“This isn’t over.” I keep her in my gaze. “Not even close, princess.” I stand, finally breaking eye contact as I stride to my closet and dress quickly.
“The jet is waiting,” Sonny calls from the hallway. “Flight plan’s already filed. I can take off as soon as I get to the hangar. I just wanted to let you know.”
“I’m coming,” I bark.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. It could be a trap or—”
“I said I’m coming,” I bark.
Once I’m dressed, I feel my heartbeat finally slowing, my mind clearing from the haze she put me in. I’ve never been on the back foot in my life—not in my business dealings or my personal life. I can see what’s coming, like a chess player thinking three moves ahead. But not with her. Not with this woman I only intended to break. I realize now she’s the one breaking me. The hairline cracks started years ago when I first began studying her family, when I first saw photos of her. Her sweet sixteen. Her first day at college. Her brother’s funeral.
I’ve been watching her family for a long, long time. Eight years since my parents’ murder, five years I’ve been following every move my little princess makes. It made sense, especially given my plans, but what’s happening right now? The way she has me in a fucking tailspin? It makes no sense at all. Maybe this trip to the border will give me the distance I need. I can clear my head, come back here, and finally take what’s mine—Lucretia Fontana, every last fucking crumb of her.
13
LUCRETIA
I hold my head in my hands, a sob shaking me as I sit in Mateo’s bed. He’s gone. Left with a murderous expression on his face but not a word from his mouth. It’s better that way, I think. Better for him to leave me here to lick my wounds.
If Sonny was telling the truth, then Mateo might be gone for a while. Days. Maybe weeks? I take in a deep breath and let it out slowly. This is the opening I need. If I can find some way to slip out of here while he’s away, I’ll have a head start on getting as far from here as I can. It won’t be easy. Hell, I probably won’t make it, but I have to try. Because if he touches me again, if he … if he does the things he just did, I don’t know how I’ll survive here. I hate feeling like I can’t trust myself, and that’s exactly how he makes me feel. I press my forehead against my knees. He’d been so close to taking me, and I’d been so close to giving in. Shame burns behind my eyes, but I swallow down my tears. Like always, they won’t help.
I get out of bed and return to his closet, grabbing another shirt and buttoning it up. The belt was finicky last night, so I open his top drawer and pull out a tie, then wrap it around my waist and knot it. I look around the bed for my panties, but they’re gone. Probably ripped to shreds anyway. I fuss with the tie again, ensuring its secure, then grab my platform heels and put them on.
Making my way out of the bedroom, I edge down the hallway and listen for voices. Two soldiers are at the front door, one texting on his phone while the other one yawns. As I pad down the stairs, neither of them give me more than a glance. I like it that way. Better to fly under the radar.
When I walk into the kitchen, Carter is there along with a woman in a similar chef outfit. She’s laying out the crustless egg salad sandwiches as Carter slices the bread to go along with the burrata.
“Good morning.” He smiles. “Hope you slept all right. You certainly look more well rested.”
“Thanks, I guess.” I sit at the island.
“Theresa, this is Mrs. Milani.”
“Nice to meet you, ma’am.” She inclines her head.
“Nice to meet you.” It occurs to me I haven’t seen any women in the house. She’s the first one.
Carter finishes arranging the bread slices, then wipes his hands on his spotless apron. “What can we make you? If you’d rather have breakfast in the formal dining room, we can—”
“No,” I answer quickly. “In here is fine.”
“Great.” He smiles in a way that makes me think of the way dads in sitcoms smile. Non-threatening, warm, and—unlike the tv dads—genuine.
“What’s your favorite breakfast?” He goes to the stove and opens a simmering pot.
I catch the scent of sesame oil and soy. “Is that ramen?”
He stirs and replaces the lid. “Not yet, but it will be. I won’t drop the noodles in until you’re ready for lunch.”
“Can I have it for breakfast?” I ask.