Page 12 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
“Wait!” I grab the handle and tug the door open a little to reveal a man.
He’s wearing a pants suit, a white shirt, and an obvious gun holster with two pistols strapped to his chest. Brown eyes stare at me from a scarred yet youthful face.
“I need to speak to Enrique.”
“He’s busy.”
“Well then, kindly inform him that I would like to speak to him.” I paint a fake smile on my face. “Please.”
The man’s mouth forms a flat line that sinks one long scar deep into his cheek, stealing his youth entirely. I lift a brow, waiting for a response. I get none. Grabbing the door, he yanks it shut with a forceful bang and locks it behind him. This is so frustrating. This is all just lost time. My act could be utter perfection, but without an audience, it’s all a waste. Trust cannot be bought from a distance. I know Enrique can’t keep me here forever. He at least has to free me to marry me, but after that…I honestly have no idea. This could well be my fate, and if that’s the case…if I never get the chance to kill him, I’d rather be dead myself.
I lay on the bed, watching the sun swoop through the sky in an arc. Shadows glide across the room like fingers reaching for me inch by infinitesimal inch. Despite the size of the room and the glass walls, the space feels oppressive, suffocating. Four days in Enrique’s fancy cage is enough to have my skin crawling.
The knock on the door has me lurching off the bed and striding to the door. It opens, and the same delightful gentleman as before greets me. His scowl is still in place and firmly fixed on me.
“Come,” he says before he turns and starts to walk down the hallway.
I hurry to catch up with his long strides, nervously dragging my fingers through my hair in an attempt to rid it of knots. I’ve never cared about my appearance, but I’m not naïve to men and their thoughts. Gabi once told me that seduction is a woman’s greatest weapon because it is every man’s weakness. Clearly, my sister never met a man like Sasha. I instantly regret the thought because of the stinging guilt that accompanies it. Lifting my chin, I push the Russian from my mind and focus on the task at hand. Though, I have no idea where to even begin seducing a man as dangerous as Enrique. He’s no university jock. Then again, what was it that Gabi said about Enrique? He wants to tame you. Perhaps it’s not willingness he wants.
I’m led down the stairs and along another clinical-looking hallway. White walls, more glass. The man never stops or checks that I’m still following. It’s beginning to feel a little like a funeral march, and the farther we go, the more anxious I become. He finally stops outside a heavy wooden door and knocks. There’s a muffled reply from the other side, and he pushes it open, stepping to the side.
“Miss Ricci for you, sir,” he says.
“Thank you, David.”
That scarred glare fixes on me impatiently, and I step into the room. The door closes behind me with a finality that feels ominous. This now seems like the jailcell, only this time I’m locked in with the monster. My heart rate ticks up, thrumming erratically against my eardrums.
Enrique sits behind an enormous desk, his brows pulled together as he reads over some paperwork in front of him. Brilliant sunlight pours through the glass at the back of the room, catching on the inky black of his hair. I wait and watch him. To the unsuspecting eye, he could probably be mistaken for an ordinary businessman.
“Speak,” he says without looking up.
I suck in an agitated breath and force my shoulders back. “I need to speak to my sister.”
With a sigh, he sits back and braces one elbow on the arm of his chair. Those coal-black eyes narrow on me, and his index finger taps his bottom lip. A stray lock of hair falls onto his brow, and for a moment, he almost looks handsome. I imagine many women have offered themselves to him over the years. Why he would want a girl who ran as soon as she heard of this ridiculous marriage pact, I don’t know. He could surely have another daughter from another mafia family.
“You are not in a position to make demands,” he says casually, his tone rife with boredom.
That familiar rage bubbles inside me, and like the feral entity that it is, I have to fight it back. “Am I your prisoner?”
There’s a moment of silence before he leans forward, bracing both elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers in front of him. The sleeves of his jacket ride up, revealing shiny, gold cufflinks against a crisp white shirt. “Are you?”
