* * *
Corey
I’m ready to murder Stefano Tacone myself. I can’t figure out his game. Is he really worried about me talking? Or is he a crazy sex predator who saw an opportunity to take me captive and did so?
But no. If he was into sex crimes, he would’ve raped me on his kitchen table. And he didn’t. He didn’t even try to have sex with me. All he did was offer me pleasure.
He’s definitely attracted to me; he’s made that plain. But I really don’t think he’s going to force himself on me tonight.
With that thought, my confidence in making it through this situation takes an upturn. I witnessed a mafia murder, but I’m still alive. The man who captured me has not been cruel. In fact, other than keeping me captive, he was fairly attentive—offering me water, suggesting I use the bathroom. Blowing my mind with the orgasm of the century.
Oh fuck, what am I saying? Do I seriously already have Stockholm Syndrome? Am I bonding with my captor?
Then it hits me with a flash of cold. Is that his intent? How he’s going to be sure of me? Get me to bond to him so I won’t talk?
No, that’s ridiculous. A man like Stefano Tacone does not rely on wooing women into silence. That’s scoffable. He uses his fists. His gun.
And since he’s used neither on me, I can probably assume I’m fairly safe.
I lean over the side of the bed to investigate where he attached the zip-tie. If it’s to the leg of the bed, maybe I can lift it off.
No dice.
It’s right to the metal frame beneath the mattress. Stefano’s good. I shudder to think he’s done this before.
My maneuvering twists the zip-tie around my wrists and I check my skin for marks. Yep, totally left some.
And that thought should not excite me.
But I could really get off on Stefano Tacone’s punishments. What am I saying? I already have.
So yeah, tempting him into another one feels like a delicious danger I’d love to play with.
But despite my certainty I’d never sleep, I drift off.
I dream of mafia meetings: dangerous men with guns and tempers. My dad is there. He’s the leader and he catches me spying on them. He holds me up by the hair and slaps my face like he used to when he was drinking.
I startle awake, sweating.
“Shh, bambina. You’re safe here.” Stefano Tacone appears in my dream, brushing my hair back from my face.
No.
Stefano Tacone is in the bed.
I blink my eyes open. The early light of dawn spills through the curtains.
“Go back to sleep, bella. It’s too early to be awake.”
I try to turn toward his voice, but plastic bites into my wrists and I whimper.
“Okay, okay. I’ll free you.” The mattress pitches and he climbs off. When he appears in my line of vision, he’s holding a deadly hunter’s knife. He crouches in front of me and slices the zip-tie holding my wrists. His stubble has grown overnight and weariness tugs down the corners of his eyes. “You stay in this bed, though,” he warns.
I rub the chafed skin, rolling over to face the middle of the bed where he lies down. He takes one of my wrists and strokes the marks with his thumb.
“Naughty, babe,” he murmurs, closing his large hand around my wrist as his eyelids close.
I stare at his handsome face in the dark, listen as his breath slows. He smells like the casino—like scotch and money and old leather. I consider trying to slip out of his grasp, but I can’t seem to find the motivation. I might have to admit to myself that I enjoy being his captive. Leaving now would be a disappointment. Eventually, my inhales match his and I slide back into a dream. Only this time, I’m tied to Stefano’s bed.
Chapter 3
Stefano
Oh, no you don’t.
My hand closes around Corey’s wrist. She’s trying to sneak away from me.
Her electric blue eyes meet mine. They hold no trace of fear or remorse, which makes me want to kiss her senseless. I love her confidence. Her verve. I have her half-naked in my bed and she’s not unnerved in the least.
“I have to pee,” she says. “Did you get me that toothbrush?” Adorable. She treats this like a fucking slumber party.
“On the counter,” I mumble, still coming awake. I release her wrist. She tugs the sheet off the bed to cover herself as she pads to the bathroom.
“Leave the door cracked open, amore. I need to hear what you’re doing.”
“Fuck you, Tacone,” she calls back.
“Still your boss,” I remind her.
Even though she’s mouthy, she does as she’s told.
Smart woman.
When she comes back, she walks straight to the dresser and pulls out a drawer.
They’re all empty. I don’t plan in staying in this guest suite, but I haven’t bothered to kick Sal out of my suite on the top floor yet. He moved in there when I left for Sicily six months ago.