Page 115 of Velvet Cruelty

Chapter Eighteen

Adriano Rossi

January sits bolt upright in the car seat beside me. I told her to put on makeup, enough that anyone who knows her wouldn’t recognize her right away. She’s done a good job. Heavy gold eye shadow, pink cheeks, shiny red lips. The clothes help. A thin little nothing of a dress and the ruby necklace and sky-high heels Eli bought her. She looks like a snotty little socialite.

She stares straight ahead, her green eyes vacant. I want to break her head open and read her thoughts. Is she thinking about what we did? Or is that calm, empty expression for her future?

After I was done with her, she picked up one of my T-shirts and wiped my cum off her stomach like she’d been doing it her whole life. “Can I go see my Zia now?”

It was like my head had been turned inside out. I’d finally touched the girl who danced in my dreams and the only reason she’d allowed it was to get her own way. I wanted to throw her back in her cage and hide the key. Instead, I pushed myself to my feet. “If I take you to see your housekeeper, it’ll be the last thing you do on US soil.”

She looked at me, her back straight and her mouth steady. “I know.”

She packed her bags, and I shaved and dressed. By the time we collected an unmarked BMW from the underground garage, neither of us looked like ourselves.

January’s already got a new identity. Eli had it made when he was still deluding himself that he’d send the girl to Naples. Isabella Bianco. I’ve got her passport, driver’s license, and an AMX card with ten grand on it. When we get to international departures, I’ll shove her on a plane with all three and watch her fly to freedom. Morelli’s going to be livid, and Doc and Bobby will throw hands, but eventually, they’ll appreciate why I did it.

This girl is trouble. Abducting her was a needless risk that all of us undertook for different reasons. Or maybe it was the same reason in the end. We all wanted her closer and that was a mistake. As long as she’s with us, things cannot be right. Sending her away is the only thing that can bring the scale back to balance.

Teresa Calderoli is a patient at St. John’s Private Medical Center. It looks more like a mansion than a hospital and the parking lot is full of Porches. Considering Calderoli’s a housekeeper, someone stumped up serious cash to keep her here. Parker or the Whitehall bitch.

I park the car and scan for anything suspicious. Bobby’s intel says Parker’s men abandoned the hospital after three days without us or January showing up. Still, no reason to make things obvious. I reach into my glove box and pull out a pair of clear black framed glasses. The scar on my face is always identifiable, but clean-shaven in a tailored suit and glasses, I don’t look much like Adriano Rossi. I turn to the girl. “Ready to go?”

“Do you usually disguise yourself as a stockbroker?”

She seemed so serious in the ballet studio, so solemn and small. But here she is making fun of my clothes. And back in my room, she acted like me gun-fucking her mouth was a kink of mine. It must be Doc’s fault. He’s always been a bad influence.

“Can we go?” she asks, one hand already on the door. “Please?”

I hold up a finger. “Why are we here?”

“To visit my Aunt June. She broke her leg falling off a bike.”

“And who are you?”

“Elizabeth Mills. A first year at the Fashion Institute.”

I point at myself. “Me?”

I expect her to blush, but she just smiles coolly. “You’re my father, Anthony Mills.”

“Good. Let’s go.”

I fold her arm underneath mine as we walk to the hospital. I don’t want to touch her but she’s shaking like a junkie. She leans into me, and I try not to breathe in her scent. Like sweet nectarines and moonlight.

The outside might be fancy, but the inside of St. John’s smells the way all hospitals do, like disinfectant and microwaved beef. Heads turn as we make our way to reception, men and women staring at January. Unavoidable. I could have made her wear jeans and scrub her face, but the girl’s too good-looking. Nothing short of a potato sack would have helped and that would have been even more noticeable.

“Five minutes,” I mutter in her ear. “Then we’re out of here.”

“Yes, dad.”

“Morning,” I say to the bored-looking woman behind the front desk. “Anthony Mills. My daughter and I are here to visit June Mills.”

I pulled the name off Bobby’s scouting notes. Some old girl we can pretend to be visiting if Parker’s still checking the guest register.

“Ms. Mills is on the third floor,” the receptionist says. “Sign in then take the elevator to the left.”

I scribble a fake signature on the guestbook then steer January to the lift. She sticks her heels into the ground. “Can’t we buy Auntie flowers?” She gestures at the stand beside reception.

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