Page 33 of Savage Prince

An hour later and no call back from my mom. I’ve left two more messages with the number to the untraceable phone and Antonio even triedPapàagain, this time leaving a detailed message about my capture. Where the hell could my dad be that he wouldn’t answer his phone or at least check the voicemail? A hint of unease rattles in my ribcage, but I shove it down as I tug the brush through my wet hair.

After the shower and the new clothes, I feel almost normal. If I can just ignore the fact that I’m a prisoner and pretend I’m on a weekend getaway, I can trick my heart into pumping as it should, instead of the manic beats from earlier.

I don’t doubt thatPapàwill do whatever it takes to get me back, but the fact that he seems unreachable has me on edge. Slowly twisting the knob on the bathroom door, I find my room empty. Both doors are ajar, the one leading to the hallway barely wide enough to make out Otto’s form. His good eye peersthrough the opening, and his lips curl into a snarl when our gazes meet.

That guy is not my biggest fan.

As if the eye gouging thing isn’t bad enough, I overheard Antonio ripping him a new one last night after my escape attempt. I think I’ll try to avoid him for the near future. Instead, I turn toward the other door, the one which I’m assuming will lead me to a still brooding Antonio.

This kidnapping isn’t going as planned and his temper escalated to new heights before he stormed off to shower. Reaching for the crutches which appeared in my room this morning, I hobble toward Antonio’s room and pause in the doorway, peeking inside.

The bathroom door is ajar, and I can just make out slivers of tanned flesh blanketed in splotches of dark ink. Even through the crack, I can see the dips and valleys of his muscled torso.Dio, I love a man with tattoos.

Said no one ever who was being held hostage by said tattooed man.

Shaking my head of the stupid, I stagger forward, bumping into the doorframe with the unwieldy crutches. Antonio springs out of the bathroom, his eyes wide as he takes me in. But it cannot in any way match the wide-eyed stare I’m ogling him with. He’s all endless expanse of carved muscles with only a towel hung around his waist. His body is a canvas of art, both physically innate and fashioned by the intricate patterns adorning his flesh.

Once I’ve forced my gaping jaw to shut, I attempt to string together a sentence. “Relax, I’m not trying to escape.” For some reason, my ankle feels worse today than yesterday. Maybe it’s because the pain meds the lovely doctor gave me are starting to wear off.

“Good girl.” He smirks before turning to the dresser where all his clothes have now been neatly folded and stacked. He tugs a shirt over his head but leaves the flimsy towel which seems to be holding on by a thread. I force my gaze away from the sharp V that descends beneath the trail of dark hair.

“I was thinking you could try calling Tony. He’s Luca’s righthand man. If there’s something going on, he would know about it.” I also tried calling my Uncle Luca and Aunt Stella in a desperate attempt an hour ago, only to reach more voicemails.

“Very well. Let me finish getting dressed, and we can try him next.” He pulls out a pair of boxers from the drawer then turns toward the bathroom. He closes the door behind him, but again a sliver remains open. My curious gaze drifts through the opening, catching a glimpse of the towel hitting the floor.

Stop it, Serena. What is wrong with you?

Ripping my traitorous gaze away before it lands on any naughty bits, I glance out the glass doors to the lake instead. Yesterday, I’d barely had time to take in all the beauty. Now I see a small wooden boat bobbing along the shore.

Too bad we can’t take it out for a little ride.

Not on vacation. Hostage! That annoying voice in my head resonates across the crazy.

Antonio reappears, now fully dressed, and I can’t help the tiny twinge of disappointment at seeing his beautiful body covered up.

“So you like tattoos?” The question pops out before I can stop it.

“Mmm,” he mutters.

“Do they mean anything?”

“Don’t they always?” he counters.

“Touchè.”

His gaze trails down my body as if he’s memorized every inch of my naked form or maybe hoping he could peel away myclothes and figure out if they are concealing any hidden ink. Or weapons. “And you? Any tattoos?”

“Just one.” My thoughts flicker to the bouquet of violets inked across my inner thigh. It’s ironic because in Italian culture, violets are a symbol of modesty and faithfulness, neither exactly my forte. It was Nonna’s best-loved flower, the one of her birth month and coincidentally her favorite color. When she passed away, I was flooded with the pain of her loss. And one night, indulging in too much alcohol, I marched to the nearest tattoo lounge and got it in memory of her.

“Of what?” That piercing gaze razes over me again.

“I’ll let you see it when you let me go.” I throw him my trademark smirk.

“You said I’d be dead soon after…”

She shrugs. “Maybe it’ll be the last beautiful thing you see.”

A flash of something unreadable surges across his midnight eyes, softening the hard lines of his jaw. Just when I think he’s going to say more, he reaches for the phone on the dresser instead. “Let’s make that call to Tony.”

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