Chapter 8
FRANCESCA
He kisses me like he owns me.
And the worst part? Some traitorous part of me wants to kiss him back.
I don't. I stand there frozen in his hands, my heart hammering so hard I'm sure he can feel it. His mouth is warm and demanding and absolutely certain, like everything else about him. Like he has every right to touch me. To take me. To claim me.
When he finally pulls back, I'm shaking. From fear, from fury, from want.
"Welcome home, mia bella," he says again, softer this time. His thumbs brush my cheekbones and that's when I notice—I'm crying. I hadn't even realized.
I jerk away from his touch and he lets me go, lets me stumble backward into the penthouse that's apparently mine now, whether I want it or not.
The space is enormous. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the corner, the city sprawling below us as if we're floating above it all.
Manhattan glitters in the distance, a thousand lights that might as well be a million miles away.
The furniture is expensive and minimalist. Black leather.
Chrome. Glass. Everything sharp edges and cold surfaces.
It's beautiful in the way a mausoleum is beautiful.
"This way." Luca's hand settles on the small of my back, guiding me deeper into the apartment. I want to shake him off but I'm too busy cataloging exits. The elevator door behind us with its keypad lock. The windows that probably don't open. The hallway ahead that branches off to the left.
He leads me down that hallway, past a closed door on the right, and stops at the second door on the left. He opens it.
"Your room."
I step inside because what choice do I have? The room is bigger than my entire studio apartment. A king bed with white linens. A dresser. A closet. Another wall of windows overlooking the city. There's even a bathroom attached, all marble and chrome.
It's a cage. A very expensive cage.
"The bathroom's stocked with everything you'll need," he says from the doorway. "Tomorrow I'll have clothes brought in your size."
"How do you know my size?" But I already know the answer. He's been watching me for months. He probably knows my measurements better than I do.
He just looks at me with that dark, knowing gaze.
I turn away, walk to the window, and press my palm against the glass. It's smooth and completely solid. Probably reinforced safety glass. The kind that doesn't break no matter how hard you hit it.
"They don't open," he confirms, reading my mind. "Building code. This high up, they're sealed."
Naturally.
I turn back to face him and that's when I see it. The lock on the door—on the outside.
My stomach drops.
"I won't lock it unless you make me," he says, following my gaze. "But I need you to understand, Francesca. You're not leaving this apartment. Not tonight. Not until you accept that you belong to me."
"And what is this?" My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Kidnapping?"
"Protection." His voice drops lower, quieter, more dangerous. "Mine."
"From you."
"From yourself." He leans against the doorframe, completely relaxed.
As if we're having a normal conversation.
As if he hasn't just imprisoned me in a luxury apartment.
"You make stupid choices, tesoro. Dangerous ones.
Walking home alone. Working double shifts in a hospital where anyone could grab you.
Not reporting gunshot wounds to the police. "
"That was different."
"Was it?" He tilts his head. "Or did you know, even then, that I was worth protecting?"
I want to throw something at him. Want to scream. Want to fight. But I learned a long time ago in the ER that panic doesn't save anyone. Clear thinking does. Strategic action does.
So I take a breath. Let it out slowly. Force myself to think.
"What happens now?" I ask.
"Now you settle in. I'll make us dinner."
"I'm not hungry."
"You will be." He straightens, and I realize how much space he takes up in the doorway.
How completely he blocks the only exit. "I'll give you some time alone.
But Francesca?" He waits until I meet his eyes.
His voice goes even quieter. "Don't do anything stupid.
The elevator door requires a code you don't have.
The windows are safety glass and don't open.
And if you try to hurt yourself to spite me.
.." The threat hangs unfinished in the air, somehow worse than if he'd completed it.
"You're mine now. I protect what belongs to me. "
"I'm not suicidal."
"Good. Because I've worked too hard to get you here to let you slip away now." He reaches for the door handle. "I'll call you when dinner's ready."
And then he's gone, pulling the door closed behind him. Not locked. Just closed.
I listen to his footsteps fade down the hallway. Then I move.
The bathroom first. I check the cabinets, the drawers.
He wasn't lying. It's all here. Shampoo, conditioner, soap.
Toothbrush still in its packaging. A hairbrush.
Even tampons and the same brand as my birth control pills, for Christ's sake.
The medicine cabinet has the basics: Tylenol, bandages, antibiotic ointment.
Nothing I can use as a weapon. Nothing sharp enough, heavy enough, toxic enough.
He's thought of everything.
I go back to the bedroom and try the window again even though I know it won't open. It doesn't. I press my forehead against the glass and look down. We're high. Too high. Even if I could get the window open, jumping would be suicide.
The closet is empty except for hangers. The dresser drawers are empty too. He really did bring me here with nothing but the clothes on my back and my purse with its useless pepper spray.
I sink down onto the edge of the bed. The mattress is firm, expensive. The kind of bed I could never afford on an ER nurse's salary.
This is insane. All of it. Terror should be coursing through me right now. I should be plotting, planning, calling the police, screaming until someone hears me.
Instead, I'm sitting here in this beautiful prison thinking about the way he said I belong to him, the absolute certainty in his voice.
What the hell is wrong with me?
My brother Vincent would be so disappointed. He spent his whole life trying to keep me away from men like Luca. Men who solve problems with violence. Men who take what they want and call it love.
And here I am, kidnapped by a man who's been stalking me for months, and some sick part of me is wondering what he's making for dinner.
I need to get my head straight.
I stand up and go to the door and open it slowly, carefully. The hallway is empty. I can hear sounds from deeper in the apartment. Running water. The clink of dishes. He's in the kitchen, like he said, making us dinner as if this is normal, as if we're a normal couple on a normal night.
I step into the hallway. To my right is the way back to the living room and front door. To my left, the hallway continues. There's that closed door I saw earlier. I try the handle.
Locked.
His office, probably. Or his bedroom. Somewhere he doesn't want me.
I move past it, following the sounds to the kitchen.
The penthouse opens up into a massive space.
Kitchen, dining area, leading back to the living room, all flowing together with those damn windows everywhere.
Luca's at the stove, his back to me. He's taken off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves.
I can see the muscles in his forearms as he stirs something in a pan.
The smell hits me. Garlic. Tomatoes. Basil. My stomach growls traitorously.
"Sugo al pomodoro," he says without turning around. He knew I was here. Of course he did. "My nonna's recipe. She taught me to cook when I was eight years old. Said a man who can't feed himself is only half a man."
"Your grandmother taught you to cook." I don't know why that surprises me. Maybe because it's hard to imagine him as a child. Hard to imagine him as anything but this dark, dangerous thing.
"She taught me a lot of things." He turns now, and there's a softness in his face I haven't seen before—almost human. "How to tie a tie. How to dance. How to treat a woman with respect." Something shifts in his expression, goes hard. "How to claim what's mine and keep it."
I laugh. I can't help it. It's a sharp, bitter sound. "Respect. Right. Is that what this is?"
"Yes." He doesn't even hesitate. "I respect you enough to be honest about what I want.
To give you the truth instead of pretty lies.
Most men would have taken you weeks ago.
Used you and thrown you away. I'm giving you everything, Francesca.
A home. Protection. Me." His voice drops, goes rough around the edges. "Every part of me. Forever."
"Except freedom."
"Freedom to do what? Work yourself to death in that hospital?
Walk home alone through streets where men like me wait in the shadows?
Live in that apartment with its joke of a lock?
" He sets down the spoon and faces me fully.
"You think you were free before, Francesca.
But you were just lucky. And your luck was running out. "
"You don't know that."
"Don't I?" He moves toward me and I force myself not to back away, force myself to stand my ground.
"I've been watching those streets for months.
Watching you. I've seen the other men who watch you.
Not just me. Others." His jaw tightens. "They've noticed my woman.
Your routine. Your vulnerability. It was only a matter of time before one of them decided to take what's mine. "
"And you decided to take it first."
"I decided to claim what was already mine." His voice is absolutely certain. Final. "There's a difference, Francesca. You just don't want to admit it yet."
He's close enough now that I can smell his cologne. Something expensive and subtle. Cedar and bergamot. He shouldn't smell so good. I shouldn't notice.