Page 34 of Wicked Sinner
I just need time.
By the time I reach the penthouse, I've managed to get my temper under control, at least outwardly. One of my father’s former men, Marco—who I called up yesterday for bodyguard duty while I was out—is waiting for me outside the front door. His expression is grim. He’s not much older than I am, but he looks it right now.
"How is she?" I ask without preamble.
"Still hasn't eaten," he reports. "She asked for a phone to call someone named Jenny, said her friend would be worried. When I told her no phones, she started yelling about how people would notice she was missing."
Jenny.I file the name away for later. Someone close enough to Bridget that she'd expect them to notice her absence. Someone who might cause problems if they start asking questions. I’d never harm someone close to Bridget, but it’s good to know who I might need to deal with as things progress.
"Anything else?"
"She threw the lunch tray at the door," Marco continues. "Made quite a mess. Cleaning lady wasn't happy."
Despite everything, I almost smile at that. Even imprisoned, Bridget refuses to go down without a fight. I can’t help but respect it—even admire it—even if that particular personality trait is currently making my life hell.
"I'll handle it," I tell Marco, heading for the elevator.
The penthouse is quiet when I enter, almost eerily so. I can hear the faint sound of running water from Bridget's room when I walk upstairs to change—she's in the shower, probably tryingto wash away the stress of the day. Or planning her next attack on my well-being.
I take my own shower, then change into sweatpants and a T-shirt, heading downstairs to give myself a moment to clear my head before I try to talk to Bridget. I run my fingers through my wet hair as I pour three fingers of whiskey and walk to one of the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out at the gorgeous, sunny late afternoon. The Miami water sparkles blue, the skies clear, a paradise for me to overlook from my perch up here.
I could give her so much. I don’t understand why she doesn’t want it.
When I’ve finished my whiskey, I head upstairs and knock on Bridget’s door. The room is silent for a few beats, and then I hear her answer, her voice muffled.
“Go away.”
"We need to talk," I say calmly, resisting the frustration that bubbles up. I remember Danny’s perspective on the whole thing. I went about this in a way that made things worse. I get it. But we’re here now, and Ineedher to listen to me.
"We have nothing to talk about."
"Marco tells me you're concerned about your friend. Jenny, is it?" I let out a breath. “I’m coming in. Try not to throw anything heavy at me.”
I hear Bridget’s huff of breath, and then I unlock the door, stepping into her room.
The cleaning lady did an excellent job; there’s no sign of the lunch tray incident from earlier. Bridget is still wearing the clothes that she had on when I took her from the garage—grease-stained coveralls over a black T-shirt. I never in my life thought I’d be aroused by a woman in mechanic’s wear, but remembering what we did that first night—just the sight of her in the worn denim makes my cock twitch. I remember the coolfeel of one of the clasps when I unhooked it, flicking it open just moments before I saw her perfect breasts for the first time.
But she shouldn’t still be wearing any of this. I had clothes delivered to her this afternoon while I was out. I glance over at the chair near the window—several garment bags are thrown haphazardly over it, matte shopping bags stacked next to them, some of them overturned.
“You didn’t like what I sent you?” I ask mildly, and Bridget glares at me.
"What about Jenny?" she asks suspiciously.
"You're worried she'll call the police when you don't show up for work," I say, filing away the issue of the clothes to tackle after this. "File a missing person report, maybe."
Hope flickers in her eyes, and I feel a flicker of my own—of guilt for what I’m about to do. But she has to lay this to rest. The sooner she accepts that this is how things need to be, the sooner we can move forward. I don’t want to keep her locked in this room. I want to look ahead to the future with her.
"She will," Bridget says firmly. "Jenny's been my friend since high school. She knows I'd never just disappear without telling her. She'll call the cops, and they'll come looking for me." She chews on her lower lip. “She’s going to be worried sick.”
The plaintive note in her voice pricks at my heart, but I do my best to ignore it. I lean against the doorframe, careful to keep my expression neutral. "Will they?"
"Of course they will. That's what police do when someone goes missing." The sarcasm in her voice is thick.
"In most places, maybe," I agree. "But this is Miami,bellissima. And the police here… well, let's just say they have a very good relationship with families like mine. Konstantin more so than me, but my name still holds weight when it comes to lining pockets in this city."
The hope in her eyes fades and dies, replaced by a gleam of horror. "You're lying."
"Am I?" I pull out my phone, scrolling through my contacts until I find the right number. I’ve updated them since I got back. "Here. Chief McCallan. Lovely man, very reasonable. His daughter’s college tuition is paid for, thanks to some generous donations from my father before he died. I’m sure the chief will want to hear you out, though.”
