Page 17 of Captive Promise

Nico Barone. Corsican, an underboss. I’ve heard Nikolai and Maskim talk about him before and what he’s done.

Cargo vanishes off the wrong docks and men who cross him simply stop being anywhere.

This man. This beautiful, catastrophically dangerous man has Seraphina.

And I agreed to stay with him for thirty days. Holy fuck.

“Where is she?” I demand, keeping my voice dispassionate. It’s the same tone I use to tell families the worst news of their lives without my own falling apart, because if I let one crack open the whole thing comes down. “I want to see her. Now.”

“Of course.” There’s not a flicker of surprise on his face, like he knew that would be the first thing out of my mouth.

Which, I realize with a sinking feeling, he did. He produces a tablet from inside his jacket, thumbs it open, and turns the screen to me.

The first thing I see is a playroom with soft light and toys thrown across a rug in bright primary colors.

And there—small, dark-haired, whole, unharmed—is Seraphina in teddy bear-printed pajamas, laughing at something off-screen with a giggle, both hands toward a person just out of frame.

My knees actually buckle and I would have collapsed if I hadn’t gotten a hand on the cold stone rail.

She’s okay. She’s really, truly okay.

“Satisfied?” he asks gently and I stiffen.

“For now.” I straighten and arrange my features so they’re cool. He doesn’t get to see my actual feelings. “That’s not the same as forgiving you.”

“I haven’t asked you to.” He pockets the tablet and tips his head toward the open doors behind him, gold light pouring down the steps. “Come in. It’s been a long twenty-four hours, Doctor. Let me show you your rooms.”

Your rooms. Not a cell or a cage. I follow him through the door because there’s no other direction left to walk.

Inside is just as gorgeous as the outside.

There are gleaming marble floors and a staircase curving to the upstairs.

Paintings hang everywhere in heavy old frames.

I look around, in awe.

None of it looks like it’s there to show off. It looks like he actually loves it, which bothers me more than gold toilets would have.

This isn’t a man pretending to be rich.

He just is and always has been.

He takes me up the stairs and down a long hall lined with closed doors.

At the very end he opens one onto a suite so beautiful that for one disoriented second I forget what it actually is.

There’s a sitting room first, done in cream and deep green, a fire already burning low in a marble surround like someone knew exactly when I’d arrive.

Through an archway, there’s a bedroom with a bed big enough for four, made up in linen so fine it looks like it would pour through my fingers if I tried to hold it.

Beyond that, there’s a bathroom, but I can’t see the details.

There are fresh flowers next to a plate of fancy sandwiches and fruit on the table and a robe folded at the foot of the bed.

The whole thing is so warm and so lovely and so obviously, painstakingly prepared for me that it makes my skin crawl.

A five-star cell, dressed up by a man who knows it.