Chapter 3
EMMA
The drive takes two hours, though I lose track of time somewhere around the forty-minute mark when the adrenaline finally crashes and exhaustion hits me like a goddamn truck.
I’m still wearing this ridiculous wedding dress, the lace scratching against my skin, and the bodice so tight I can barely breathe.
The veil finally falls off completely somewhere on the highway and I don’t even care enough to pick it up off the floor.
Leo doesn’t speak to me for the rest of the drive.
He just sits there in that infuriating calm way of his, occasionally checking his phone or looking out the window like we’re on a pleasant Sunday drive instead of fleeing a kidnapping scene.
George—the driver, I heard Leo call him that—takes back roads and side streets, doubling back several times in a way that makes it clear he knows what he’s doing.
He’s making sure we’re not followed.
Not that it matters.
My father will find me.
He has to find me.
But as the city gives way to suburbs and then to actual countryside with rolling hills and dense forests that look like something out of a postcard, I feel my hope starting to dim.
We’re far from Manhattan now and from anyone who might help me. Far from everything I know.
The terror I’ve been trying to hold back threatens to overwhelm me, but I shove it down deep and wrap my anger around it like armor.
I will not cry.
I will not give Leo Santoro the satisfaction of seeing me break.
The safe house appears suddenly around a curve in the road, and, despite everything, I can’t help but stare.
It’s not a house. It’s an estate.
A three-story monstrosity towers behind a ten-foot stone wall that surround the entire property, topped with what I’m pretty sure is electric fencing disguised as decorative ironwork.
Guards are visible at the gate and stationed around the perimeter, armed and alert.
This isn’t just a safe house. This is a fortress.
My stomach drops as George pulls through the gates and they swing shut behind us with a finality that makes my chest tight, and I finally see more than just the top of the .
The main building is massive, made up of stone and dark wood that looks like it belongs in the Italian countryside rather than upstate New York.
Wings extend off either side, with manicured gardens that probably look beautiful in daylight but are currently shadowed and ominous in the late afternoon sun, and what looks like a separate guesthouse in the distance.
“Welcome home,” Leo says, and I want to claw his eyes out for the casual way he says it. Like this is normal. Like he didn’t just ruin my entire life.
The car stops in front of the main entrance and Leo gets out, walking around to my door before I can even think about trying to lock it from the inside.
He opens it and reaches for me, and I scramble backward across the seat.
“Don’t touch me,” I hiss.
“We can do this the easy way or the hard way,” he says, his voice maddeningly patient. “Your choice.”
How fucking dare he. “Fuck you!”
“Hard way it is.”
He grabs my wrist—the same one he’s already bruised—and hauls me out of the car. I try to fight but I’m so tired, my muscles feel like jelly from the adrenaline crash and the fear and the two hours of sitting rigid in that car.
When I stumble on the gravel driveway, hampered by the ridiculous train of my wedding dress, Leo doesn’t even pause.
He just scoops me up like I weigh nothing, one arm under my knees and one around my back, and carries me toward the house.
“Put me down!” I beat my fists against his chest, but there’s no strength behind the blows. I hate how weak I am right now, that my body is betraying me when I need to fight. “Put me down right now, you kidnapping piece of shit!”
Leo doesn’t respond.
He just carries me up the front steps, through the door that someone—another guard in black—opens for him, and into the house.
Even through my terror and rage, I can’t help but notice how beautiful it is inside.
The entrance hall is enormous, with dark hardwood floors and exposed beam ceilings, and a grand staircase curving up to the second floor.
There are paintings on the walls that look original and expensive, furniture that’s clearly antique, and fresh flowers in crystal vases.
It’s elegant and tasteful and completely at odds with the fact that I’m being carried through it against my will.
“The room is ready?” Leo asks someone. I twist to see another guard nodding and then he’s carrying me up that grand staircase, my wedding dress train trailing behind us like some kind of macabre bridal procession.
We reach the second floor and Leo carries me down a hallway lined with more artwork, more expensive furniture, more evidence that whoever owns this place has money to burn.
He stops in front of a door near the end of the hall and somehow manages to open it while still holding me, which just pisses me off more because it’s another reminder of how strong he is and how utterly powerless I am right now.
The bedroom he carries me into is large.
It’s maybe twice the size of my childhood bedroom in my father’s house.
There’s a massive four-poster bed with what looks like Egyptian cotton sheets in cream and gold, a sitting area with a couch and two armchairs arranged around a fireplace, floor-to-ceiling windows that let in the late afternoon light, and a door that presumably leads to a bathroom.
It’s beautiful.
It’s luxurious.
It’s clearly fit for a queen.
It’s also unmistakably a prison.
The beautiful floor-to-ceiling windows with their view of the gardens and forest beyond have bars on them.
It’s not obvious prison bars, but decorative ironwork that’s been cleverly designed to look like it’s just part of the aesthetic.
Scrolling patterns and flourishes that disguise the fact that each piece of metal is thick enough that I’d never be able to bend or break them.
The door has a lock on the outside.
It’s not a simple lock either.
I can see from here that it’s a deadbolt, the kind that requires a key and I won’t be able to pick with a bobby pin even if I had one.
Leo sets me down in the center of the room, on a plush carpet, and I immediately stumble away from him.
My legs are shaking so badly I can barely stand, and the wedding dress isn’t helping.
I catch myself on the back of the couch and turn to face him, trying to pull together some semblance of dignity even though I’m still wearing this ruined dress and I’m pretty sure I look like a fucking mess.
Leo surveys me with those cold dark eyes, his expression unreadable.
The scratches I gave him in the car are still visible, thin lines of dried blood that make him look dangerous.
Which he is.
I need to remember that.
Leonardo Santoro is a dangerous man who just kidnapped me and brought me to a fortress in the middle of nowhere.
“You’ll stay here until I decide otherwise,” he says, his voice calm and matter-of-fact.
“You’ll be fed three times a day. Clothes will be provided.
Books, if you want them, and art supplies.
Whatever you need. But you’re not leaving this room without supervision, and you’re not leaving this property at all. ”
My throat is so tight I can barely get words out. “Why?” It comes out barely more than a whisper. “What do you want from me?”
“I don’t want anything from you.” He says it simply, like it’s an obvious fact. “This isn’t about you.”
I gape at him. “Then why—”
“Were you not listening in the cathedral? Your father killed my brother five years ago.” Leo’s jaw jumps and it’s the first sign of real emotion I’ve seen from him since we left the city.
“Gabriel didn’t want this life. He had no desire to be in the family business. But our father sent him to negotiate and your father executed him like he was nothing.”
“That wasn’t my fault,” I whisper, and I hate how weak my voice sounds. “I had nothing to do with that. I didn’t even—I was in college, I didn’t know—”
“I know.” Leo’s expression doesn’t change or soften. “But you’re his daughter. You’re what he values most in this world. Connor Brennan might not care about much, but he cares about you. And now he knows what it feels like to lose someone he loves.”
The implication of his words sinks in slowly.
“You’re going to kill me.”
“I already told you I wouldn’t.” He says it so calmly that I almost believe him.
“I’m not your father. I don’t kill innocent people to make a point.
But Connor doesn’t know that. He’ll spend the next few weeks wondering if you’re dead or alive.
That’s what he deserves. To feel a fraction of what my family felt. ”
“I’m not—” My voice cracks and I have to stop and swallow past the terror threatening to choke me. “I’m not what he values most. You’re wrong about that.”
Leo’s expression shifts to something that might be pity, which is somehow worse than the cold indifference. “Yes, you are. Trust me on that.”
“My father will find me.” I’m trying for defiant but it comes out desperate. “He’ll kill you and everyone you’ve ever cared about.”
“He’s welcome to try.” Leo moves toward the door and I press myself back against the couch, trying to maintain distance between us.
He notices and something flickers across his face too quickly for me to read.
“The guards will bring you dinner in a few hours. There are clothes in the closet and the bathroom is through that door. I suggest you get out of the wedding dress and try to rest.”
“Go to hell,” I snarl, standing once more as if it gives my threat more weight.
He yawns. “You’ve already said that today. Try to be more creative next time, I know you have it in you.” He pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame, and looks back at me. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry that you’re caught up in this. You seem like you were raised better than your father.”
Leo steps out and pulls the door shut behind him.
I hear the lock click with a solid, final sound that seems to echo in the sudden silence.
I’m alone.