by A. C. Bextor
By no means did I think someone was going to greet me at the door, arms open and smiling wide, but a small part believed maybe I’d get someone to help with my leg.
After Demetrius had shown me around the luxury suite he promised I’d be comfortable in, he directed me to sleep. I tried and failed, too busy trying to piece together the puzzle I’ve been thrown into.
Demetrius is quiet, so unlike those I’d been with before. His kind eyes and soft manner weren’t what I expected from a man of his stature. His hair, thick like Liam’s but longer, was combed back into a low ponytail. His smile, while as friendly as it could be, was timid and small. He’s not tall, nor is he wide. I’d describe Demetrius as pretty, if appropriate to coin him that.
Although he evaded my barrage of questions, citing he wasn’t at liberty to discuss anything, I still pushed as hard as I could. My efforts were to no avail.
Once he left, I slowly and carefully showered and then changed into the clothes he’d had a sweet, smiling older woman bring in. She introduced herself as Penelope, the house manager. After that, she didn’t speak again, merely offering a few glances of reassurance as she moved throughout the room with expertise, placing my new belongings where she felt they should go.
Whether she or Demetrius knows I’ve come here against my will or not has yet to be determined. I could’ve pleaded for their understanding and mercy, begged them to help me escape, but Elevent’s advice was clear.
It’ll be easier on you if you stay quiet.
Don’t fight this.
The damage to my body looks worse than it actually feels. As I waited for the water in my shower to warm, I caught my reflection in the oversized mirror. Coming face-to-face with the bruising, I took two steps back. A mix of purple, blue, and slight yellow stains my cheekbone and left eye socket. All of the damage Thanatos inflicted had been done to the same side.
The click of the door’s lock jars me in place. A shooting pain sears through my leg and I wince, clutching it and cursing quietly.
As Demetrius enters, he scans the room until he finds me in bed, just as I was when he left hours ago. The pillows he’d adjusted earlier in effort are still at my back, bearing my weight and providing a shallow comfort. The light from the windows behind the bed has quickly dimmed. My guess is that it’s late evening.
The next to enter is a young woman, her hair dark like mine. I can’t see the color of her eyes because she won’t look up. She’s twisting her fingers in front of her, and her cheeks are red.
She’s nervous.
“Wren,” Demetrius addresses warmly and with awkward familiarity.
I nod. “Demetrius.”
Pointing to the woman at his side, he adds, “This is Angelina.”
“Hi,” I greet her.
Hearing my unsteady voice, Angelina meets my gaze. Her right eye is nearly swollen shut, the corner dark and bruised.
With her uncertainty and my fear, we’re staring at either in silent understanding.
Taking two steps in, Demetrius moves her to the side, allowing another man to enter. Demetrius’s entire demeanor changes at that point, his voice low and posture straight as he makes a more formal introduction. “Wren, this is Ciro Palleshi, your host.”
Ciro Palleshi.
Liam’s uncle.
My host.
A heavyset, short man with thick dark hair, graying at the top and sides, steps in from behind Demi. He looks nothing like Liam. There is no kindness in his narrowed eyes, no softness in his aging features, and no welcome in his tight and reserved smile.
If this man were to walk into the diner, I wouldn’t spare him a second glance. But here now, sitting in his lavish home both vulnerable and alone, he has my captive attention. And I’m under no assumption that this man is my saving grace or my friend.
Ciro stands near the door, not making a move to come forward. “You’ve settled yourself into this room, yes?”
I nod, my gaze bouncing from Demetrius to Ciro. Ciro’s accent is dominant. Foreign. Italian, like Liam, only much thicker.
“And you have everything you’ll need for the rest of the evening?”
“Yes,” I reply, though unsure it’s smart to speak. “Thank you.”
Keep your shit together and don’t say jack about Chase.
Ciro turns to Angelina and furrows his eyebrows. “Get her a plate of dinner. See that our guest eats.”
Guest. How’s that possible?
Demetrius’s jaw ticks in response to Ciro’s demand, leaving me to sit as a plight between the men. I can only assume I’m a cause of torment for Demetrius, and I hate that for him as he’s been so nice since I arrived.
Angelina bows her head, still holding her hands together, and turns to leave.
Ciro’s face turns red, angry. “Angelina!” he calls.
The woman walks back into the room, and that’s when I notice the way she’s dressed.
She’s not wearing any under garments at all. Through her thin white dress, I see every intimate place on her.
Ciro waits for her eyes to come to his, her head still low, before he bends to her ear. Demetrius starts to speak, but his gaze comes to mine and he stops.
“What do you call me after I’ve given you an order?” Ciro demands.
“Sir,” Angelina replies.
Ciro smiles, touches her face where her bruise must ache, then tells her to leave.
I feel sick.
Bringing his attention back to me, Ciro states, “There’s a man coming to see you later this evening. My nephew, Liam Dawson. From what I hear, you already know him quite well.”
“Yes.”
Looking down to the nightdress Penelope had stocked in the dresser drawer, I rest my hand against the bandage, feeling the warmth from the wound.
“It’s likely your wound isn’t healing properly. I’ll send Penelope up with something you can take for the pain until Liam arrives.”
“Thank you,” I reply, truly appreciating the gesture.
“Penelope will oversee your room and board during your stay. You can ask her anything as long as it pertains to only that. Don’t test her. She’s a longtime loyal member of this family.”
“And do you know how long my stay here may be?” I ask, then mentally berate myself for pushing.
Ciro stares in contemplation, his focus to the floor. He doesn’t move an inch as he dismisses, “Demetrius, leave us.”
Demetrius’s eyes grow wide, coming at me in panic. “Ciro, I don’t—”
Looking up, Ciro’s mouth is tight and his eyes are narrowed. He turns in my direction and clips, “I said leave us.”
My breath escapes as Demetrius gives me a small reassuring smile before he turns to leave.
“Miss Adler,” Ciro addresses me, grabbing the opposite wrist across his heavy belly. “Do you know who I am?”
“Yes. You’re Liam’s uncle, Ciro Palleshi.”
“There’s much more that comes with that name, is there not?” he questions, and I hesitate.
“I know what you’re saying.” The undertone of his statement is obvious. His name has power. I have none.
“Ah, very good. So let me get to my point so I can leave you to rest.”
“Okay.”
“Here’s how this will be. We’ll have an agreement between us, if you will.”
I say nothing, just nod in acknowledgement.
“You’re going to stay here for as long as Chase Avery is a threat to you. He has enemies. Those enemies are dangerous. They’ll use you to get to him.”
My heart doesn’t fully believe Ciro—he’s not a man I’ve ever heard to be trusted—but my mind goes along, just in case he’s telling the truth.
“You’ll be a gracious guest. You’ll keep to yourself. You won’t interfere with any of my business dealings.”
“I won’t interfere,” I promise without hesitation.
“You’ll also do as you’re told,” he continues.
As I’m told?
“I
believe you know Pete. You’ll help him recover during his stay.”
That I can do. “I can help.”
Nodding, Ciro stands straight. “Very well then. I’ll go so you can rest.”
A soft touch at my temple rouses me from sleep.
Taking inventory, I note my leg burns but the pulsating has lessened, if only a little.
Whatever it was that Demetrius insisted I take with dinner seems to have worked. I slept hard and for what must have been hours.
Angelina never came back. Penelope did instead. I thought about asking Penelope where Angelina had gone but decided to take Ciro’s advice and keep to my own business.
I’ll ask Liam instead.
When I open my eyes and adjust my vision, Liam is standing over me under the soft glow of the bedside lamp. His hair is messy and he appears confused.
“Hi,” I manage, my voice raspy with sleep. As I struggle to sit up, another searing pain shoots through my thigh.
He places his hand on my arm. “Lie back and let me look at your leg.”
Doing as he says, I shiver when Liam moves the blanket, exposing my thigh. A quiet string of curses falls from his mouth before his gaze roams to my neck and face. Slowly he takes in all that’s been done.
“What happened?” he questions tersely. “Who did this to you?”
“Liam—”
“Tell me who did this.”
Giving in, I name the only person who actually caused me pain. “Thanatos.”
Sitting back, Liam lays his hands on his thighs, recognition dawning. “Saint’s Justice.”
“Yes. But the others didn’t hurt me, only Thanatos.”
Going about as he was, Liam slowly and gently removes the bandage from my leg. He tosses it into the trash as I ask, “How did you know I was here?”
“I’ve been looking for you for two days. Demi called. Ciro is downstairs. When I’m done here, he’s going to explain.”
“He talked to me and told me a little,” I admit, “but I’m not sure what to believe.”
Pulling items from a brown carrier bag, Liam lays them on the table by the bed. Most of it is the same as what Gypsy had.
“You need rest.”
“He said I was going to help Pete.”
“You also need antibiotics.”
“Liam, I’m really okay.”
“You’ll need—”
Desperate to believe in something, I grab his arm and ask, “Ciro said I’m safe here. Am I?”
Nodding but not looking directly at me, Liam says, “You’re safe with me, Wren.”
My bottom lip quivers. Liam notices and stops tending to my leg. Bending to me, he scoops me in his arms and I let out a gut-wrenching cry.
Fear.
Uncertainty.
Pain.
Relief.
Once I’ve gathered my composure, Liam pulls me back, wipes my eyes, and kisses my lips sweetly. I watch as he goes back to my leg with care.
He finishes dressing my wound and says, “Try to rest. I’ll be back soon.”
Until tonight, the polished palace I was raised in never truly felt like the cage it’s always been.
My uncle’s estate, outside shrouded in darkness, inside laced with Wren’s impenetrable innocence, surrounds me with fury and disgrace. The unanswered questions of how and why Wren made her way here heighten my already raging temper.
When Demi called to set up a meeting between Ciro and me, he stated the matter was urgent. He explained there was a woman who had arrived and that Ciro had relayed to all those around that she wasn’t to be harmed as she was under his personal protection. However, Demi went on to say that she’d come to Ciro’s under duress and now required medical attention.
Even with all he mentioned, I felt there was more. The underlying tone in Demi’s voice said what his precarious position couldn’t say—something was terribly wrong.
For nearly two fucking days I’ve wandered this city. My attempts to get the local police involved were useless. When I called, they told me to sit tight and someone would be in touch. When no one was and I charged into the station, the woman at the front desk told me to take a seat and someone would be with me soon.
No one ever came.
Now I understand why. Ciro has the local PD on payroll, and they’ve no doubt been paid handsomely to ignore all inquiries regarding Wren Adler.
“I see you’ve made yourself at home, Liam,” my uncle’s calm, collective voice greets casually, adding to my anger. “I’ve waited a long time to see you so relaxed and comfortable in my home again. In your home.”
Standing and turning to face him, I set the empty tumbler of his overpriced scotch on the bar table. A woman I recognize stands obediently at my uncle’s side. She casts her focus down, not granting me so much as a nod in greeting.
“You remember Angelina?” Ciro asks, wrapping his arm around her back and roughly pulling her into his side. Her body slams against his but she doesn’t protest.
“I don’t remember her, but I’m not here to meet your friends,” I clip.
Turning to her, Ciro places his hand beneath her chin, pulling her mouth level to his. Then I make out her face. The side of her head is bruised. A mix of healing shades has started. I don’t ask because I don’t want to know. Not now.
Ciro draws his mouth closer to hers. She keeps her lips tight as he grabs a fistful of her hair and forces himself on her, not caring that I’m standing not a few feet away.
Interrupting, I ask, “What is she doing here?”
The conniving criminal has the gall to feign innocence. His appalling act in not understanding who or what I’m talking about is as much an insult as my name attached to his.
“The woman?” he questions, his eyebrows raised. “Oh, you’re talking about my guest Wren.”
Guest.
Ciro looks to his side. With one glance in Angelina’s direction, she starts to back away. Her eyes capture mine, saying more than words ever could.
She’s scared.
Son of a bitch.
Once Angelina is gone, I take three steps to close the distance between Ciro and myself.
“Tell me why Wren is here.”
Two marked emotions pass over my uncle’s aging features.
The first is satisfaction. Ciro is reveling in my avid interest in what’s he’s done.
But there’s something else he’s giving away—unadulterated fear.
Ciro is nervous. He’s contemplating what I’ll do in the wake of his decision to take what doesn’t belong to him. This time he’s crossed a line he’ll never be able to return from. He’s taken a woman who doesn’t belong to him—but to me.
“Sit down, mio nipote,” he urges, pointing to the chair I stood from. “We have a lot to discuss, and right now, neither of us has time for your temper.”
For many years, I’ve turned a blind eye to my uncle’s cunning and manipulative ways. Though I’ve refused to acknowledge his criminal associations of any kind, Ciro’s madness has never lurked far beneath his shallow surface.
Giving him my full attention, I watch as he takes a seat on the couch across from my chair, holding a drink in one hand and a lit cigar in another. The swollen red tip dances in the air as he puts it to his mouth and takes in another poisoning breath.
As a child, blind to the ways of the fucked-up world I lived in, this is how I became privy to my uncle’s successes. His triumphs meant he’d indulge in one of his most expensive and finest cigars.
“You have questions, I’m sure,” he states.
“And I want answers.”
“We all want, Liam. The key to getting what you want is patience.”
“Then I’m demanding them,” I order.
Ciro tenses, his jaw clicking at each grind of his teeth. “Watch your tone when you address me. You may be like a son to me, the only one I’ve ever raised, but you’re in my home and you’ll give me the respect I deserve.”
He deserves no respect at all.
&
nbsp; I don’t apologize; instead, I press, “Ciro, why is Wren Adler here?”
His answer comes quick, too hasty and far too certain. “She’s here because she needs my help. Our help.”
My uncle doesn’t “help” anyone, family or not, if the reasons are not his own. I know this as well as he.
“Why does she need help?”
“I believe you already know the answer. “Matter of fact, I believe you know those reasons more than most.”
“Maybe you’ll explain it to me anyway,” I insist. “And you’ll put your reasoning in simple terms that those not in your business can understand.”
Accusingly, Ciro counters, “You’ve never taken interest in family business before.”
“I’ve never had reason.”
One eyebrow cocks as he takes a drink. Once he swallows, he asks, “And you have these reasons now?”
“Cut the shit, Ciro.”
“Have I mistreated the girl in any way? Have I made the sweet woman feel like a prisoner? Or made her feel unwelcome in my home?”
A thousand thoughts cross my mind. The haunting echo of Mike’s voice telling me to let her go. Chase Avery and his ties to this family. Saint’s Justice involvement with Wren’s disappearance when I couldn’t find her.
All of this has led to the man sitting before me, masking his excitement under the ruse of concern. Basking in the glory he thinks I can’t possibly understand. But I do.
This is Ciro Palleshi—a soulless mastermind, a vindictive killer, and an ace in the art of manipulation.
And once again, he’s up to no good.
Leaning up, he places his drink on the table between us. “Let’s cut to it, shall we? I’ll give you your simple terms.”
“Yes.”
“Everything in life comes down to choices.”
“Choices,” I echo.
“Yes. Wren is here. As Pete will be very soon.”
“This tells me nothing I don’t already know.”
“Practice your patience, Liam. You’re not listening to the explanation you demanded.”
I nod curtly.
“No matter what you may believe, I’m not a monster.”
He is a monster, one who parades himself as a tyrannical businessman. Pete and Wren are both in danger if they’re part of one of his schemes to get something he wants. As well as me.
