Chapter 9
EMMA
I’m in the library on a Wednesday afternoon—or at least I think it’s Wednesday, the days blur together when you’re being held against your will—curled up in one of the reading chairs with a mystery novel, when the door opens.
I expect it to be a guard doing their routine check or maybe Leo coming to tell me dinner is ready.
Instead, a woman sweeps into the room with the kind of presence that makes me sit up straighter instinctively.
She’s in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, and impeccably dressed in a way that screams old money and elegance.
Her dark hair is streaked with silver and pulled back in a sophisticated twist, not a strand out of place.
She’s wearing tailored cream slacks and a silk blouse in deep navy blue, with a string of pearls at her throat and small diamond studs in her ears.
Her face is striking—high cheekbones, full lips, and eyes that are dark and intense and unmistakably familiar.
Leo’s eyes.
This woman has Leo’s exact same eyes, that dark brown that’s almost black, with the same intensity that makes you feel like you’re being assessed and judged all at once.
This has to be his mother.
“So,” she says, looking me up and down with obvious assessment, her Italian accent subtle but present, “you are the Brennan girl my son has lost his mind over.”
I stand up, refusing to be intimidated even though this woman radiates authority so much that makes me want to apologize for existing.
The phrase “lost his mind over” is also irritating me for some reason.
“If by ‘lost his mind’ you mean ‘kidnapped on my wedding day,’ then yes,” I reply, keeping my voice level. “That would be me.”
The woman’s lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile. “I am Gianna Santoro.” She walks further into the library like she owns it—which, technically, she probably does or did at some point. “And you will show respect when you speak to me, young lady.”
Respect. She wants respect.
“Respect?” I can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes. “Your son locked me in this house. He won’t let me contact my family. He’s using me as revenge against my father for something I had nothing to do with. Forgive me if I’m not feeling particularly respectful right now.”
I’m bracing for her to tear into me and defend her son.
Instead, Gianna’s expression turns from stern to something that might almost be…wait, is that approval?
“Good,” she says, nodding once. “You have fire. I was worried Leonardo had chosen some wilting flower who would cry all day and need constant reassurance.”
What the fuck?
She sits in one of the armchairs like she’s settling in for tea, crossing her legs elegantly and folding her hands in her lap.
I remain standing, unsure what to do with this strange turn of events.
“Chosen?” I repeat, latching onto that word. “He didn’t choose me. He kidnapped me because of my father.”
“Did he?” Gianna’s eyes are sharp. “Tell me, Emma Brennan, what do you think of my Leo?”
The question is so unexpected, so strange given the circumstances, that I blurt out my actual feelings before I can stop myself.
“I think he’s an asshole.”
The words hang in the air and I immediately wince, expecting her to explode.
I just called her son an asshole to his mother’s face.
The mother who lost her youngest son to my father’s bullet.
But Gianna doesn’t explode.
She doesn’t even look particularly offended.
Instead, she nods thoughtfully, like I’ve just confirmed something she already suspected.
“Yes,” she agrees, surprising me. “He can be. Especially when he thinks he is being honorable or protecting someone. He gets that from his father, you see, the stubborn conviction that he knows best.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I just stand there awkwardly while Gianna studies me like I’m a painting she’s considering purchasing.
“Sit,” she commands, gesturing to the chair across from her. From her tone, she expects me to obey.
I sit slowly, perching on the edge of the chair like I might need to run at any moment while Gianna looks me up and down.
I feel like I’m getting an X-ray but I refuse to cower or make myself smaller.
Instead, I stare her down defiantly.
“You are not what I expected,” Gianna says after a long moment of scrutiny.
“What did you expect?” My curiosity gets the better of me.
“Someone weaker,” Gianna replies bluntly, rolling her pearl necklace around her fingers. “Someone broken by what Leonardo has done. Connor Brennan’s precious daughter, raised in luxury, unused to hardship. A porcelain doll who would shatter under pressure.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” I’m unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
Gianna looks puzzled before her features smooth out. “You misunderstand,” she says, waving her hand dismissively. “I am not disappointed. I am…intrigued. You have spine, Emma. You fight back. You do not crumble. This is good.”
“Good for who?” I ask suspiciously.
Gianna’s lips curve into something that might be a smile. “That is the question, isn’t it?”
The cryptic response frustrates me. “I don’t understand what you want from me.”
“I want nothing from you,” Gianna says not unkindly. “I am simply trying to understand what my son sees in you.”
My mind goes blank for a second. “H-he doesn’t see anything in me,” I argue, feeling my face heat. “I’m just leverage. A pawn in his revenge plot against my father.”
“Is that what you think?” Gianna asks, and there’s a knowingness in her tone that makes me uncomfortable. “That you are just leverage?”
“That’s what I am,” I insist, trying to grasp control of this conversation. How am I floundering? “He said so himself. I’m here because my father killed his brother.”
“Yes, that is what he told you,” Gianna agrees. “But Leonardo has always been very good at lying to himself. It is one of his more frustrating qualities.”
I stare at her, trying to figure out what she’s implying. “I don’t—what do you mean?”
“Tell me, Emma,” Gianna says, switching positions and changing the subject so abruptly it makes my head spin, “what do you know of my youngest son? Of Gabriel?”
The shift throws me off balance. What exactly does she want me to say? “I know that my father killed him,” I say slowly, wincing as I see Gianna’s face spasm with pain. “I know it was wrong and terrible and I’m sorry—”
“Do not apologize for your father’s actions,” Gianna interrupts sharply, the sorrow immediately gone. “You did not pull the trigger. You were not even there. Connor Brennan’s crimes are his own to bear, not yours.”
“But I’m paying for them anyway,” I point out in frustration, gesturing around at the library that’s beautiful but still a prison. “I’m here because of what he did.”
“Are you?” Gianna’s expression is unreadable. “Or are you here because Leonardo cannot figure out what else to do with you?”
This woman fucking confounds me. “I—what?” That makes no sense. Has she lost her mind? “He’s keeping me here to make my father suffer,” I remind her. “That’s the whole point.”
“That was the point,” Gianna corrects. “Two weeks ago when he took you. But now?” She tilts her head, studying me. “Now I think the situation has become more complicated than my son anticipated.”
My heart is beating too fast, my mind racing to keep up with whatever game Gianna is playing. “I still don’t understand what you’re saying.”
“Do you know why I came here today?” Gianna asks instead of answering.
“To…yell at your son for kidnapping me?” I guess. “To tell him he’s being reckless and stupid?”
“Bah. I already did that,” Gianna says with a dismissive wave. “On the phone, very loudly, until my ears were ringing. No, I came here to see you. To understand what kind of woman could make my Leonardo forget himself so completely.”
“He hasn’t forgotten himself,” I argue, even though I’m not sure why I’m defending him. “He’s executing a revenge plot. That’s very much remembering himself and what he wants.”
“Is it?” Gianna’s eyes are sharp, boring into mine. “Tell me, Emma, in the weeks you have been here, has my son hurt you?”
I scowl at her and gesture to myself. “He kidnapped me—”
“Besides the kidnapping itself,” Gianna interrupts impatiently. “Has he struck you? Threatened you with violence? Denied you food or comfort?”
“No,” I admit reluctantly, thinking about how Leo forced me to eat at the beginning and how he tried to provide me with some entertainment while I was locked in my room. “But—”
“Has he treated you with cruelty? Made you suffer beyond the suffering of being separated from your family?”
“No, but that’s not—”
“Has he,” Gianna continues, her voice taking on a strange intensity, “perhaps been kind to you? When you were frightened or upset? Perhaps helped you when you were in distress?”
My mind immediately goes to the panic attack, about Leo’s hand holding mine, his thumb moving in soothing circles.
How gentle he was, how patient.
My face flushes hot.
“How did you know about that?” My voice is barely above a whisper.
“I am his mother,” Gianna says, like that explains everything. “I know my son. I know when he is acting like the man I raised him to be, and when he is acting like the monster this life tries to make him.” She leans forward slightly. “So I ask you again, Emma Brennan—what do you think of my Leo?”
I take a moment to think about my answer.
“I think,” I say slowly and carefully, feeling like I’m walking through a minefield, “that your son is complicated. I think he’s done terrible things for what he believes are good reasons.
I think he’s capable of both cruelty and kindness.
I think he’s…” I struggle to find the right words.
“Conflicted. About this whole situation.”
“Conflicted,” Gianna repeats, and her expression softens slightly. “Yes. That is a very diplomatic answer. But what do you feel about him, Emma? Not what you think you should feel, not what makes logical sense, but what you actually feel?”