Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Eleonora
The zip tie digs deeper into my wrists every time I twist against it. I’ve been working at it for what feels like hours, since Nico stormed out, but the plastic only bites harder, burning into my skin. A wince escapes me as fresh pain flares up my arms.
The room he left me in is beautiful, and under a different circumstance I’d have loved it.
Tall ceilings with heavy crown molding, deep navy walls that feel like they’re closing in, and a massive four-poster bed draped in charcoal silk.
Crystal lamps cast a soft, golden glow over dark wood furniture that probably costs more than most people’s houses.
There’s even a damn fireplace with a marble mantel, and floor-to-ceiling windows covered by thick velvet drapes that block any view of the outside. It’s luxurious. Cold. And every inch screams that I’m not getting out of here unless he decides I am.
What is he going to do now that he knows I’m not Sienna?
When he pressed that gun to my forehead, there was zero doubt in those whisky-brown eyes. He would have pulled the trigger. I still feel the ghost of cold steel against my skin, the way his gaze darkened, flat, empty, lethal. A violent shiver races down my spine.
I shake my head hard, forcing the tears pooling in my eyes to retreat. Fear won’t help me. It never has. I need to be strong. Smart. I need to find a way out of this.
Sienna… God, I hope they’re far away by now. Far enough that Papa, Gallo, and Nico can’t find them. He knows he took the wrong sister now. He’ll go looking for her.
Knowing she’s out there somewhere, finally free, with the man she loves… that she has a real chance at happiness, that makes every second of this nightmare worth it. I close my eyes for a second and pray none of these monsters ever get their hands on her.
The sound of the lock clicking stops me mid-pace. The door swings open.
Nico walks in, his suit jacket now gone, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. My eyes catch on his forearms, strong, corded with muscle, wrapped in dark, intricate ink that disappears under the fabric. I find myself staring, tracing the patterns before I can stop myself.
“Done?” His voice is low, amused.
I jerk my gaze away, cheeks burning. Idiot.
“What?” I snap, trying to cover my slip. “Have you told your men about the little fuck-up yet?”
I know I shouldn’t be poking the bear, but the words fly out before I can stop them. He ignores the jab completely.
“Come with me.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’re in no position to ask questions,” he says flatly. “Move.”
I dig my heels into the thick carpet. “No.” He might be the boss of whatever empire he’s running, but he isn’t the boss of me.
He doesn’t yell or grab me like I expect him to. He simply folds those powerful arms across his chest and stares at me.
I lift my chin and stare right back, refusing to look away first. His whisky-brown eyes burn into mine, digging deep like he can see every terrified, defiant thought racing through my head. Like he’s peeling me open without touching me.
My heart pounds so hard I can hear it in my ears. The silence stretches, seconds bleed into what feels like minutes. Finally, I huff out a sharp breath, hating myself for breaking first as I step forward.
I swear I catch the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as I walk past him.
Bastard.
I walk ahead of him down the long hallway, painfully aware of every step he takes behind me.
He’s too close. The heat of his body radiates against my back, sinking through the thin silk of the wedding dress.
My skin prickles, a traitorous warmth curling low in my belly that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the way his presence fills the space around me.
I hate it. I hate how aware I am of him.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and close to my ear. “You keep walking like that and I might think you’re trying to give me a show.”
I glance over my shoulder, shooting him a glare. “And here I thought kidnappers had better things to do than stare at their hostages’ asses.”
His chuckle is dark, almost amused. “Keep talking, Eleonora. It’s almost cute how you think you’re a smart ass.”
We pass several closed doors before he steps around me and opens one, holding it wide. I step inside.
This room is bigger than the one we just left.
The same dark, luxurious palette, but the far wall is almost entirely glass, opening onto a stunning garden.
Manicured hedges, blooming flowers, a fountain trickling softly in the center.
It looks peaceful. Almost romantic. The kind of view that would be beautiful if I weren’t a prisoner.
“This is your room from now on,” Nico says, closing the door behind us. “Clothes, and toiletries will be brought to you.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “How thoughtful. Should I send you a thank-you card for my luxury cell?”
He doesn’t smile. Instead, he steps closer, too close, until I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. My breath stalls in my lungs. He reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out a sleek black blade.
For one terrifying second, my heart stops. I think he’s going to cut me. Or worse stab me with it. But he simply catches my bound wrists, flips the knife, and slices through the zip tie in one clean motion.
The plastic falls away, and a broken sound escapes me as blood rushes back into my hands. Pins and needles explode across my skin. I flex my fingers, rubbing the raw, angry marks on my wrists.
I look up at him. He’s still standing inches away, watching me. “What?” I snap, voice shaky. “Are you expecting me to thank you?”
He huffs, a short, irritated sound, and takes two steps back. “The second they bring you new clothes, I want that fucking dress off you.
I lift my chin. “Why?”
“Can’t you just do as you’re told for once?” he growls.
“No.”
“So you plan on moving around like you’re still Gallo’s bride.”
“If I want to, yes.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes. He closes the distance again, knife still in his hand. My pulse spikes. He stops right in front of me, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath on my forehead.
“Well… I won’t have that.”
Before I can react, he hooks the blade under the delicate fabric at my shoulder. The cold steel kisses my skin. Then, slowly, agonizingly slowly, he drags the knife downward.
The silk parts with a soft, obscene rip.
The sound fills the quiet room. Cool air kisses my collarbone, then the top of my breast as the bodice splits open inch by inch.
His eyes stay locked on mine the entire time, dark and intense, daring me to look away.
My breath comes faster. My nipples tighten against the fabric of my bra, traitorous and hypersensitive.
He doesn’t grope me. Doesn’t touch me more than necessary. He simply destroys the dress with deliberate, controlled movements, the blade never breaking skin.
I stand frozen as the ruined dress hangs open to my belly button. My chest rises and falls too fast, the lace of my strapless bra the only thing left covering my chest. I should cross my arms. I should cover myself. But I refuse. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me shrink.
So I lift my chin and stare straight into his eyes. “Are you done?”
He doesn’t answer. His hooded gaze drags slowly from my breasts, up my throat, and stops on the Caruso heirloom necklace resting against my collarbone. His expression hardens, a dark scowl pulling at his brow like the sight of it personally offends him.
He pockets the knife, then reaches up. His fingers brush the side of my neck as he unclips the necklace.
The contact is barely there, just the rough pads of his fingertips against my skin, but it hits me like lightning.
A hot, electric jolt shoots straight down my spine, pooling low in my belly and making my thighs clench.
My breath hitches audibly. For one traitorous second, I feel that touch everywhere.
The heavy emerald and gold slides free and drops to the floor between us with a soft clink.
Before I can react, his hand curls around my throat.
Not choking, just firm enough that I feel the controlled strength in his fingers.
My pulse hammers wildly against his palm.
Heat floods my body, a confusing, terrifying mix of fear and something darker, something that makes me want him to tighten his grip and my nipples tighten painfully against the lace.
I hate how aware I am of him. Of his woody scent.
Of the way his thumb rests just below my jaw like he owns the beat of my heart.
“You keep looking at me like that,” he murmurs, thumb brushing once over my racing pulse. “and I might start thinking you enjoy this.” He smirks. “Perhaps you do.” He squeezes harder. “Does this make you wet?”
The words sink under my skin like hooks. Reality slams back into me. And before I can stop myself, I spit in his face.
As the glob lands on his cheek, I immediately realize what a stupid thing I’ve done, and I brace myself for the slap, a kick, for whatever violence men like him unleash when their ego is bruised.
Instead, Nico laughs.
A low, dark, unhinged sound that fills the room. It’s not warm. It’s the kind of laugh that makes you wonder if the man has lost his mind. He wipes the spit off his cheek with the back of his hand, still chuckling, eyes gleaming with something feral as he looks at me.
I hate myself for the way my stomach flutters at the sound of his laughter. Because it shouldn’t sound like that. It shouldn’t make me want to hear it again.
He turns and walks out without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stand there long after the door clicks shut behind him, chest heaving, skin still burning where his fingers wrapped around my throat. I look down at myself, the ruined wedding dress, bruises already blooming on my arms and wrists. My body is a goddamn war zone, and yet…
Heat still pulses low in my belly. My nipples are tight against the lace of my bra.
My thighs press together like they’re trying to trap the unwanted ache his touch left behind.
I’m aroused. Confused. Furious at myself for feeling anything but pure hatred for the man who just ripped my dress open like a barbarian.
“Fuck you, Nico Lombardi,” I whisper to the empty room.
I huff out a shaky breath and drop onto the edge of the massive bed. The ruined silk pools around my hips.
A soft knock sounds on the door. Before I can tell whoever it is to go away, it opens. A young woman steps inside, maybe my age, maybe a couple years older, carrying a stack of folded clothes. She’s pretty, dark hair pulled into a neat ponytail, dressed in simple black blouse and skirt.
“Mr. Lombardi sent me to bring you some clothes and—”
“Tell Mr. Lombardi to go fuck himself,” I snap, cutting her off.
She blinks, clearly startled. “I’m sorry but—”
I stand up, the torn dress slipping lower on my body. “You can take those clothes and shove them up his ass for all I care. I’m not accepting anything from him. Now get out.”
She hesitates for a second, eyes flicking over my half-naked, disheveled state, then gives a small nod and backs out, closing the door quietly behind her.
The room falls silent again.
I slump back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling with its fancy moldings and soft lighting. How long am I going to be Nico Lombardi’s prisoner?
Days? Weeks? Months?
I need to find a way out of this place.