10. Alina
10
Alina
I don’t like feeling trapped, being trapped. But here I am, trapped in a luxurious prison. I’m trapped because the elevator won’t move without an access card and because there are two muscle-bound thugs sitting in the foyer, drinking coffee and guarding me. And I’m trapped by my own thoughts and worries.
I keep thinking about Markus, desperate to check on him. But I have no way to reach him because Damian took my phone. I asked the thugs if I could use one of their phones to call my brother. Vito just stared at me. Joe laughed, turning it into a cough when I glared at him. Neither gave me their phone.
I keep thinking about Damian, about the crazy chemistry between us. Stockholm syndrome, much?
With nothing to occupy my thoughts or my hands, I feel like I’m going crazy. I can only watch so many episodes of Friends before I start to feel like my brain is starting to decay.
In an effort to release my anxiety, I’m doing jumping jacks in front of the massive white sectional in the living room when the front door opens and Damian enters the condo. He told me he would be back to continue our conversation, and here he is ten hours later. I hate that a part of me is glad to see him.
I’m not claiming to know him very well, or that I’m a mind-reader, but one look from him makes me come to a sudden halt, frozen in place.
He doesn’t look friendly. Not that he has in the past, but this is different.
He’s wearing dark aviator sunglasses that completely shield his eyes. But there’s something in the tightness of his jaw beneath his carefully cultivated three-day stubble that makes my heart double its pace.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. “Is it Markus?”
His lips thin. “You’re far too concerned about that brother of yours.”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“No, you definitely should be. But I’m already sick of hearing about it.”
I send him a glare of my own. He takes off his jacket and slings it over a nearby chair. Then he peels off the sunglasses. No man has a right to be this beautiful, especially one who’s a monster. Shouldn’t monsters look like monsters?
He moves past me and takes a seat on the sofa, as comfortable and relaxed as if he owns the place. Which, I assume he does. He pats the seat next to him. With a glare, I settle as far from him as I can.
“Where’s Enzo?” he asks.
“Where’s my brother?” I ask.
He offers a dark smile, those perfect lips curving to reveal straight, white teeth. “Markus is fine, last time I checked. He’s busily working on making good on his debt.” Damian cocks his head. “You probably think I should forgive him for what he owes me, let him walk away, easy as pie, right?”
“No,” I reply honestly, tucking my legs underneath me. “He got himself into this situation because he has a gambling addiction. He should pay what he owes and learn his lesson…”
“And yet...?” he prompts when I don’t continue.
“And yet,” I begin. “A million dollars is a ludicrous amount for a few hands of poker.”
“This is Las Vegas. There is plenty of high stakes gambling going on at all hours of the day or night. A million is a drop in the bucket.”
“Sharks,” I say. “Those are sharks. You’re a shark...with sharp teeth and deep pockets. My brother? He’s just a little guppy.”
He offers a dry laugh. “You think so, do you?”
“I know so.” I pause. “Which makes me wonder how he even got a seat at your poker table…”
“I invited him.”
“Why?”
He ignores my question, instead asking one of his own. “How long have you been in Vegas, Alina?”
I stumble over the change of subject. “Almost five months.”
“So you met Enzo almost as soon as you stepped into the city?”
And we’re back to Enzo. “Pretty much.”
“How did you meet him?”
“He was at a party.”
“Whose party?”
“I don’t know. I went with my brother.”
Damian leans forward, grabs my ankles and drags me along the couch until I’m right next to him. He could bruise me, hurt me, but his hands are gentle, warm against my skin. He strokes my ankle, my calf. I inhale a shuddering breath and wet my suddenly dry lips.
He traces the tip of his finger along the outside of my thigh to my hip, then cups my chin, his thumb dragging along my lower lip. My pulse is a runaway train, my heart hammering in my chest.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, his eyes lifting to mine. This close, I can see every dark, curled lash.
“I—” I pull free of his touch and look away, unsettled, staring through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the twinkling lights and the Sphere.
“What did you see in Enzo?” he whispers against my ear.
Startled by how close he is, I jerk my attention back to his face. If I move even an inch, my lips will be on his and his on mine. I want to close that distance so badly. Instead, I ease back. Damian Russo isn’t just a bad boy. He is a very bad man. A very dangerous man.
And right now, he holds my life and the life of my brother in his hands.
“What did I see in Enzo? The truth is, not much. I didn’t know anyone in Vegas except Markus. I was lonely. Bored. Markus took me to a party. When Enzo asked for my number, I gave it to him. When he asked me out, I went. The first couple of times, we had fun. Afterward, he texted me funny memes and jokes. Asked my opinion about things.”
“What things?” Damian asks.
“I don’t know… music, food, movies, shows…”
“Go on,” he says when my voice trails away.
“He seemed so focused on me, so interested. He was charming. Then his fa?ade started to crack. I started to see who he really was. He started dismissing everything I said, telling me my opinions were stupid. He’d make me change my outfit if he didn’t approve of what I was wearing, make me redo my makeup until he was satisfied. He’d order my dinner without asking what I preferred. But every time I tried to pull away, to say no to his invitations, he’d just show up and push his way back into my life. And I was stupid enough to let him.”
“Not stupid,” Damian says. “Men like him have a way of doing things.”
Men like him? What does Damian mean by that? Isn’t he just as dangerous as Enzo?
No. He isn’t. He’s more dangerous, more powerful. And right now, I am completely under his control.
I wrap my arms around myself. “Fuck. I don’t want to talk about Enzo,” I say, wriggling away from Damian. He lets me go but he watches me with that dark, fathomless gaze.
“But I do,” Damian says, his voice a low rumble. “So let’s talk.”
I shake my head. “I still don’t know where he is.”
“He’s somewhere,” he says.
“Or he’s dead,” I whisper, regretting letting the words out the second they leave my lips.
His jaw tenses. “That would be very inconvenient.”
“Why?”
“Because it robs me of the pleasure of killing him myself.”
A shiver speeds down my spine.
“I need answers from you, Alina,” Damian says.
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know,” I whisper. But I could tell him what I do know, what I overheard. Mention of the Ivanovs. Why don’t I tell him that? Because it’s my one trump card and I’ll only play it when I really need it.
“You’ve been hiding from him, haven’t you?” Damian asks.
I shake my head as my heart flutters in my chest.
“You’re afraid of him.” Damian’s voice is a low rumble, luring me to confide in him.
“I said I don’t want to talk about Enzo.” The words explode out of me.
“And yet, here we are. Talking about that asshole.” He strokes a wayward strand of hair off my cheek. “I swear to you, Alina, he will never hurt you again. He will never touch you again.”
His words surprise me, as does the intensity of how he’s watching me. “Why do you care?”
Damian rears back as if I’ve slapped him. After a long moment, he says, “Good fucking question. You’re nothing to me.”
I feel a flush of anger touch my cheeks, and a prick of hurt sting my heart. Which makes absolutely no sense. He’s right. I am nothing to him.
“And you’re nothing to me,” I snap back, forcing a tight smile.
His lips thin. We glare at each other in silence until he asks, “What clubs did he take you to?”
“Clubs?” It takes me a second to catch up with the change of topic. “Um… Hakkasan, Drai’s, Voodoo, LED…”
His eyes narrow slightly at the mention of the last one. “What restaurants?”
I huff out a breath. “I don’t know. Different places.”
“Humor me. Name a few.”
“He liked Bottiglia, Settebello, Chen’s…”
“Chen’s? The hole in the wall in Chinatown?”
I nod. “That’s the one. The food there is really good. I mean, really, really good.”
He lifts a brow. “Anywhere else?”
“La Vecchia. That was his favorite. He took me there a few times. And each time he’d leave me sitting alone for at least half an hour while he went in back and spoke to the chef.”
Damian tenses. “He spoke to the chef at La Vecchia,” he muses.
“Does that means something?”
His smile is tight, forbidding, frightening. “Yeah. Actually, it means a great fucking deal.”