Page 34 of Brutal Legacy

Now

Inside the apartment, the man closed the door and locked it. I flipped the lights on and rounded the table to stare at him.

He stared around the room, and I saw it through his eyes. Every secondhand, scarred piece of furniture; all the shabby, pitiful evidence of my pathetic life.

“What now?” I asked, keeping the shake out of my tone.

“Now,” he looked me up and down, “you show me to your bedroom.”

He stepped closer to me, and I flinched back. My pulse was racing, and I felt like I might faint. I’d never been so scared.

“Why?” I demanded softly, a plea in my voice.

He tilted his head to the side. His beautiful face, so like the one love of my life, was stony, giving nothing away.

“Because I told you to,” he said flatly and jerked his head toward the small hallway beyond the kitchen.

I turned around and fought a sob. How had my life come to this? I’d been poor, but getting by, sad, but surviving, and then overnight, my life was full of danger and threats.

“Is this about my father?” I offered and walked in the slowest steps possible toward my room.

“What about your father?”

“I know he’s been arrested, but that’s all I know… I don’t know anything else about his business. I’m sure he hasn’t done the things they are accusing him of. He’s sure to be out soon.” I stopped, sucking in a breath as we drew closer to my cramped bedroom.

I was lying, but telling the truth right now didn’t seem like a good idea. The chances were very slim that I could persuade this lunatic to believe me. No, he didn’t have the air of a lunatic. He was tightly controlled, perfectly disciplined. He was more like a mercenary.

“Oh, Signora Conti, if you really believe that, you’re more naive than I’d have ever imagined. Still, maybe it’s a case of willful ignorance.”

“What?” I asked, my indignation giving way.

We reached the bedroom, and I stopped in the doorway.

He nudged me from behind.

“Hurry up.”

“What do you want me to do?” I blurted and stepped into my room.

He followed. The air instantly felt claustrophobic inside. He was too big for the small space. Too raw, too masculine for the soft, feminine room. Net curtains and soft throws and embroidered pillows, remnants of a life when I’d had money, didn’t go with his bloodstained face and lethal grace.

“Lose the clothes,” he said.

My stomach dropped. This was it. It was really happening. I stared at his face, so achingly familiar. If he had been Elio Santori, would I have expected mercy? Yes. As stupid as it was to believe in the boy who’d abandoned me, I’d have felt safer.

Instead, I was here with this stone-cold stranger, who wore Elio’s face like a mask and had no heartstrings in reach to tug on. A man without mercy or compassion. A monster, or worse, since technically, monsters could feel. Frankenstein’s monster felt loneliness and sorrow. This man didn’t seem capable even of that. He wasn’t a monster. He was a machine. Cold metal inside his chest and processors that didn’t allow for feelings. How could someone be so incredibly impassive?

I shook my head, a tear dripping down my cheek.

“Don’t hurt me. Please. I swear I don’t have anything to do with my father anymore. I haven’t spoken to him in years.”

“Not my problem. Strip, or I’ll do it for you.”

He’d slipped his hand into his pocket, gripping a hard object.

The gun. I’d forgotten about that in the confusion and panic. Like this man needed a gun to hurt me.

I brought my hands to my jacket and shrugged it off, then tugged my T-shirt up, gasping as glass cut into my hands once more. I looked closer at my clothes. The splinters of glass from earlierwere embedded in the soft material, probably from when I’d lain on the floor to hide.

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