Page 22 of Captured By the Bratva

I didn’t experience that sickening awareness that I’d been abused. Not like when Dom raped me so awfully and with disdain and scorn.

All I felt was a renewal of energy. Of feeling so alive and invigorated.

And worried.

“Becca.” He lowered my ankle, having my attention. “Is Emily your child?” He repeated it with less of that shocked tone, implying he had a hunch about it and was confident that he was right.

I sat up and lowered my arm, shaking it as the blood flowed through freer. My skin tingled, and I winced as I formulated a response. That silent treatment stuff wasn’t working. All my fight to be firm against him seemed unwise now.

He surprised me, picking up my wrist and rubbing the sore skin there. I hadn’t expected aftercare, any affection at all, and I refused to let it disarm me. He could be playing a solo show of good-cop-bad-cop, being brutish and violent to fuck me then deceptively kind and tender afterward.

His callused, rough fingers on my flesh felt too good to reject, though, and I sighed as I looked him in the eye.

“Emily is my daughter.”

I almost counted on him to react smugly, some kind of ana-hamoment of breaking me down to finally reply. The other questions he’d asked weren’t going to produce new information. He could flog me with inquiries about Steven and I still wouldn’t have anything to tell him. He could pepper me with more about the Rossinis, and my replies would remain limited. Before he’d fucked me, when Dmitri stopped in too, they’d played a stupid scenario of beating this interrogation to death, asking the same things over and over.

I knew nothing. But this new question about Emily, I could be honest about that.

“She’s my ten-month-old baby, currently with a sitter who’s likely worried to death that I’m not home yet.”

He narrowed his eyes, switching to massage my other wrist. “Is that an attempt to persuade me into letting you go?”

I rolled my eyes. “You’ve made it clear who’s in charge here.”

“Then don’t be surprised when I expect you to tell me what you’re doing with the Rossinis. Why one called you about your daughter.”

I shook my head, sighing and so damn tired of the ups and downs of this hellish night.

“I don’t know what any Rossini would want with me. I don’t associate with Steven. I don’t associate with any of the people he allies with or tries to arrest and kill. I’ve never been a part of that world. My only fault is sharing DNA with one of New York’s most crooked cops.

“I can’t tell if the Rossinisdowant anything to do with me. I can’t tell if it’s all a bluff. I assume half of what I am told is a lie. That habit started with Steven.”

He released my hand and crossed his arms, staring down at me as he listened.

I fought not to glance at his dick, tempted, but too sobered on this topic. After a deep breath, I explained more. “Dominic Rossini is Emily’s father. He ended his ‘relationship’ with me after I conceived her, and I don’t think he ever knew I had a baby. That Emily is his.”

He smirked. “That call suggests otherwise.”

I scowled. “Not really. Come on. Someone calling and saying theyarea Rossini? Who answers like that or identifies themselves like that?”

“How did you meet Dom?”

“Steven. Through my interest in art. When I first met him, I thought they had to be friends, and when Dom learned that I was an artist, he took a natural interest in me as a fellow lover of thefine arts. It wasn’t until later that he’d only strung me along to keep an eye on Steven through me. To always stay in the loop.”

“For what?”

I shrugged. “Something I didn’t know about and didn’t want anything to do with. I have lived my whole life hearing about or seeing Steven associating with criminal scum. All kinds of seedy people. I learned early on to look away and cover my ears. That’s not the life I’ve ever wanted to live.”

“You want me to believe you don’t know what Murphy and Rossini were working on together?”

“I don’t even know if theywereworking together. It was something like a friend of a friend scenario, and I was so gullible to think that Dom wanted to genuinely sponsor my artwork that I stuck around and hung with him in Italy. Whereas, he saw me as a pawn. A tool. Something to tie him to Steven. It’s always lies and bluffs. No trust.”

His guarded expression suggested he viewed me the same. Not trusting me. At least he’d already been honest about his intentions—the part about keeping me as a hostage. I couldn’t equate his bluntness about why he’d taken me captive with any other sentiment of trust or faith, though. Now that he knew about Emily, I felt cornered.

Some of that panic swept back in, chasing away the glow of an intensely satisfying orgasm.

“Please.” I licked my lips and begged him with a direct stare. “Please, don’t hurt her.”

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