Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
T he cool water hit me like a slap to the face and jolted me out of the strange out-of-body state I’d been trapped in.
For a brief moment, everything faded away—the fear, the confusion, the sense of being utterly lost. All that existed was the cold liquid enveloping my body.
It was a strange sensation to float while still unable to move my hands or legs. Strange and peaceful.
Until I was dragged back up to the surface again.
I gasped as soon as I broke through the surface, and the chilly air stole my breath.
My eyes found Vince, whose face was only inches from mine.
“God, you’re a piece of work!” he barked, treading water right next to me.
His dark, usually slicked-back hair was plastered all over his face, and rivulets streamed down his sharp jawline.
He looked like a wet dog. A fluffy wet dog.
That thought, as ridiculous as it was, realigned the world in an instant, and the gravity of the situation came crashing back.
I just had a full-blown panic attack. So bad that none of the techniques I’d learned to self-regulate worked.
And he was here. Vince Salvini, the man I’d been trying so desperately to outsmart. The very person who posed the greatest threat to my freedom and safety.
“Look at me,” he commanded and leaned forward. Our gazes locked, and I saw something flicker in those piercing, almost-black eyes—concern or maybe even a hint of tenderness?
Whatever made him look at me that way was in stark contrast to the steely resolve and iciness I’d come to expect from him.
For a fleeting moment, I caught a glimpse of the man beneath the ruthless exterior—like I did in my room when the door hit me in the forehead.
“You’re safe; I’m not going to hurt you. Just focus on breathing and don’t hurt either one of us when I untie you.”
Then he shook his head, sending droplets of water in my direction, effectively ending our staring contest.
I closed my eyes, and realization struck me like a physical blow.
Vince Salvini had witnessed my breakdown.
Wait, he was the one who staged this kidnapping, so he was responsible for my breakdown.
He was way more crazy and ruthless than I’d given him credit for, but also…there were layers to him, depths, I wished I could unsee.
Because of the way he’d interacted with his friend…the way he’d behaved…like a completely different person.
And wasn’t that the most disturbing thing?
For a split second, I found myself desperately wanting to peel back Salvini’s layers to understand the complexities that made up this enigmatic and infuriating man.
But as quickly as that desire surfaced, I smothered it and forced myself to remember who he was—the head of a powerful crime family, a man willing to do whatever it took to get what he wanted—a man who kidnapped me and then nearly drowned me.
I could not afford to let my guard down with him, not even for a second.
And also—WTF?
With a deep breath, I steadied myself, the cold air helped ground me in the present.
Whatever this moment of weakness had been right now, I would not give in to the inexplicable pull I felt towards him.
“Care to explain yourself?” I said, my voice rough while he moved both of us to the shallow end of the pool.
He stared down at me, his face unreadable. “No.”
I narrowed my eyes, then scoffed. As if I would just let it go because he didn’t want to talk. “What the fuck, Salvini? Is this some kind of sport for you? Kidnapping women? Scaring them half to death and then drowning them? Gives watersport a whole new meaning.”
“Shut up,” he growled while he carried me up the stairs, out of the water, and exposed us both to the crisp autumn air.
I started to shiver from the cold, a reaction that didn’t go unnoticed by him—by the way his eyes moved down to my chest before he lifted them again immediately.
Staring at my nipples? In a moment like this? Really?
What a dog.
And I sure as shit wouldn’t shut up just because he ordered me to. “Sorry if talking to me bothers you, but I’m in the mood for some answers, so you better start explaining…”
He lifted me a little higher, and for the first time, I realized how strong he must be because of the way he just handled the chair and me on it with such ease. “Well, sorry, Punk, but your answers will have to wait.”
I narrowed my eyes and held his gaze.
The moment expanded, a sizzling tension I couldn’t quite place buzzing between us.
Wasn’t this the main problem between us? Different opinions, different wants, different everything?
He ended the staring first, which I took as a win, and carried me across the deck.
I blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of my surroundings. The cold air nipped at my drenched skin; maybe my shivering had as much to do with the shock as it did with the temperature. “Where exactly are we?”
I stared at the towering skyscrapers looming in the distance to my right, their glittering windows reflecting the sunlight across from what could only be the Hudson River.
I turned my head and looked at my immediate surroundings. The at least slightly heated—judging by the clouds of evaporation—pool we’d just emerged from was surrounded by sleek, modern furnishings and lush greenery. Everywhere I looked, there were luxurious touches that screamed wealth and power.
“My apartment,” he said.
I turned my head to the other side and inhaled sharply. The opulent glass front of the penthouse we were heading toward truly took my breath away.
I blinked, then focused on the interior. Modern, open space with white walls and dark grey furnishings—this was clearly Vince’s domain—sleek but lavish.
Beautiful in its starkness.
Fitting the ruthless man. “The devil’s den,” I whispered. This was a side of Vince Salvini I’d never imagined seeing—not just the dangerous crime boss but the man who surrounded himself with modern beauty and comfort.
Your home showed so much of your personality, whether you wanted it to or not. And I was about to catch a glimpse into his private domain.
He looked down at me, his lips tightening for a split second, while he carried me through the glass doors.
He marched through an empty room and into the adjacent bedroom.
This was Vince Salvini’s bedroom. A sense of unease washed over me. Being trapped in his territory, at his mercy, was a terrifying prospect.
If he would just release me already. I avoided looking around and instead stared at the pulsing vein on the side of his tensed throat, the only sign he wasn’t as cold and detached as he seemed—or maybe it was just a sign of physical exertion from carrying me.
I looked down at his muscular chest, which barely moved. How was he not even out of breath after all of this? I narrowed my eyes and continued to check him out.
His black dress shirt stuck to his perfectly developed chest and bulging biceps.
A part of me couldn’t deny the thrill that coursed through my veins—fear mixed with intrigue.
I held my breath as Vince set me down on the floor in the middle of the room.
We were still dripping wet, creating a puddle on the floor, but he didn’t seem to care.
He didn’t utter a word as he squatted down and loosened the ropes securing my arms and legs to the chair, his movements precise yet surprisingly gentle.
The silence was deafening, his stoic expression giving nothing away.
How could he remain this cool when my mind was going in endless circles, from freaked out to intrigued, to infuriated?
Once free, he lifted my arms and stared at my wrists, his eyebrows knitted together.
He wasn’t happy about the abrasions my struggle against the ropes had left.
Well, he shouldn’t have kidnapped me in the first place—then none of this would’ve happened.
As if he’d come to a decision, he suddenly stood, then scooped me up effortlessly, cradling me against his chest.
Hello?
I hissed. “What are you?—”
“Shhh,” he hushed me.
I snapped my mouth shut and took stock for a second. I should have felt threatened and vulnerable in the arms of this powerful and very dangerous maniac who had just kidnapped me. But strangely, I didn’t. There was this odd sense of security in his hold again as if he wouldn’t let any harm come to me.
I scoffed. As if he wouldn’t let any harm come to me when he was the one who literally just did all those things himself.
What was wrong with me? Was I going insane?
Yes, my body was a little weak after all that had happened, but what exactly had happened to weaken my mind?
Vince carried me into the en-suite bathroom. The opulent space reflected the same modern aesthetic as the rest of his home—as far as I’d glimpsed through the glass front.
Vince set me down on the marble counter, still not meeting my gaze, his face a mask without any expression.
With deft movements, he began undressing me, peeling away my soaked clothes with a clinical detachment that somehow made the situation feel impersonal and strangely non-triggering. “Excuse me, what do you think you’re…”
I stared at his fingers when he pulled down my jeans and watched, lost, and again watched his detached face when he pulled my wet shirt over my head. “Doing?”
And that’s when I realized it…
My wig and cap were missing.
Panic gripped me as I reached up, feeling the short strands on my head. When did I lose this? When they took me? Or when he dumped me into the pool?
Vince knew my secret now. I searched for his eyes, but his expression remained unchanged. He wasn’t focused on me, wasn’t really looking at me.
Instead, he lifted me down, then simply wrapped a towel around me in my underwear. “Hold tight,” he said.
I grabbed the ends and tucked them in like an obedient little girl—which I was not. Usually.
He turned on the shower and tested the temperature with his hand until he was satisfied. Then, without warning, he pushed me into the spacious stall, the hot water cascading over us both.
I sputtered, caught off guard, but Vince’s firm voice cut through the spray. “Hold still.”
There was no menace in his tone, only a quiet command that I obeyed for some strange reason.
What was wrong with me? Why did I let him handle me as if I was a child—weak like a child?
And it felt…good?
Why? And why wasn’t I nervous? Why could he undress me, and there wasn’t even a pinch of panic in me?
He took the detachable showerhead and began rinsing me down, the water sluicing over my skin in gentle streams.
His movements were methodical and focused, yet he never once looked at my body or touched me inappropriately.
I couldn’t tear my eyes away from him. How many different personalities did he have? He was a mystery, and I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to decipher the enigma that was Vince Salvini.
Or if I should.
Beneath his ruthless exterior lay a surprising tenderness. The way he interacted with his friends and how he cared for my well-being contradicted everything that he’d done before, everything he’d said, and everything I thought I knew about him.
I narrowed my eyes while studying him. The dichotomy was intriguing, drawing me in like a moth to a flame. I wanted to understand him, to peel back the layers and uncover the man beneath the hardened facade.
But I knew better than to let my guard down. No matter how gentle his actions seemed at this moment, Vince Salvini was a dangerous man and an enemy, and it was essential to remember that.
He must’ve felt my stare because he looked at me with his dark, irritating eyes. “What?”
But what could I say? Should I cuss him out? Ask him if he was crazy? Because he sure was.
But maybe talking could wait until we were both dry and I was decent again? I shook my head and looked down at the tiles beneath my feet, avoiding any further eye contact.
He still had his socks on.
“Turn around,” he commanded, and for a second, I wanted to defy him, just because.
He must’ve felt me tensing because he grabbed my shoulders, turned me around, and pulled on the towel in one smooth move.
I inhaled sharply and immediately covered my ass. “What the hell?”
The low growl from him didn’t help.
I turned my head and stared at him over my shoulder and immediately met his eyes. I’d expected him to stare at my ass, which apparently wasn’t the case. “What do you think you’re doing, you perv?”
He cocked his head and looked at me as if he needed to think about it. “I’m heating you back up and cleaning off the chlorine. After that, we’ll find something for you to wear, then put some ointment on your wrists. What did you think I was doing?”
I narrowed my brows. Hesitated for a second. Should I really tell him what I thought of this situation? Oh, fuck it. “I thought you kidnapped me, tried to intimidate me, tried to drown me, and now you’re feeling me up while staring at my ass.” I paused. “Yeah, that about sums up what I’m thinking.”
Now it was his turn to narrow his eyes to slits. “You’re not wrong, apart from the feeling-you-up part.”
“And?”
“And?” he said.
“I thought you’d at least defend yourself.”
He chuckled. “I never defend myself.”
I sighed. And that was Vince Salvini in a nutshell.
I hung my head while Vince continued to rinse my backside all the way from my head to my toes with hot water.
“Also, about the staring part,” he suddenly whispered into my ear, standing much closer than I’d anticipated.
I suppressed a shiver—not because I was cold—but because of him. “What? You’re not staring since you’re a gentleman?” My retort was dripping with sarcasm, but I was suddenly too tired for anything else.
Vince turned off the shower, and the sudden silence was deafening. “I’m a lot of things, Punk,” he whispered, “but gentleman ain’t one of them.”
My sharp inhale was loud in the sudden silence. What now? For some reason, my mind was a jumbled mess. Far too much of a mess to continue to spar with Vince Salvini.
And what the hell was happening anyway? Why did he do what he did? Why was he this nice to me now? And why was my body reacting the way it did? Was it the aftermath of my panic attack? Or was it the way he made me feel safe and weak at the same time? Why did I feel like putty in his hands?
He stepped out first, grabbed another plush towel, and wrapped it around my shivering form.
Why was I shivering again?
And why was he so surprisingly gentle?
He pulled me out of the shower and back into the middle of the room while I desperately held onto the towel.
Our eyes met for the briefest of moments, and I searched his inscrutable gaze for any hint of what he might be thinking, any clue as to his motivations. But his expression remained unreadable, a mask of stoic control.
Vince stepped behind me and pulled at the towel.
“Hey,” I said.
He growled and pulled harder until I let go.
He efficiently dried me off, then replaced the damp towel with a fresh, dry one. His movements were methodical, almost clinical, yet there was an undeniable intimacy in the way he treated me.
Somehow it made me feel both vulnerable and strangely reassured by his no-nonsense approach.
Without a word, he took my hand and led me out of the bathroom, out of his bedroom, across the hallway, and into what appeared to be another bedroom. Just how big was this apartment of his? This room was just as sleek and modern as the other bedroom, with minimal furnishings but a different color palette of soft blushes and whites.
Vince gestured toward an open doorway. “Can you get dressed by yourself?” His voice was low and gravelly, yet there was a softness to it that I hadn’t expected.
I nodded, not trusting my voice in that moment, and looked toward the doorway, which I assumed led to a walk-in closet.
“Pick anything you like,” he said, and I could feel his gaze lingering on me for a few seconds longer than necessary.
As he turned to leave, I found myself inexplicably holding my breath, my eyes fixed on the broad expanse of his back. Just before he stepped out into the hallway, he paused and glanced over his shoulder, his dark eyes meeting mine once more. In that brief moment, I thought I glimpsed something deeper—a flicker of emotion that I couldn’t quite place. Vulnerability, protectiveness, or was it regret?
Then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the moment passed, and he was gone, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him.
I exhaled slowly, my heart slowly pounding in my chest as I tried to make sense of the strange intimacy that had just transpired between us.
Vince Salvini, the ruthless head of a powerful crime family, had just tended to me with a surprising gentleness that seemed at odds with everything I knew about him.
What a confusing man.
As I made my way toward the closet, my mind whirled with questions. Who was the real Vince Salvini? The cold, calculating criminal who’d kidnapped me or the man who had just shown me a glimpse of tenderness and kindness?
And perhaps, more importantly, which version should I fear the most?
The light turned on automatically as soon as I stepped inside, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet.
The space was massive, with racks upon racks of clothing lining the walls.
Women’s clothing.
Haute couture gowns hung next to casual T-shirts and jeans—a dizzying array of styles and price points.
My gaze swept over the expansive collection, taking in the shoes, the handbags. I opened a drawer, and sure enough, it was filled with lingerie.
Damn. This was someone’s whole wardrobe. Whose clothes were these? His wife’s? His girlfriend’s?
Strangely, the thought made my stomach twist uncomfortably. I’d done my research on Vince Salvini—or, at least, I thought I had—and there had been no mention of a wife or significant other, but this didn’t look like a short-term arrangement.
Not that it was any of my business.
I shook my head, then turned my attention to the section with more casual attire, drawn to the comfy dresses and soft fabrics. As I ran my fingers over the materials, my eyes caught my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I groaned inwardly at the sight that greeted me. My green strip of hair, otherwise with short strands, was fully exposed.
Where was the wig and ball cap I’d been using to conceal my appearance? And why didn’t he even blink an eye?
Vince knew more about me than I’d intended—another layer of mind-fuckery in this already more than strange situation.
The sound of the shower turning on in the adjacent room reminded me of Vince’s presence, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. I needed to gather my wits and figure out what game he was playing. But first, I needed to get out of my damp underwear and into something dry.
I stripped off my panties. At least, I’d worn a bra today even though the plain white ensemble didn’t scream sexy in the least. Not that any of my other underwear would be considered sexy. I’d never developed an interest in clothes—maybe because my lean, bordering-on-lanky body and smallish boobs looked just fine in jeans, a tee, and a hoodie.
Grabbing a simple pair of black panties and a matching bra, I quickly shed the last remnants of my wet clothing and slipped into the soft, dry fabrics. Well, the owner of these clothes was way more well-endowed than I was. I switched the bra to a sports bra, which at least somewhat fit, then chose a black camisole and a comfy, beige, knitted cashmere set, which looked softer and more feminine than anything I’d ever owned. The gentle caress of the fabric against my skin was a small comfort in the midst of this unsettling situation.
As I smoothed the pants over my curves, I caught another glimpse of my reflection. The short hair clashed with the simple yet elegant set—it was a far cry from my usual attire. But in that moment, stripped of my usual armor, I felt strangely at peace.
Almost like a disguise. Because I, for sure, did not want to look pretty for Vince Salvini. Not at all.
I narrowed my eyes and stared at myself in the mirror.
Whatever Vince Salvini had planned, I would face it head-on.
It was time to confront the man behind the mask and then get out of this apartment as fast as possible.