Page 28 of Ruthless Sin
I slide into the front seat, my thighs tight against the leather, and close the door myself.
I touch the chain at my throat.
The bastards who took me took my skin. They never took the name.
Nico gets into the driver’s seat, the door slamming to seal us in. He adjusts the rearview mirror to track Sofia’s reflection, then shifts it again so my face is cut out of the glass.
His eyes don’t return to the mirror.
“You tell me if you want out,” he says, his voice a low, clipped baritone as he watches Sofia in the mirror. “We stop the vehicle. No questions asked.”
Sofia nods behind us.
His eyes shift to the side mirror, finding the reflection where the edge of my jaw sits against the glass.
His voice drops, rougher, heavier. “Ty tozhe.” You too.
Two words.
Heat drops low in my belly and my ribs let go a half-inch.
He turns the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life.
The iron gate of the compound rolls back, opening onto Magazine Street. Spanish moss hangs thick from the giant oak trees, casting shadows over the white-columned houses and the wide verandahs where wealthy women drink from porcelain cups.
From the backseat, I was always trapped behind the bulk of his shoulders. From the front, I am sitting beside his skin, and I can see the precise line of his thigh against the console, the dark hair curling at the hollow of his throat where his shirt opens.
He is looking straight at the asphalt and does not drop his eyes to my legs.
I want to reach across the leather and cover his hand with mine.
My fingers curl in my lap instead.
The line of his thigh against the console is right there. Six inches. The muscle is hard under the fabric and I know what his hands feel like from Sunday and I am sitting in the front seat of his car and the cotton between my legs is still damp from the hallway.
He turns the dial down without looking at me, and the cool air finds my throat before I’ve registered that I was warm. Nobody has done that for me in a very long time.
The tires crunch over the gravel as we pull into the long driveway of Casa Lucia. Two stories of old brick, heavy white columns, and the thick scent of jasmine and roses choking the porch.
Nico kills the engine, his fingers lingering on the steering wheel. “I wait here,” he says, his voice dropping low. “The whole time. Sofia knows the room.”
He keeps his eyes fixed on the center of the wheel, a tendon tightening at his temple.
I nod once, letting my gaze linger on the opening of his collar before I open the door and step out into the heat. I shove the bread deep into my pocket.
The main lobby has a framed photograph hanging on the back wall that I’ve walked past without looking. Today, I force my head to turn.
A woman with dark hair pinned back watches the room. She was beautiful her entire life. She isn’t performing a smile for the camera. She’s looking at whoever took the shot as if she chose him of her own free will.
The brass plaque beneath the glass reads Lucia Santoro. Founder.
Nico’s mother.
I stare into her gray eyes.
The jaw is his. The set of it — like she’s already decided and isn’t asking for agreement.
She looks happy.
