Chapter 7
LEO
It’s been a week since I took Emma, and somehow I’ve fallen into a routine I didn’t plan on having.
I visit her twice a day—morning and evening—for purely practical reasons.
I need to make sure she’s eating after that hunger strike bullshit and that she’s not plotting some escape attempt that’ll get one of my guards hurt or killed.
It’s important that I verify that Connor’s failed rescue hasn’t made her desperate enough to try something stupid.
That’s at least what I tell myself.
The reality is probably more complicated, but I’m not focusing on it because I’m too fucking irritated about the Corsican situation to deal with additional complications.
Every lead Dante has followed has hit a dead end. The shell companies trace back to other shell companies.
The Corsican contacts in New York have gone silent or claim they don’t know anything.
The two million dollars disappeared into financial black holes that even our best people can’t crack.
It’s like whoever set this up knew exactly how to cover their tracks, and it’s pissing me off.
So when I unlock Emma’s door for my morning visit, I’m already in a shit mood that has nothing to do with her and everything to do with the fact that someone is playing me and I can’t fucking figure out who.
Emma’s sitting at the desk by the window, sketching something I can’t see from this angle.
Her dark auburn hair is pulled back in a ponytail and she’s wearing jeans and a blue t-shirt from the wardrobe that really brings out how pale and porcelain her skin is.
She looks up when I enter, and I watch her expression shift from concentration to irritation in about half a second.
“Good morning, sunshine,” I say dryly. “How’s captivity treating you today?”
“Oh, fantastic,” she shoots back without missing a beat, her green eyes narrowing. “I woke up in a locked room held prisoner by a psychopath, so really it’s just another day in paradise. How’s being a kidnapping piece of shit treating you?”
Despite my bad mood, I feel a grim smile tugging at my lips.
Most people are too terrified of me to be this mouthy.
Emma Brennan hasn’t learned that lesson yet.
“Can’t complain,” I reply, leaning against the doorframe and crossing my arms. “The kidnapping business is treating me well. Good benefits, flexible hours, the satisfaction of making your father suffer. It’s fulfilling work.”
“I’m so glad.” Emma’s voice drips with sarcasm as she sets down her pencil. “It’s important to find purpose in your career. Have you considered adding ‘ruining innocent women’s lives’ to your resume? Really highlights your skill set.”
“It’s implied under ‘mob boss.’” I walk further into the room to check that her breakfast tray is empty. It is. Good. At least she’s eating now. “Along with ‘general menace to society’ and ‘dashingly handsome villain.’”
Emma makes a sound that’s somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Dashingly handsome? Someone’s got an inflated ego.”
I shrug, sitting down on the couch. “It’s not ego if it’s true.”
“It’s definitely ego.” She’s looking at me with this expression that’s half exasperation, half something I can’t quite identify. “And for the record, you’re more ‘generically threatening mob boss’ than ‘dashingly handsome villain.’ The scar through your eyebrow is a bit much. Very on the nose.”
I reach up and touch the scar reflexively, feeling oddly defensive. “This scar is from a knife fight. It’s badass.”
“It’s cliché,” Emma corrects, but there’s a glint in her eyes that might be amusement.
“What's next, a facial tattoo? A mysterious past you brood about? Maybe a tragic backstory involving—” She stops abruptly, and I watch her face redden as she remembers that I actually do have a tragic backstory involving her father murdering my brother.
The moment stretches awkwardly.
“Too soon?” she asks finally, her voice quieter.
“Little bit,” I admit, my jaw tightening.
I don’t want to talk about Gabriel right now.
I don’t want to think about why I’m trading barbs with my enemy’s daughter instead of making her as miserable as her father made my family.
“Eat your breakfast. Take your vitamins. Try not to plot my murder too enthusiastically.”
“No promises on that last one,” Emma mutters, her cheeks still pink, but she doesn’t push the Gabriel thing, which I appreciate more than I’d care to admit.
This is how it’s been for the past week.
I come in, we verbally spar with each other, she insults me creatively, I remain infuriatingly calm, which pisses her off even more, and eventually I leave feeling oddly energized in a way I can’t quite explain.
Emma fascinates me, and that’s a problem.
Most people cower in front of Leo Santoro.
They stammer and sweat and try to tell me what they think I want to hear.
Emma spits fire.
She looks me dead in the eye and calls me a cock-juggling thundercunt without flinching.
She threatens me with her family’s vengeance like she actually believes Connor’s going to storm the estate successfully next time.
She’s whip-smart too.
Our arguments aren’t just insult exchanges—they’re actual verbal chess matches where she anticipates my responses and adjusts her strategy accordingly.
She’s stubborn and absolutely refuses to be a victim, and there’s something about that that I…
No. Shut up, Leo.
“What are you reading?” I ask, noticing the book on her bed, trying to redirect my thoughts to safer territory.
“Wuthering Heights.” Her tone suggests this should be obvious. “You know, a romance about toxic people being terrible to each other. Feels appropriate for my current situation, don’t you think?”
“I thought you’d prefer the Italian literature I provided,” I say, keeping my voice neutral even though I know this is going to start something.
Emma’s expression turns incredulous. “The Italian literature you provided? You mean the pretentious garbage you assumed I’d want to read because what, I’m an educated young woman so I must love Dante’s Inferno and Machiavelli?”
Emma may be smart and unbreakable but god she is so easy to rile up. “They’re classics—”
“They’re boring,” she interrupts, standing up and crossing her arms in a mirror of my own earlier posture. “And you know what really pissed me off? The Hemingway. You actually gave me Hemingway. Who looks at a kidnapped woman and thinks, ‘You know what she needs? For Whom The Bell Tolls’?”
I feel a smile tugging at my lips again despite my irritation about the Corsicans. “How was I supposed to know you hate Hemingway?”
“Maybe by doing literally any research on my actual reading preferences instead of assuming I want dense Italian philosophy texts?” Emma’s on a roll now, her eyes flashing with indignation.
“I read romance novels, Leo. Trashy ones with shirtless men on the covers and improbable sex scenes. I read true crime where women murder their shitty husbands and get away with it. I read contemporary fiction that doesn’t require a doctorate to understand.
But sure, give the kidnap victim some Nietzsche. That’ll brighten her day.”
“Romance novels,” I repeat, trying not to laugh at the image of Connor Brennan’s daughter reading trashy romance. “With shirtless men.”
“Yes, with shirtless men.” Emma lifts her chin defiantly. “Men who don’t kidnap women, for the record. Men who actually ask for consent before—” She stops herself, her cheeks flushing slightly.
“Before what?” I ask curiously and also enjoying her discomfort.
“Before anything,” she finishes firmly, her face definitely pink now. “The point is they’re better men than you.”
“They’re also fictional,” I point out. “I’m real. That’s got to count for something.”
“Being real just means you’re a real kidnapper instead of a fictional gentleman,” Emma shoots back. “Not sure that’s the winning argument you think it is.”
We stare at each other for a moment, and I realize I’m actually enjoying this.
Enjoying her.
The way she doesn’t back down, the way her mind works.
It’s…
Dangerous.
That’s what it is.
Dangerous and stupid and I need to get out of here before I do something I’ll regret.
“I’ll see if we can get you some romance novels,” I hear myself say, like an idiot. “Can’t have you suffering through quality literature.”
“How generous of you,” Emma says drily as she sits back down, her hand reaching for her sketchbook. “Providing reading material for your prisoner. You’re a real humanitarian.”
“I do what I can.” I turn to leave then pause, watching her pull the pad toward herself. “What are you drawing?”
She tenses slightly, her hand moving almost protectively over the sketchpad. “Nothing.”
Ooh. She’s hiding something. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”
“It’s none of your business.” Her tone is defensive in a way that makes me curious.
“Everything in this room is my business,” I remind her, taking a step closer to the desk. She stands up and uses her body to hide her sketchpad. “Including whatever you’re drawing.”
“It’s just the view from the window,” Emma says quickly. Too quickly. “The gardens. Very boring. Very not worth looking at.”
She’s lying.
I can tell by the way she’s not quite meeting my eyes and the way her fingers are curled around the edge of the sketchpad like she’s ready to snap it shut if I get too close.
Which of course makes me want to see it even more.
“Show me.” It’s not quite an order, but it’s not quite a request either.
“No,” Emma replies flatly, her jaw set in that stubborn way I’m starting to recognize.
“Emma,” I say warningly.
“Leo,” she mimics my tone perfectly, her eyebrow raised. “What are you going to do, force me? Add ‘art theft’ to your list of crimes?”
“I could just take it,” I point out, even though we both know I’m not actually going to wrestle a sketchpad away from her.
“You could try.” There’s a challenge in her eyes that makes my heart rate speed up. “But then I’d fight you, and we both know how that ended last time.”
“You mean when you scratched my face and I barely felt it?” I raise my own eyebrow. “That ending?”
“I drew blood,” she says proudly. “That’s a victory in my book.”