I wanted to say he was ugly.
Unfortunately, it would be a bald-faced lie.
He was annoyingly good-looking. Darkly good-looking, if you will.
What with his jet black hair, his chocolate-brown eyes, his square jaw covered in just the right amount of stubble, his full lips, his cheekbone hollows.
If you approached a man like him on the street, your instincts would tell you to cross the street. And those would be good instincts. Because you never wanted to cross paths with a man like him if you could help it.
Primo Esposito.
The boss of the Esposito crime Family.
A man who just came into power after slitting his father's throat at a Family sit-down, wiping the knife off on a napkin, then sitting down to finish cutting his steak with it.
He was a full-blown, cold-blooded, lunatic.
If they weren't, by all accounts, enemies, he and Brio would have a lot in common.
He towered over me for a moment before lowering down, making the cot let out a groaning sound as it tried to hold both our weight.
Panicked, my hand slipped into my pocket, closing around the pocket knife, finding a small bit of comfort in it.
Even if I used it, it didn't fix anything. I would still be chained to a bed. I would likely be rushed by all of Primo's men within a minute or two if I did any damage to him.
But it was something.
It made me feel better, at least.
"Head feels like a motherfucker, huh?" he asked, turning slightly, reaching down toward me. Likely to touch my pounding temple.
I didn't give him a chance, though.
Because instinct had my hand flying out of my pocket, flicking open the knife, and pressing it into his throat.
Primo, though, didn't even flinch.
Of course not.
He was too cold-blooded for that.
If anything, he turned his neck just enough that the tip of the blade bit into his skin as his lips curved up.
"Don't touch me," I snapped, figuring the movement likely needed explanation.
To that, Primo's lips curved up slightly. "I might be a stupid, arrogant, cock-sucker, but I don't force myself on women, Alessa," he said, and I was annoyed at how smoothly my name slid off of his lips. Like we knew each other. Like we were old friends.
"I wouldn't put anything past your Family," I said, jaw so tight that my teeth ached.
"Right," he agreed. "Because the Costas and the Morellis and the D'onofrios are all fucking saints. And we're the evil bastards. That's the narrative you're all operating under these days."
"Well, I don't know about you, but I certainly didn't slit my father's throat at the dinner table," I said, shrugging.
"We all have our sins," he said, shrugging his wide shoulders. "You've been no angel."
"No," I agreed. "But I haven't kidnapped innocent women."
"Innocent," he mused. "That's not exactly a word I'd use to describe you. Or are you not fucking the boss's brother?"
"Who I do or don't fuck has never been anyone's concern but my own. I mean, do you really want to compare body counts, Primo?"
"Fair enough," he agreed, leaning down over me, a move that made the knife slice right across his neck. But the giant of a man didn't even flinch, didn't hiss. He just reached down, and I wasn't sure what he was doing until I felt the cuff on my wrist ease for a second, then tighten again as he yanked it up, and secured the freed side to his own wrist.
"Oh, come the fuck on," I grumbled as he sat back, then moved to stand, forcing me to do the same.
I'd heard rumors about Primo and his unusual way of restraining prisoners. Meaning he kept them attached to him at all times. For hours, days, weeks. When he ate, when he slept, when he got busy. He didn't give a fuck.
I wasn't sure if the story was true, but I'd once heard someone claim he'd had a prisoner attached to his wrist once, and used their body as a human shield when shots rang out. Word was, the human shield died.
And while the story was over-the-top at best, I somehow didn't doubt it in the least.
"You can keep the knife," he said as he pulled me toward the door. But not the metal one with the window that seemed to lead outside. No, this one seemed to lead into the building.
It was right then that I realized why the office seemed familiar.
Because I'd been here before.
Just once.
On a job.
Stealing files from the desk.
It was likely the most dangerous job I'd ever done. And I knew the only reason I'd been chosen was because most members of the Esposito and Lombardi Families had no idea who I was, since I'd shown up so late in life.
I'd gotten out Scot-free.
Or so I thought.
Of course there had been cameras. And of course a man like Primo would not let any of his men rest until they figured out who I was, and what I'd been after.