Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“Sleep well, tesoro,” he says in a deep voice tinged with amusement.
He’s playing with me like a cat with a mouse.
Before I can find my tongue, he gets off the bed and heads toward the door.
I never know what’s going on in his mind or what he’s planning, and it counts against me.
“Where are you going?” I ask with a mixture of befuddlement and uncertainty. If I’m lucky, maybe he’ll leave.
“To the gym.”
It’s what I was hoping for, that he’d go away, but something that feels too much like disappointment sinks in my stomach. “Where?”
“In Brooklyn.”
“Now? I thought you wanted to have a shower.”
“A shower can wait.” A sexy grin curves his lips. “I have some frustration to work off first.”
I open my mouth to tell him it’s his own fault, but he doesn’t give me the chance. He enters the dressing room and exits a moment later with a pair of socks and trainers in his hands. Without another word or as much as a glance in my direction, he flicks off the light and walks from the room.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Saverio
The room is bathed in darkness when the sharp prick of a subconscious warning pulls me from my sleep.
I’m alone.
I know it instantly.
The place next to me in the bed is empty.
In a second, I’m wide awake.
Alert.
The bathroom door stands open. It’s dark inside.
Panic grips me. The familiar rush of adrenaline pumps through my veins, gearing me for battle even as my mind stays calm. My actions are meticulous and focused. The most powerful weapon is your brain. Years of practice taught me how to keep my head level in the most dangerous situations.
I get up without making a sound. Even as I check the time on my phone, I prick up my ears for noises. Clues.
Just after three in the morning. I couldn’t have been asleep for more than ten minutes. I got home not long ago after a strenuous cardio workout of forty-five minutes.
My senses are heightened. My hearing is primed for the softest squeak and the barest exhale of a breath. My sight is like an owl’s in the night, my attention like a hawk’s.
The house is quiet.
Too quiet.
Nothing stirs.
My bare feet are soundless on the floor as I go to the dressing room and open the safe. I’m wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, but I don’t waste time with dressing. In less than five seconds, I’m making my way to the door with my gun in my hands. I know the placement of every statue and each vase. I can walk through the house blindfolded without creaking a single floorboard.
On the landing, I wait. The hallway is dark. The guest bedroom doors are shut. If someone opened one, I would’ve heard. I don’t oil the hinges on purpose. I’m manic like that.
My pulse hammers in my temples as I climb down the stairs. Scenarios flash through my mind. Anya ran. She packed a bag and left. I made it clear she’s not a prisoner here. She can come and go as she pleases. In the very unlikely event that she did, she slipped past my men. Otherwise, they would’ve alerted me that she was on the move.
But running from me isn’t the worst. If she did, I’d always find her.
Far more terrifying is that someone offed my men, waited for her to leave my room, maybe to go downstairs for a glass of milk, and took her.
My enemies.
Or God forbid, Luigi.
My security is state of the art, but where there’s a will, there’s always a way.
My steps are driven by one goal only.
Find Anya.
In one piece.
I’m a man on a mission when I hit the foyer. The red button on the alarm panel next to the front door flickers. The system is armed. The number that flashes in green shows movement in zone two.
The kitchen.
Fuck.
The back door.
The alarm didn’t go off, but that doesn’t mean someone didn’t override it.
I clutch the weapon in both hands, my aim steady as I point the barrel in front of me.
Light washes from the end of the hallway.
I turn the corner, moving fast but quietly. A bright white beam spills through the kitchen door, cutting a wedge across the corridor wall. It could be nothing, just Anya getting that glass of milk, but I take nothing for granted.
A metallic clang cuts through the space, the razor-edged echo stabbing me right in the chest as I imagine Anya fighting for her life in the clutches of an attacker.
My pulse goes into overdrive.
In four long strides, I’m at the door, killing rage already flowing through my veins as I train my weapon with practiced precision in the direction of the noise and charge into the room while cataloguing everything at a glance—the red splashes on the bottom of the cupboards, the bloody puddle on the floor, and Anya kneeling in it.