Page 9 of Ruthless Scar
4
LORENZO
She’s pressed against the window like she’s trying to disappear through the glass. I’ve been watching her since we pulled away from her building. Twenty minutes of silence, and she hasn’t looked at me once. Her forehead rests against the window, breath fogging the glass in small circles that swell and then fade. Her hands are folded in her lap, fingers interlaced, knuckles white.
She’s smaller than I expected. The digital footprint Ghost left behind suggested someone bigger. Louder. More male. This woman looks like she’s been shrinking herself for years, folding inward until there’s barely a trace of her left.
“You can stop staring. I’m not going to jump out of a moving vehicle.”
Her voice cuts through the silence. Low. A little rough. She doesn’t turn to look at me.
Silence is safer. She noticed I was watching. That lands harder than it should.
“The strong silent thing works better when you’re not burning a hole in the side of my face.” Now she turns. Thosedark eyes find mine in the dimness of the car. “If you’re trying to intimidate me, you already did that. We can skip the encore.”
Her jaw sets when she talks. Spine straight. Refusing to look defeated even when she’s running on fumes.
Noted.
“Where exactly are we going?” she asks when I don’t answer. “You said somewhere safe. That could mean a lot of things.”
“The compound.”
“Informative.” She turns back to the window. “Do all Santoros have one-word vocabularies, or is that just you?”
A pull at the corner of my mouth.
“You never stop, do you.”
“So you said.” She watches me through the glass. “And yet here you are, answering. Progress.”
The SUV turns onto the main highway heading toward the Garden District. Twenty more minutes to the house. Twenty more minutes in this enclosed space with a woman who won’t stop pushing.
I should tell the driver to speed up.
Instead I’m tracking how her expression shifts in the passing streetlights. Sharp cheekbones. Faded purple at the ends of her dark hair. A silver stud in her nose, catching the light. The most compelling thing I’ve seen in longer than I can remember.
The way she holds herself. Not guarded. Refusal. Like she’s carved out of defiance. I’ve seen men break under less pressure than she’s under right now. She’s making small talk.
“Your sister.”
She goes rigid. Just for a second before she catches herself. “What about her?”
“The Benedettis have her.”
“That’s what I said.”
“How long?”
The silence stretches. I watch her throat swallow.
“Three years.” Her voice is different now. Stripped. “They’ve had her for three years.”
I understand obsession. I understand the hunt that consumes everything.
“We’ll find her.”
The words escape me. I don’t make promises.
