Page 5 of Protected By the Mafia

“Everything,” he said as he retreated, letting her arm return to her side. “Everything is special about you, Felicity.” He stood then and indicated another door, which she hadn’t seen beyond his massive frame. “The bathroom and walk-in closet are through that door. Help yourself to anything you find. I’ll get some breakfast started.” He turned toward the door she’d been eyeing. “You have about half an hour.”

Felicity shot up again, urgency and fresh confusion rushing through her. “Wait! I—” She cut off the question she doubted he’d answer. “At least … at least tell me what I can call you. I don’t have a clue what your name is.”

He stopped at the door and met her gaze again. “Cristiano De Salvo.”

Her eyes bulged even as he slipped out the door. She barely heard the door lock. Holy shit. The De Salvos weren’t celebrities in the traditional sense, but anyone who’d grown up in Newark, or probably anywhere in New Jersey, knew the name. The De Salvos were not men to be messed with. How the hell had she landed on the radar of one of those men?

She clutched hard at the sheet beneath her. More importantly, what did he really want with her?

Cristiano allowed himself a second to drag in a breath before starting down the hall to the kitchen. He was definitely committed now. He’d been fighting the urge to steal curvy little Felicity Garcia away from her shitty life from the first time he’d laid eyes on her, nearly two weeks earlier. She was too fucking young for him, at twenty-three-years-old to his thirty-seven, but he’d only cared about their age difference for about an hour. The singular hour during which he’d actively tried to talk himself off the ledge of obsession once he’d realized he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Then he’d found himself spending more time than he should keeping tabs on her. Memorizing her routine. Identifying the people in her life—and the ones who should have been but weren’t. He had a fucking list of infractions he could slap against her landlord, the least of which was how easy it had been to break into her actual apartment. That at least was one of his specialties.

The woman had embedded herself in his brain before they’d ever said a word to each other, or even made eye-contact. He’d surpassed merely wanting a taste of her. It had taken all of his strength of will not to pop that punk teenager in the grocery store for mouthing off at her, right there in front of all the other patrons. He hadn’t meant to leave an impression when he’d made the arguably stupid decision to shop in her lane, but the moment he’d heard what she was putting up with, it had been unavoidable. He’d have much preferred to scoop her up right then and there and take her away from that place.

Cristiano pulled out the ingredients he needed for the comfort food breakfast he’d chosen to make her. It would be a weak apology for what he’d done to her, he knew. But he couldn’t allow her to go home. In part because he was selfish and he’d never met a woman who fascinated him more. Mostly because, if he didn’t keep her close and under his immediate protection, she’d wind up dead.

As she was supposed to.

Dante was going to go through the roof when he inevitably found out that Cristiano had disobeyed an order.

The shock had long worn off by the time Cristiano De Salvo returned to the masculine-lux bedroom he’d trapped her in. Felicity had availed herself of the bathroom, and been horrified to discover more than half a closet full of beautiful, designer clothes for women that seemed to all be in her sizes. Still, though it made her uncomfortable to think about, she’d taken the opportunity to slip into something more acceptable than pajamas.

With her bladder emptied, hands washed and teeth brushed, and her body sheathed in more appropriate clothing, Felicity had stepped back into the room and allowed herself to really look at it.

She wasn’t so surprised to see it was gorgeous, in a sleek and handsome way. Heated tile floors kept her bare toes from freezing. Dark gray walls held the space together in a way that felt more like a den than a claustrophobic box, though that was probably helped by the height of the off-white ceiling. The wall behind the king-sized mattress had an attached headboard, the likes of which she’d only seen on television. Even the furniture in the room was tasteful. Dark mahogany with smooth surfaces. There was even a ceiling fan centered over the bed.

What had surprised her, after she finished determining which drawers of the side table and small in-room desk she could access and which she could not, was that she’d been a little bit wrong about the window theory. The far wall did not contain a window behind floor-to-ceiling drapery. It was a window, from corner to corner, floor to ceiling. Her stomach heaved when she pushed the heavy drape aside to look out.

“Holy shit.”

She was standing in an actual, honest-to-goodness high-end penthouse suite. She could practically see New York from the window. It would have been exciting if the prospect of how trapped she truly was didn’t immediately follow. This was why they didn’t have neighbors. More than likely, Cristiano’s space extended to whatever was beneath the bedroom, too. That was assuming the De Salvos didn’t own the entire freaking building.

Felicity yanked the drape back over the undoubtedly reinforced glass, not in the mood to appreciate the view, and stumbled backward until she hit the bed. She toppled onto the mattress, breathing hard. Seconds passed before she scooted herself up again to put her back to the headboard.

I’ve been kidnapped. By the De Salvos. By the sexiest freaking man I’ve ever seen, who happens to be a De Salvo. And he’s holding me in a fucking penthouse like this is some kind of movie plot! No. Obviously there was a catch. Obviously, this wasn’t really about her at all. She was a pawn. At best, she was being manipulated to roll over on her own family, and they were trying to both scare and bribe her at the same time. In which case, it was really a shame no one had just asked first.

Her fingers clawed at the denim of the jeans she’d chosen to wear. “If this is Tristán’s fault, I swear…” She wasn’t a violent person. In her heart, angry or not, she knew she’d never truly assault her own brother. Despite the kind of person he was. But she was absolutely angry enough to stop listening to all the begging and fake tears.

She never should have come back from California.

She didn’t hear the lock roll back on the door, so when it swung open, she startled again. She sat up straight and clutched a pillow to her chest defensively. There hadn’t been anything she could use in the drawers as a weapon, and all of the coat hangers were attached to the closet rod. Only as Cristiano entered the room did it occur to Felicity that she could have—possibly—unplugged and removed the small desk lamp he’d originally turned on before. She felt like an idiot for not at least checking.

Then her gaze dropped to the large tray of food he was balancing on his arm and her stomach rumbled, suddenly over the panic from looking out the window or worrying about what her family had dragged her into. The dinner she’d made for herself the night before had been fine. But apparently Cristiano De Salvo could cook.

Damn him.

He set two cups of steaming coffee on the desk, then lowered the tray itself. “I thought we’d eat together before I leave for work. We won’t have many chances to talk today after this.”

Felicity eyed the plates of food. French toast, her favorite brand-name syrup, two plates with what looked like two fried eggs a piece and a pile of hashbrowns, and a smaller plate with sausage links. It was a feast. She wanted it. It looked good. It smelled good. But she didn’t trust him.

He motioned to the spread. “It’s all the same,” he said. “I’ll let you pick first, and take whatever you leave behind. Nothing’s drugged, poisoned, or otherwise tampered with.”

She held fast. “Obviously you’re not above drugging me. There’s no way I slept through whatever you did to get me here. Why can’t you just tell me what you really want? This is Tristán’s fault somehow, right? I don’t know where he is, but I have his phone number. I’ll give it to you. I’ll tell you where he’s living now, not that I think he’s hiding there. But you might find one or two of his druggie friends hanging around.”

Cristiano lowered his arm and stepped closer, up to the foot of the bed. “I won’t tell you your brother’s not involved—”

“Half-brother,” Felicity said fiercely. Indignation flashed through her chest and she leaned forward, onto her knees, as if making herself taller would make her louder or stronger. “That jerk is my half-brother, and I make a concerted effort to stay as far away from him and his— his— shit as I possibly can. So whatever he’s done, while I’m sorry for it, it’s not my fault.”

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