Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 57287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57287 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 286(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
I found myself staring at his hands—strong, slightly calloused—before my brain caught up with the fact that I was studying my potential captor's features.
"Where are you taking me?" I managed, trying to steady my breathing.
"You'll find out soon enough," Long Hair said, checking his watch.
"We need to move," his brother cut in, already at the door.
My legs felt like they might give out at any moment, and each breath came shorter than the last. But there was something else too, something unfamiliar that made my skin prickle with awareness every time Short Hair's gaze found mine. Like standing too close to a storm.
When Long Hair moved closer, panic surged. "Wait—if you don't touch me, I'll go willingly. I won't run. I promise." As if I had anywhere to run to. Three years in this cage had made sure of that.
My gaze darted past them to my apartment, taking in the pristine space that had been my entire world. The Picasso's violent slashes of color seemed to mock me now. Something stirred in my chest—an emotion I wasn't ready to examine.
"Can I please get my purse?" I blurted. "Please?"
How absurd to worry about a purse at a time like this. But it was my mother's last gift to me.
"This has got to be the weirdest abduction in history," Long Hair muttered. "Bring her to the roof. I'll get it."
"It's on my bed," I called after him, then immediately wished I hadn't. My cheeks burned as Short Hair raised an eyebrow. Even kidnappers probably had opinions about proper hostage etiquette.
"Don't get too friendly, Pearl," he warned, but something in his voice made my stomach flip in a way that had nothing to do with fear.
The freight elevator hummed beneath our feet as we rode up.
A bald man was waiting when the doors opened, his expression grim. The city sprawled out beneath the helipad, everything looking like my dollhouse collection from up here. The yellow helicopter waited like something out of an action movie, "Osprey Tours" painted on its side in cheerful letters that seemed absurd given the circumstances.
"Welcome aboard!" The pilot twisted around, grinning like this was just another tourist flight. "We've got perfect weather for—"
"Just fly," snapped a voice from behind me. I froze, suddenly aware of how exposed I was. The air felt thick with cologne and leather and something darker.
"She can't see where we're going," the bald man said, passing back a dark fabric strip.
"Hold still," Short Hair ordered, and I felt the silk brush against my face. His fingers grazed my neck as he tied it, sending an unwelcome shiver down my spine. The touch was impersonal, efficient, but my body reacted anyway.
The helicopter lurched into motion. I grabbed blindly for support, my fingers meeting cold metal instead of whatever warmth I'd unconsciously been seeking. The irony wasn't lost on me—after years of avoiding touch, here I was, reaching for it.
"Sit." Short Hair's voice, closer than expected. His hand found my shoulder, guiding me down with detached precision. But even that brief contact felt like a brand through my dress.
The rotor wash faded to a dull roar as we gained altitude. My perfectly ordered world—the one Vittorio had crafted with such precision—was literally falling away beneath me.
A sharp turn made me sway, my shoulder brushing against someone beside me. The contact sent electricity through my veins—fear or something else, I couldn't tell anymore.
"You're handling this well," Long Hair observed from somewhere to my left, suspicion clear in his voice.
I swallowed hard. "Maybe I'm in shock." Or maybe I'd finally lost my mind, like one of those porcelain dolls in my collection—pretty and pristine on the outside, cracking on the inside.
A quiet laugh beside me. Short Hair. "Maybe the princess isn't so happy in her tower after all."
"You don't know anything about me," I shot back, wishing I could see his face through the blindfold.
"We know enough." His voice went cold, all business. But I could feel how close he was, the heat of him right there.
The helicopter tilted and I shifted, bumping against his arm for a second before he pulled away.
Under the blindfold, I let myself admit what I'd known for a while now—I couldn't go back to that life. To being trapped in that apartment, every minute controlled and watched.
The thought should scare me. Instead, I felt awake for the first time in years.
5
NICO
The sight of Pearl doing Pilates was definitely not in the mission briefing.
I stood in the doorway of her suite at Giuliano's compound, trying to keep my eyes anywhere but on her perfect form as she gracefully moved through another pose. The tank top and leggings left little to the imagination, and I felt like a dirty old man for even noticing.
This was Marco's daughter—the same little girl who used to beg me to push her higher on the playground swings. Every damn time I saw her, that thought hit me first. Like maybe if I reminded myself enough times, I'd stop noticing the way she moved.