7. Alina
7
Alina
I feel the sting of Damian’s teeth on my throat, then the soft swipe of his tongue, soothing the hurt. My head spins. My pulse pounds. I’ve never been this turned on in my life. And just from a kiss. A single feral, forbidden kiss.
I twine my fingers through his dark hair as his mouth finds mine again. God, he can kiss. Hot and deep and hungry.
I hear the sound of the front door closing. Who—?
The thugs. Vito. Joe. Were they standing there watching us?
Through my lust induced fog, sanity claws its way forward.
What the hell am I thinking? I’m already the queen of dumb-ass choices. But fucking Damian Russo an hour after he takes me prisoner would make me the empress of idiocy.
With a groan, I try to pull away. He still has my hair wrapped around his fist, his other arm a solid band around my waist, holding me up. My legs are like rubber.
His lips are on mine, insistent, demanding, and I almost give in, almost sink into the heat and power and need.
No. No. Stop, I tell myself. I’m stronger than this. Smarter than this. No more bad boys for me. Ever.
“No.” I manage to force that single word out.
And to my surprise, he stills instantly, rearing back to look down at me.
One dark brow lifts. “You fucking loved every second of that,” he says.
“That doesn’t mean I’m stupid enough to—” I break off with a shake of my head, trying to pull free of his hold on my hair. “Let me go.”
That gorgeous, carnal mouth curls in a dangerous smile.
“Not for sixty days,” he says. Then holds out his hand, palm up. “Phone.”
I stare at him, angry, embarrassed, confused. Then I slap my phone against his palm.
He offers a low laugh as he studies my expression. “If this kitten had claws, I’d be bleeding from a dozen places.”
He steps away as if that kiss meant nothing at all, as if he didn’t feel what I felt. Everything about this situation is out of my depth, so I fall back on my old standard and say, “Fuck off.”
“Sleep tight, Alina,” he says with a knowing grin, then turns and leaves without looking back.
I wrap my arms around myself, feeling cold.
For lack of anything else to do, I go to the kitchen and check the fridge. Bottled water. Two cans of soda. No food.
The cupboards are equally bare, except for a tin of smoked oysters, a box of cheddar crackers, and a huge hazelnut milk chocolate bar in gold wrap. I can make a meal out of that.
The wine fridge is fully stocked, as is the bar in the living room. Clearly, Damian has his priorities.
I wander through the rest of the condo. There’s a bedroom and ensuite bathroom at one end of the vast living space and a second bedroom with ensuite at the other. Soaker tub. Walk-in shower. No expense spared. My entire apartment would fit into just one of those bathrooms. The décor in each bedroom is identical, with California king beds, chic side tables, lamps, a dresser, and a small sofa with coffee table. No knick-knacks. No photos. No clothes in the drawers or the huge walk-in closets.
This isn’t Damian’s home. This is a spare location to stash his victims. Or one-night stands.
Or hell, both.
Unfortunately, there are also no phones.
When I come out of the bedroom, I stifle a squeak of surprise.
There’s a good-looking guy sitting on the huge sectional. He’s reading a book. He glances at me.
“Hi there,” he says.
“Hi,” I reply uneasily.
“You’re Alina.”
“That’s…me. Yes. Who are you?”
“I’m Luca.”
I nod slowly. “Luca,” I repeat. “And let me guess. You work for Damian Russo.”
“I prefer to say that I work with him. But, sure. Either works.”
“He’s keeping me here against my will.”
“You’re free to leave whenever you like.”
My eyes widen. “I am?”
Luca puts his book down on his lap so he can gesture toward the door. “I mean, I’ll be accompanying you, but still. Feel free to go for a walk. You’re not a prisoner. You’re Damian’s guest.”
“I’m his guest, am I?” I say with scorn. “Is that what he told you?”
Luca stands up, carelessly tossing the book on the couch. With shock I realize that it’s one of the Harry Potter novels. He notices my scrutiny and shrugs.
“Those books helped to get me through a rough time in my teens. I’m rereading them out of nostalgia. The movies, while good, just aren’t as good as the books.”
“I didn’t ask.”
Luca smirks. He has that smug look that only very handsome, very confident men can pull off. “Don’t worry, I get the attitude. I know this is not an ideal situation for anyone, but it is what it is. Do you want to go out somewhere?”
“With you breathing down my neck,” I say.
“That’s right.”
When Luca gets closer to me, I realize how tall and heavily muscled he is. And while his voice is friendly enough, there’s a menacing quality to his hazel eyes. An underlying warning to toe the line.
“No. I’m fine.”
“Glad to hear it. Now, if it’s okay with you, I’m going to get back to my book.”
“You do that.”
He turns and I notice the weapon at the small of his back. 6 o’clock carry. A Glock 17. It’s a fairly big gun, but he’s a big guy. It’s a reminder that he isn’t harmless, that for all his assertions that I’m a guest, I’m actually a prisoner held here by an armed guard, and that my brother’s life hangs in the balance.
Unsettled, I go back to the bedroom I’ve decided to claim as my own, walking right across the large space to the balcony doors. Out on the balcony, there’s a fantastic—no, breathtaking—view of Vegas. All sparkling lights and humming energy that is hard to explain except to say that this is a town where people come to have fun and sometimes get into trouble.
I haven’t experienced much of the fun yet, but I’ve had more than my share of trouble.
Being alone with my thoughts for too long isn’t a good idea because I start to play Choose Your Own Adventure with how this could go down. If Markus doesn’t manage to pull a million dollars out of his ass in two months, what then? Is he…killed? How does a man like Damian Russo deal with someone who owes him money except with violence?
And what happens to me then?
Anxiety gnaws at me.
No. I won’t let myself spiral like this. I’m a smart girl. I can figure out how to save my own neck and Markus’s too. I just wish I could talk to my brother, try to come up with a plan of action. Luca says he’s not here to keep me from escaping, but of course that’s exactly why he’s here. I’m a prisoner.
And if I do manage to escape, they’ll expect me to go straight to Markus, which will make it easy for me to be returned to my luxurious prison. And if I don’t go find Markus? If I take off on a bus to anywhere? Then my brother is completely on his own, and I doubt Damian will honor the two-month time frame. Markus will be out of time.
I wake up with daylight streaming in through the floor to ceiling windows. My body is humming, alive, electric. I think I must have been having a really hot dream, one featuring a demon-angel who kissed me like he owned me…
It takes me a moment to remember where I am, but when I do, I’m on my feet so quickly that I get dizzy.
I look around the room. Something’s different. There are several cardboard boxes piled up next to the door. I approach them tentatively and slowly open the one on the top, shocked to see they’re filled with my belongings—clothes, shoes, makeup, toiletries. It looks like the sum total of everything I had in my shitty little apartment. Someone came into this room and put those there and I slept right through it.
Damian Russo’s been to my home. He knows where I live.
And he packed everything I own up and brought it here.
The thought of him—or one of his thugs—riffling through my personal belongings and throwing it all in boxes pisses me off. It takes a minute before I calm down. I suppose I could pitch a fit, make myself a nuisance for every single day I’m stuck here.
But I know that’s not the right plan.
Someone like Damian would expect others to obey his commands without question. I have no power here. No matter how hard I fight, how much I scream or try to talk my way out of this, nothing is going to change until Markus makes good on his debt. If anything, I know it could get even worse. Much worse.
So the plan is to be nice, even if I have to grit my teeth to do it.
I will say “thank you for bringing me my belongings,” instead of “who gives you the fucking right to go to my apartment and touch my shit without permission?”
Men like Damian Russo don’t ask for permission. And they’d never ask for forgiveness.
I spend twenty minutes putting my things away in the closet and drawers. Then I take a long hot shower before picking out fresh clothes to wear. I even take extra time with my hair and make-up, so I’ll look less like a screaming banshee and more like a reasonable, business-minded sister concerned only for her brother’s future wellbeing.
It’s a plan. I never said it’s a great plan, but I’ll improvise where necessary.
I’ve worked out all the potential scenarios that today can bring, and suddenly come to the realization that Damian might not even step foot in here again for sixty days. Why would he? I’m safely holed away in this lush prison with Luca babysitting me until further notice.
That potential outcome is dismissed the moment I open the bedroom door and see Damian sitting at the long dining table, facing me. As if he’s been waiting for me to emerge.
His gaze travels slowly down my body then slides back up to my face, pausing for a split second on the mark he left on my neck. I feel that look as if he’s touched me and suddenly all I can think of are the things he said he wanted to do to me, the feel of his arms around me and his mouth on mine, the hard ridge of his cock pressed against me. I am not usually this horny or this stupid. Maybe Damian Russo put something in the water.