Chapter 20
20
SAMANTHA
O utside the freeport conference room, Liam eyes Don Antonio, automatically registering all the places where the Mafia boss could hide a holster—shoulder, waist, and ankle. Russo tolerates the exam with cool disdain, unbuttoning his double-breasted jacket and twitching the hem of both pant legs high enough to show his smooth silk socks, both free of ankle holsters.
“Will you join us?” he asks my bodyguard, contempt dripping from each word.
“That won’t be necessary,” I say, my voice shaking. I’d give almost anything to have Liam stay beside me. But Russo has to think he’s won.
So Liam takes his usual seat outside the conference room. And Trap waits inside, along with senior staff from every major department at the freeport.
Trap and I have led meetings like this dozens of times. We work well together, showing off the freeport’s business. Trap presents the tax haven’s history with his usual blunt efficiency. We pride ourselves on secrecy—our client list is confidential—but Trap can truthfully say we protect the wealth of senators and princes, of Fortune 100 self-made billionaires and trust-fund nepo babies.
I’ve memorized my lines for today like an Oscar-award-winning actress. I can cite statutes and regulations from state and federal governments, along with the legal codes of Palermo, Rome, and Milan. I love this part of my job, highlighting the challenges we help our clients navigate.
But it’s hard for me to concentrate today. The entire time I speak, Russo eyes me without blinking. The corners of his mouth curl in the slightest hint of a carnivorous smile.
This is the man who had my parents murdered, planting a bomb in their car on a knife-sharp New Year’s Eve nearly twenty years ago. A headache starts to gnaw at my right temple, and I can’t resist the urge to try rubbing it away. My scars from that night feel like worms under my fingertips.
The freeport’s head of accounting presents the usual charts and statistics like they’re the key to solving climate change. Our director of import-export, our chief curator, our head of information technology—they all follow the script like Russo is an ordinary man. Like he isn’t capable of ordering every one of them dead by morning, along with their families and friends.
I do my best to pull on the camouflage of a good freeport employee. I laugh at my colleagues’ harmless jokes. I frown at their tales of government overreach. I nod when I should and shake my head when it’s appropriate, all the while trying to forget that the monster across the table shoved his pistol between my cousin’s legs and pulled the trigger.
Finally, finally, finally , Trap wraps up the dog and pony show, saying to Russo, “As I’m sure Samantha’s told you, we have a special group of freeport customers, our wealthiest clients who have some unique needs. I’d like to personally welcome you into the Diamond Ring, Antonio.”
It’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard Trap make without swearing. He stands and extends his hand.
My boss abhors human contact. His left hand is shoved in his pants pocket, deep enough to hide five quick contractions of his fist. I’ve worked with Trap long enough that I barely register the tic.
But I see Russo catch it. The don’s eyes narrow a tiny fraction as he stores away the gesture, filing it for future use. I didn’t think it was possible to hate myself more for bringing this killer into our midst.
Not one of my colleagues—not even Trap—sees the red lasers skittering across their chests. They don’t know Russo has marked them as prey. They hand the Mafia boss their business cards as they leave, telling him they’re happy to help anytime, anywhere, with anything that will make his time at the freeport more pleasant.
I can’t say the same. I can’t follow them out of the room. I’m the only one who understands the true danger, and I’m the only one who has to stay.
When it’s just the three of us—Trap, Russo, and me—my boss gestures toward the door, toward the lobby and freedom. “I’ll just show you out?—”
“Giovanna can do that,” Russo says.
Trap gives no sign of being confused by the unfamiliar name. “If you’d like to visit your private gallery, I can have security?—”
“That is not necessary,” Russo says.
Trap looks directly at me. “Sam?”
That one syllable is my ticket out. I can escape this room. Or I can ask Trap to stay. Ask him to send in Liam. Ask, beg, plead not to be left alone with the demon who wants to possess me.
“I’m fine,” I lie.
“Close the door as you leave,” Russo says, as if he’s dismissing some kid selling rip-off magazine subscriptions.
Trap bristles. “Sam?” he asks again.
I force myself to nod. “You can close the door.”
He doesn’t want to. But he trusts me. He leaves.
Russo barely waits for the door to latch before he stalks around the table. I don’t move quickly enough, and he backs me into my chair.
Heat radiates off his body, singeing the space between us. I catch my breath too sharply, and my lungs are filled with the stink of lemon-soaked lumber, his Acqua di Parma cologne.
“You got me to your freeport, cara . To your fancy Diamond Ring. Now you must convince me to stay.”
This is where I tell him Braiden’s secret. This is where I share the truth about Krakower, about all the ways Russo can extort his way to millions. I must convince Russo that I’ve truly abandoned Braiden, that I’ve returned to the fold of my childhood. If I don’t, the past three hours mean nothing.
But Russo expects me to satisfy him another way. He shifts his weight forward, rocking onto the balls of his feet. The motion brings his belt buckle level with my throat. Even as I swallow, I can make out the bulge of his erection behind his zipper. I try to look away, but his fingers close around my jaw.
“I can’t,” I tell him. “Not here. Not where I work.”
“My sweet Giovanna,” he says tightening his grip. “You can. And you will.”
He has to think he’s beaten me, but I won’t let him see me cry. I push some of my desperation into a single word: “Please…”
An ugly light kindles deep inside his flat, dark eyes. “Please, what?” he asks.
I know how to beg. Braiden taught me. But with Braiden, I always have a safeword. I can always escape.
Russo has no limits.
“Please don’t make me do this.” And then, as if a brilliant idea has come to me for the very first time: “I can give you something else. Something better.”
He moves faster than my eyes can follow, shifting his grip to the back of my neck. Bending me over the table like I’m a plastic doll, he plants a paralyzing elbow in the small of my back. “Your tight little figa ? That would be better.”
For the past six months, I’ve wondered how I can kneel, how I can beg, how I can submit to Braiden’s commands. I’ve been shamed by the longing he ignites in me. I’ve been embarrassed by the needy heat he kindles between my legs, by the slick dampness of my panties every time I think about giving him control. I’ve questioned how I’ve turned into a creature who lives to be dominated.
But Russo’s taking the upper hand turns me to ice.
I don’t crave being mastered.
I crave Braiden .
“Please,” I beg. “If you let me go, I’ll tell you one of Braiden’s secrets.”
Russo freezes, his belt buckle half undone. “What kind of secret?” His breath stinks of stale coffee.
“The kind worth money. Lots and lots of money.”
The swell of his cock presses into me. “Enough money for me not to fuck your culo ?”
I’m shaking now, every inch of my body reacting in primitive, instinctive fear. I want him off my back, across the room, far enough away that he’ll never touch me again.
But Russo must believe he’s broken me completely. So I leak a little of my nerves into my voice, letting my words tremble as much as my body. “Oh, God. Braiden will kill me if he ever finds out. Forget it. No. I can’t betray him like this.”
“You will deceive him either way, Giovanna. With your body or with your words. What do you hold most dear, sweet girl? What will hurt the most?”
His fingers are tight around my neck. I know he’s leaving bruises. That’s the only way he’ll believe he’s running this, that he will think he’s won.
So I gasp.
I cry.
And when he finally thinks I’m broken, that I’m utterly destroyed, I whisper in my softest voice, “Roy Krakower.”
“What about him?” Russo snarls.
I tell him all the words Braiden gave me. I hand over the dynamite and unwind the fuse.
Russo pulls me to my feet and makes me repeat my story. He tests me on the details, going over the facts a third time, a fourth, a fifth. He pinches the small bones in my wrist, daring me to recant, but I grit my teeth against the agony and hold fast.
And finally Russo buys it, every word. He counts the millions he’ll get from blackmailing Krakower. He accepts that I’ve betrayed the man I love.
He thinks he’s safe. He thinks he’s strong. He thinks he’s the one I’ve chosen.
And now I’ll be able to dig for all the facts, for all the gritty details I’ll use to destroy Antonio Russo forever.
“That testa di —” Russo gloats, but I never learn if he’s cursing Krakower or Braiden.
The door flies open before he can finish. The heavy metal bounces off the wall behind it, and Braiden Kelly storms into the room like an avenging angel.