She looks at the wine first, then at me. “No.”
“Good thing I wasn’t asking.” I nod toward the stool across from me. “Sit. Eat. When you’ve finished, you can make your call.”
She slides onto the stool, stiff-backed and wary. “I don’t want you in the room.”
“Then perhaps,” I say mildly, “you should learn to negotiate your terms better.”
Her arms cross over her chest. “You’re such an asshole.”
I incline my head. “Indeed. Now eat.”
She glares at the sandwich like it has personally offended her.
I lean one hip against the counter. “Something wrong?”
“I don’t like roast beef.”
That pulls a frown from me. “Strange. I have a distinct memory of you eating it.”
“Do you have anything else?”
“In the fridge? Salami.”
The color drains from her face so quickly I straighten.
“I’ll just pull it off,” she says.
My eyes narrow as she peels the meat from the sandwich with careful fingers, like the very sight of it repulses her, then sets it aside in a neat little pile before taking a small bite of bread. After that, she abandons the sandwich entirely and reaches for a carrot.
I watch her crunch into it.
“New diet?”
She glances up. “What?”
I gesture lazily toward the counter, though there is nothing lazy in the way my mind begins fitting pieces together.
“No meat. No wine. Raw vegetables.” I pause. “Very healthy of you.”
“Maybe,” she says, all false sweetness, “I wanted to look good for my wedding.”
The words land like a knife slid between my ribs. I should let the jab pass. I know I should.