Page 79 of Dangerous Devotion

Wait. I lifted the hood off my head. I blinked rapidly, my eyes adjusting to the dim light of what appeared to be a completely white room without any windows and white, glossy walls.

I turned my head and looked at two men in a black tactical uniform, their faces obscured by masks.

“Welcome, Mrs. Salvini,” one of them said, his tone mockingly polite. “We need you to stay put for a little while.” With that, they turned around and exited the room. The door hissed closed, building a perfect seal in the white, glossy wall.

What on earth was this place?

I got up and reached out to touch the wall nearest to me. The surface was unnervingly smooth, almost frictionless under my fingertips. No matter how carefully I explored, I couldn’t detect any seams or edges; even the floor was white and from the same material and smoothly transitioned into the walls. It was as if the entire room had been molded from a single piece of material.

The lighting was equally disconcerting. It seemed to emanate from everywhere and nowhere at once, casting no shadows.The effect was disorienting, making it difficult to gauge the room’s true dimensions.

Even the damn chair was white.

“Hello?” I called out, my voice sounding flat and lifeless in the space. The lack of echo was unsettling. I went silent and listened. There was no ambient sound at all—no hum of electronics, no whisper of air conditioning.

Nothing.

I moved around the room, searching frantically for any feature or flaw, anything that might give me a clue about where I was or how to get out. But every surface was the same featureless white like the inside of an egg.

I sat down for a while, then got back up. Time became impossible to track in this unchanging environment. I paced back and forth, trying to keep my mind focused and alert. But the monotony was wearing on me. I sat down, then stood up again, then sat once more, the unrelenting whiteness beginning to play tricks on my eyes.

I closed my eyes, but the whiteness seemed to penetrate my eyelids, leaving after-images dancing in the darkness.

What the fuck was this high-tech shit?

All of this didn’t feel like it would be something Alfredo Salvini would use. Isa told me he was old-school, not open to new ways at all. So his holding place of choice would’ve been an old warehouse, not this high-tech, whatever, right?

But then again, maybe whoever he hired for the job was into this.

But then, who were these people? What did they want with us? How had they known about the convoy? I tried to recalldetails from the attack, but the memories seemed to slip away in this blank space like I was trying to hold onto water.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Hero burst open the door and stormed into my father’s office as if he were paving the way for me. I’d never seen my little brother this furious.

The door hit the wall with a resounding crash while I stopped just outside.

The familiar scent of leather and cigars hit me, but it did nothing to calm the rage coursing through my veins. I couldn’t believe the audacity of this man, sitting here as if nothing had happened, as if he hadn’t just torn my world apart.

Father looked up from his desk, looked at Hero, then turned his head, and his gaze met mine. There was a flash of surprise before his face settled into a mask of calm indifference.

No remorse, no guilt, not even a flicker of emotion in those cold eyes so similar to my own. The sight of him, so composed, made me suddenly calm down as if ice water was oozing through my veins.

Did I really expect anything else from him? “Father,” I said, my voice smooth and controlled. I smiled, then entered the lion’s den.

“Vincenzo,” he said, his voice steady. “I see you’re still alive. To what do I owe this…dramatic entrance?” He side-eyed Hero, then raised a single brow. He never had respect for any of us and always thought of himself as superior—which he demonstrated every chance he got.

I walked toward his desk, took a seat, and nodded at Hero to do the same.

He stood there for a second, his fists clenched at his sides. He was the epitome of what I’d been feeling when I realized Jemma was gone. Every fiber of my being had screamed to lash out, to make my father feel even a fraction of the pain and fear that Jemma must be feeling right now.

But that wasn’t what I was feeling right now. The more you let your emotions run you, the less you have control in life.

And showing your true feelings gave your enemy an unfair advantage.

Two lessons Hero still had to learn. Lessons I learned a long time ago when I confronted my father at my mother’s funeral—which accomplished absolutely nothing.

“I heard you were on your way to Italy,” I said.

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