Page 25 of Ruthless Vow

He denied killing my father. Shrugged it off like it’s not even a possibility.

Could that be true?

I hate to have even a moment of doubt. I know what I know. The Russos don’t want the Morettis to rise again, to compete for any of their power. Of course they’d want my father eliminated.

But I also know a few things about Leo. One of them is that he doesn’t lie. He doesn’t see the point. He is a man who is comfortable in his skin, confident in who he is. So if he did kill my father, why wouldn’t he just admit it?

And if he didn’t, then why does Bianca believe he did?

I have no idea how many hours pass. I pace. I sleep. I pace some more. How long has it been since Leo took me from the cemetery? How long have I been locked in this room?

My imagination begins to go off in all sorts of directions. I wondered how Leo will kill me. If he’ll make me suffer. If he’ll do it here, or take me somewhere else. If he’ll even do it himself or let Vito or one of the others end my life.

Maybe I’ll never see him again.

Why does that possibility bother me?

I leap to my feet and pace the confines of the room. Then I drop to the floor and do push-ups, sit-ups, wall Pilates, desperate for the exertion to help calm my rising anxiety.

I miss my sister.

I miss Charlie. What’s going to happen to him when I don’t pick him up on schedule?

“Charlie,” I whisper, tears pricking my eyes.

I don’t want to give in to self-pity or regret, but the longer I’m in this room, the more alone I feel. The more hopeless and helpless I feel.

And that just makes me furious.

No. It’s not going to end like this. There’s more I need to do. More I need to see and experience. I want to live.

The moment I think this, I hear the beeps of the security code being entered on the other side of the door.

The door swings open.

I expect it to be Vito, maybe with another tray of food. But it’s not Vito.

Leo walks in, not even glancing at me. He’s wearing a dark suit, white shirt, open at the throat, no tie. Gleaming loafers that probably cost more than I earn in a week. Maybe more than I earn in a month. And I am paid very well. The suit is tailored to perfection, caressing his broad shoulders and lean waist.

I watch him tensely as he tosses a closed laptop on the bed next to me. Then he freezes, his gaze locked on my hair.

“What the fuck,” he says.

I reach up and touch my head. Strands of what feel like straw stick out in all directions.

I’d never given my appearance much thought because it wasn’t something I could change. In fact, I leaned in to being plain, used it to my advantage, disappearing and avoiding scrutiny. But sitting in front of Leo with my ragged, dry, brittle hair makes me feel embarrassed, and that makes me feel angry.

“I had to make do with soap.” I bite the words out. “There’s no shampoo or conditioner. No mirror. No blow dryer.”

He glares at me, then stomps to the door, whips it open, and tells whoever stands on the other side, “Get some shampoo. Conditioner. Hair products. Clean clothes.”

Leo closes the door and strides back to the bed, standing over me, his features expressionless.

“You have password protected files on there,” he says curtly. He opens the laptop. “Log in. Now.”

His tone doesn’t offer me an option. I log in. He watches. I take my time so he can clearly see my log-in information.

“I need you to open the files for me now.”

---