Page 19 of The Taker

A short, stocky man dressed in a plain black suit stands on the other side of the room. He must be one of Rocco’s guards.

“Mr. Vettore is waiting for you in his office, if you’ll follow me.”

I follow him down the same hallway from the last time I was here. There are a few framed photos and pieces of art on the walls I hadn’t noticed. I can hear the murmur of masculine voices coming from the open door of his study.

When I see Rocco sitting at his desk, my heart races. His wavy hair is slicked back, with an unruly piece covering his eyebrow. The blue suit he’s wearing pops against his olive skin, highlighting the light shades in his green eyes. As usual, he doesn’t wear a tie, and the first couple of buttons of his shirt are open, showing off part of a tattoo and chest hair.

The neutral expression on his face falters when we lock eyes. There’s a hint of anger in the firm set to his jaw. His eyebrows slant above a piercing glare, and I notice we’re all standing here in silence. A foreboding vibe settles across the room, like the calm before a storm.

Rocco has always been handsome, the kind of man that turns heads and commands attention. But when he’s holding back whatever demon lives inside him… He’s a living, breathing wetnightmare right out of my darkest fantasies—the kind I’d never admit having to another living soul.

“Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll be around the docks later to check on your progress,” he says in a clipped tone, dismissing the men I barely even noticed from the room.

The only person left is the man from before who walked me here. He stands like a London guard in the hallway, next to the open door facing away from us, like a fly on the wall.

I stand in front of Rocco’s desk, waiting for him to say something. Somehow, I know better than to say anything first. He scrolls through his phone, typing briefly and not sparing me a glance. Shifting awkwardly on my feet, I try to admire the golden-framed landscape of a forest on the far wall, but I can’t take my eyes off him. Prey knows better than to lose track of the predator who wants to eat it alive…

After a few moments of silence, he leans back in his chair. He looks me up and down, as if inspecting me for damages.

“You arrived four minutes late.”

“There was traffic on the way home from school,” I explain.

“You know there are consequences for being late.” He rises from his desk, his eyes quickly glancing to the leather armchair near the landscape.

The chair he sat in while I knelt for him Friday.

Is he thinking about what we did there? How he held my throat as I choked on him? The way he bit my lip…

The very thought makes me bite my own lip, but I quickly remind myself that I’m not here of my own accord. He forced me into this job. He’s holding me and my sisters’ fates over our heads like an ax that can fall at any moment.

The hard, calculating look in his eyes should scare me. It should make the few remnants of common sense I have left come together and scream at me to leave.

But I don’t…I can’t. His gaze turns my own body against me, pinning me in place.

“Yes, I know,” I agree. It’s in plain writing on my phone.

“Come with me,” he orders as he walks toward the kitchen, leaving me to trail behind him.

I must have missed the kitchen the first time I was here—it’s every chef’s heaven on earth. Professional, stainless steel appliances are encased by black and white marble countertops with a golden swirl detail. The kitchen island seats eight people, and has a sink, built in power outlets, and storage. There’s an eight burner range atop a double oven. He even has a double door that I assume leads to a pantry of some sort.

“You’re to arrive every day by 8:30, and start my breakfast. The binder on the counter details my food preferences and some favorite meals to get you started. Don’t be lazy and rely on them, though. I hired you for your creativity. There’s also directions for ordering groceries, if you choose that method over shopping in person, and other duties I expect you to do as my personal chef.”

He sits at the island and crosses one leg over the other at the knee. “I want my lunch served at 1:00 and my dinner ready before you leave for the day. If I’m not here, make it for me anyway. I’ll eat it when I’m home.”

“When am I done for the day?” I ask, trying to mentally plan my day so I can be home to make dinner for the girls.

“I understand you have your sisters to tend to. You can leave at 5:00.”

Okay, the girls get home from their after school activities around that time, which means I can have dinner on the table by 6:00. If I do a slow cooker meal, maybe 5:30. That gives me plenty of time to help with homework and spend time with them.

Rocco breaks me from my thoughts. “What time do they go to bed?”

“I try to have Lucy in bed by 8:30. Julia is in her room by 9.”

“After they’re in bed, you’re at my beck and call again. If I text you, you come to me immediately. No argument, no excuses. I don’t care what you’re doing, you have three minutes to get your tight ass on that elevator. When the guards let you in, you’ll sit in the living room and wait for me.” His firm tone brokers no argument, and I nod.

He beckons me over with a wave, and despite the rudeness of his gesture, I move close enough to him that I can smell his rich, peppery cologne. The smell infiltrates my senses, intoxicating me to the point where I can’t sense the danger looming over me. He tips my chin up, so I’m forced to look at his stone-hard expression.

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