Page 8 of Tower of Temptations

Three days had passed since we'd moved her here after the interrogation. She'd handled it better than any of us expected—no screaming, no threats, just walked into the suite like she was taking everything in.

"Does this place have Wi-Fi?" she'd asked that first day, glancing around with those thoughtful eyes of hers. "Being kidnapped is no excuse for living in the dark ages." The comment caught me off guard.

For a second, I saw that same kid who used to watch everything so carefully from the sidelines, but now... Christ, now she was all grown up, curves in all the right places, and that quiet way she had about her was making it real hard to remember all the reasons I needed to keep my eyes to myself.

She'd spent that first day exploring the place, running her fingers over everything like she was trying to make sense of her new reality. Now, watching her settle in, I was starting to think maybe she didn't mind the change of scenery as much as we'd expected.

"Pilates," she explained, slightly breathless, catching me watching her. "Helps me strengthen my core." She paused, a ghost of a smile playing at her lips. "And of course... think." Then she glanced at the door I was blocking. "Though I guess it's not like I have much else to do in here." The guilt hit me hard, even though I knew why we had to keep her confined.

She grabbed a towel from the bed, dabbing at her neck. I tracked the movement before I could stop myself.

"Your core looks...strong," I managed, immediately wanting to kick myself for the lame comment. Next thing, I'd be asking about her workout routine like some meathead at the gym.

But she took the compliment with a small smile that did strange things to my chest. "Thanks." She studied me for a moment, head tilted. "I've seen you these past few days. You look familiar, but I can't quite..." She trailed off, something flickering in her eyes.

I moved to her kitchen, desperate for something to do with my hands. The refrigerator provided a convenient excuse as I grabbed a Coke.

"Nico. Nico Conti. I worked for your father, years ago. You were just a little girl." I cracked open the can, watching her face carefully for any reaction.

Her perfect brow furrowed. "You mean..."

"Your real father," I confirmed, taking a long drink to steady myself.

The silence stretched between us. I could hear the ice maker humming, the soft sound of her breathing. When I finally looked up, she was watching me with those impossibly blue eyes.

"You really knew him?" Her voice was soft but steady. She moved closer, and I caught a hint of defiance in her stance.

"Yeah, I knew him," I said quietly. The memory of Marco twisted in my gut like an old knife wound. I'd failed him that night, failed to protect him when everything went down. The guilt never really went away—it just got easier to carry with time.

She moved past me to get her own drink, the subtle brush of her body against mine sending electricity through my veins. When she turned back, her eyes caught on something—my sleeve had ridden up, revealing the edge of my tattoo.

"What's that?" she said, head tilted slightly.

I rolled up my sleeve the rest of the way, revealing the Latin script. "Your father's mark. All his trusted men had one." I watched her face carefully. "'Toward Better Things.'"

She reached out, fingers trailing along the letters. The gentle touch sent a shiver through me.

"I remember this. The way the capital A curved..." Her voice softened with memory. "Daddy had one too." She withdrew her hand, wrapping her arms around herself. "Look, I know things aren't... perfect with Vittorio. But he's the only father I've known for so long. He might be strict, but he's always protected me."

"Protected you from what, exactly?" I couldn't keep the edge from my voice. "The business he's running now—it's not like it was under your father. Marco had lines he wouldn't cross."

"What are you talking about?" Her voice sharpened, but I caught the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes.

"The opioids, Pearl. The fentanyl. Your father would never have touched that stuff. No respectable family does."

She shook her head, but I could see the doubt creeping in. "That's not... Vittorio wouldn't..." She set her drink down hard enough that some of it sloshed over the rim. "He's always taken care of me. Private tutors, the best education money could buy. My room at home is practically a library—he never said no when I asked for books."

"With money from where?" I pressed gently. "Have you ever asked yourself where it all comes from?"

She stood abruptly, pacing the length of the suite. "He says keeping me in the tower is for my protection. That there are people who want to hurt him through me." Her voice wavered slightly. "But being locked up in that tower... I mean, sure, it's a nice prison, but it's still a prison."

"And you believe that's all this is? Protection?"

She settled on the edge of her bed, legs tucked under her. The TV played quietly in the background as she studied me over her drink. "I don't know what to believe anymore. Everything's changed so fast." She gestured around the suite. "At least at home I had my books, my routine. Here..." She trailed off, then added quietly, "Well, the ocean view is pretty, but it's not like I can actually go down to the beach."

"Some things have changed," I chose my words carefully. "Your father had principles about what we dealt in, who we worked with." I met her eyes. "Some things happening now... they wouldn't have flown under his watch."

Something flickered across her face - not surprise exactly, more like confirmation. She took another sip of her drink, and I found myself tracking the movement of her throat. "It's funny," she said finally. "Being here, talking about him... it's making me remember things I thought I'd forgotten."

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