Chapter Thirty-Four
Raya
A LOUD CLANG ECHOES through the room as the lock on the heavy metal door slides open. Seconds later, it swings wide, fluorescent light spilling into the windowless space.
My appetite perks up in eager anticipation as I sit up on the cot. Cora’s been sending me meals and sweet treats every day for the past week, usually delivered around this time by a Soldati.
But the one standing in the doorway now isn’t holding the usual cactus-patterned lunch bag. Nor does he come in.
“Come on,” he orders from the threshold. “Let’s go.”
“Nothing from Cora today?”
He shrugs. “Come on, RayRay.”
I get up and follow him out into the hall. “Is it death day?”
“Doubt it,” he says. “The Uppers have been riding hard for you, from what I hear.”
In the eight days I’ve been stuck in this underground confinement wing beneath Black Gold, I’ve made fast friends with the six Soldati rotating shifts on guard duty.
It’s dark, dreary, and mind-numbingly boring down here, so sometimes they sneak me into the hall and we play cards, Monopoly, or have rap battles to pass the time.
It hasn’t exactly been lonely or unbearable—I’ve endured far worse. But a decent shower would’ve been nice.
Another Soldati waits by the elevator. Both of them usher me in.
While we ride up to the fifth floor, I stealthily lift a pocketknife from one’s back pocket and slide it into my cleavage, right next to the one I snagged from another Soldati a few days ago.
On the fifth floor, they escort me down the hall to room 508. One scans a keycard and nods toward the open door.
“Orders are to bring you here,” he says. “Go on in. We’ll be right outside.”
A suite’s better than a dank, windowless den, so I don’t ask questions. I just nod and walk in.
No one’s waiting for me inside the deluxe suite, but my belongings are here. The backpack I arrived with, my devices, and a new suitcase, which I’m guessing holds all the clothes and accouterments I’ve acquired since.
Evicted from the villa.
Oh well. It is what it is.
I head straight for the bathroom, take a long, cold, much-needed shower, then damn near brush the white off my teeth.
Ahhh, nice and clean again.
When I return, swaddled in one of the plush robes from the cabinet, Lorenzo is standing by the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the Strip. Black shoulder holster over a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, hands in his pockets.
Towel-drying my hair, I move to sit on the bed. “What now?”
“The Uppers have gotten insufferable in your defense,” he replies without turning. “You’re being relocated here to appease them...for the time being.”
“Eh. I was fine down below,” I say. “But it would’ve been nice to have a proper shower once in a while. The water pressure down there is unforgivable.”
Slowly, he turns from the window, midnight eyes narrowed on me.
“Over a week of investigating, and no matter how meticulously I search or what angle I take, everything points to you helping, not harming. And I want to believe you weren’t involved, I really do.
But I still don’t know where you were that weekend.
Or why you lied.” He cocks his head, studying me like I’m some riddle he should’ve solved by now.
“Why won’t you tell me where you were, Raya? ”
With a disappointed sigh, I wrap the towel around my damp hair and sit on the bed.
“I feel like I’ve failed as a teacher. All that time I spent showing you the ropes, best-kept secrets of the pros.
.. and you still can’t figure out where I’ve been?
I know where you were. Every step you took, every stop you made.
Everything you ate and drank…” I raise a brow.
“That should be child’s play for you at this point, boss.
Or is it ex-boss now? Should I call you master, since I’m your prisoner? ”
With long strides, he crosses to the two-seater table by the tiny kitchenette and picks up the saltshaker, twisting it slowly between his fingers.
“Gio, Stefano, and I have a pact called ‘Halo.’ A protection agreement states that if one of us invokes Halo over someone, that person’s off-limits to the others.
Full armor protection. You’ve been under my Halo, Raya.
That’s the real reason Stefano hasn’t killed you.
” He flicks a look at me under his brows.
“I meant it when I said you’re as good as a little sister to me, so it would really fucking pain me if this ends with him putting a bullet in that usefully smart brain of yours. ”
I snort. “Well, that sounds like a you problem now, doesn’t it?
” I lean back, flattening my palms behind me on the mattress.
“I told you from the start that death is a gift I look forward to. All this time you’ve been thinking your little ‘Halo pact’ was protecting me, you were actually blocking my blessing. So really, I should be pissed at you.”
“Fuck’s sake.” He throws his hands up, visibly frustrated. “Stefano told me I wouldn’t get anywhere with you.”
I fall back on the bed with a soft laugh. “Seems the man who wants me dead knows me better than the one trying to keep me alive.”
“Are you protecting someone? Like you did with those strangulation marks on your neck?” he demands. “Is that it?”
“You’ve got the knowledge and the tools to find the answer, boss. Think of this as the final exam in our little lessons.” I pause, pushing up onto my elbows, eyes locked on him. “Or maybe…maybe you already know the answer. You just don’t want to accept it.”
Silence stretches on as we just stare at each other. Oh, he knows.
Without a word, he sets the saltshaker down and strides out.
The door beeps shut behind him.
~
FOOD FROM CORA never comes, and it’s been almost thirty hours since I last ate.
Around midnight, I test the door and find it locked from the outside. Hoping to convince a Soldati to sneak me something, I tap my knuckles against the wood, but get no response. I suppose it’s riskier for them to be buddies with me up here than down below.
The mini fridge holds nothing but alcohol. Not even teabags or sweetener packets. The saltshaker on the table glints under the warm light.
Sodium chloride will have to do.
Stomach cramping, I shake some salt into a glass of tap water and knock it back.
Well played, Lorenzo Castello. Well played.
~
THE FOLLOWING NIGHT, I’m sitting by the floor-to-ceiling window, gazing down at the glitzy Strip, when the door beeps open.
Even before I turn my head, I know who it is. His energy is unmistakable. Always forceful. Demanding. Insistent on being felt. Changes the air in every room he enters.
Inhaling a fortifying breath, I rub behind my ear and get to my feet. Then, slowly, I turn.
Nope. That breath wasn’t nearly enough. Not even a little. Because my heart caves in on itself at the sight of him, and all I want is to run into his arms, press my face into his neck.
God, I’m weak. And it has nothing to do with being starved for two days.
I want his hands on me again. His scent on me again. My bare skin pressed to his. I want to breathe against his lips. Kiss them. Lick them. I want to drop to my knees. Worship him. Praise him.
I want him.
Impeccably sharp in a fitted suit, a dome-covered tray in hand, he doesn’t even glance my way as he walks to the table and sets it down.
Is he healed? Must be. There’s no change in his gait, no hint of weakness in how he moves or holds himself—like a leader. A king.
Fresh-faced. Divinely handsome. Tall, broad, intense.
“Are you…” I take two steps forward, then stop. “Are you fully healed already?”
He stares down at the table for a long moment, before finally lifting his eyes to meet mine.
Gone is the warmth and softness they once held for me.
What’s there now is cold, clinical. He looks me up and down, taking in the bathrobe I’ve been wrapped in since my shower two hours ago. My frizzed-out hair.
Again, I ask, “Is your wound healed?”
He unbuttons his jacket and shifts his stance. “Why do you insist on making things difficult for yourself with Lo? What’s your plan?”
“What’s your plan?” I counter, raising a brow. “I’m not the only one who knows where I was that weekend.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t fucking understand you.”
“Okay, you don’t want to talk about getting shot. Fine.” I pad over to the table and sink into the chair opposite him. “You’re up and about, so I guess it wasn’t as bad as the Soldati made it sound.”
I reach to lift the cover from the tray but jerk my hand back when a sharp sting snaps across my wrist.
“What?” I ask, confused. “Isn’t it for me?”
“No. Lo made it clear to everyone that you’re not to be fed.”
Rubbing my wrist, I lean back with a smile. “Oh, you just love to ride shotgun when it suits you, don’t you?”
“Seatbelt on and everything,” he deadpans, settling into the chair across from me.
I bite back a laugh. He’s such a little shit.
He flicks his wrist and lifts the cover from the tray.
The aroma that hits me drags a long moan from my throat, followed by a laugh. Because... It’s my death meal. Blueberry bread pudding, with a shot of vodka on the side.
This is such a Stefano Castello thing to do, the spiteful asshole.
I raise a brow. “That isn’t for me?”
He picks up the fork. “You can watch me eat it.”
Eyes locked on me, he eats a forkful and licks his lips.
Is this his idea of torture?
On cue, my stomach growls. Yup, he got it right. This is torture.
Good thing I’m prideless and not above begging. I get up and round the table, then slowly sink to my knees in front of him. “Is this what you want?”
For a man like Stefano who’s brimmed with pride and ego, to kneel and beg is the pinnacle of ignominy. Ultimate humiliation.
What better punishment for me than to debase me?