She didn’t look away. “We do what we have to do. Our people are taken care of.”
“Si, and if they step out of line, you or another of your family makes an example of them. That is fear used effectively.” He put one sandwich on a plate and paused. “Rectangles or triangles?” He knew the answer from so many similar conversations in his kitchen, albeit about different topics. He simply wanted to see if she’d admit this, too, was truth.
“What am I, three?” When he just stared, she sighed and looked away. “Triangles, obviously. That hasn’t changed.”
He cut the sandwich in half diagonally and pushed the plate across the island to her. “Unless I’m wrong and the great Romanov family relies on drugs to ensure good behavior.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Rose picked up half the sandwich and took a bite. She chewed for several long moments while she appeared to consider his statement. “Papa prefers a lighter touch. He can do more in a single sentence than most people can do with a tank and battalion of soldiers.”
He knew. Anyone who had even the slightest connection with crime on the East Coast had heard of Dmitri Romanov. He’d spent most of his life ruling a huge chunk of NYC with an iron fist. When people crossed him these days, he didn’t make examples. They just…disappeared. “Big shoes to fill.”
“You could say that.” She frowned down at her plate. “Both my parents are larger than life and…” Rose tensed. “You know what? No. We’re not doing this. I’m eating, and then I’m going to bed on the couch, and maybe if you’re lucky, I won’t find a way to slit your throat in your sleep.”
“No, we won’t be doing that. You’ll be in my bed next to me.” He gave her a slow smile. “And if you attempt to attack me, I’ll take it as an invitation to touch you.”
“Touch me and…”
“Si, I know.” He waved it away. “You’ll come all over my hand again.”
Rose stared. She opened her mouth like she wanted to retort but eventually just picked up her sandwich. He resumed eating as well, and he couldn’t deny the satisfaction that rose in response to feeding this woman.
Oh, they’d shared meals before, and he’d thrown together pathetic little dinners from time to time in that shitty apartment, usually sandwiches like this meal or something equally within Jackson Smith’s budget. It didn’t count. Dante had cut off large swathes of himself during those months in order to cram himself into the framework that was Jackson Smith. To be easy and charming and make her feel safe enough that she never bothered to look into him past a surface background check. He’d let some of the truth filter in because he hadn’t been able to resist, but there was so much he left out. That wasn’t Dante, the real Dante.
She would know him.
Starting now.
Chapter 10
Rose planned to argue about the sleeping arrangements. She did. But after twenty-four hours of stress, her body just kind of…gave out. She let Dante guide her back into the bedroom, brushed her teeth, and then collapsed onto the ridiculously comfortable mattress wearing only a tank top and underwear. The last thing she registered was Dante pulling the covers up higher around her shoulders.
She woke up to sunlight streaming through the windows and the faint sound of eighties’ rock. Rose sat up and shoved her hair back from her face. She’d meant to use the night to make another escape attempt or at least try to turn the tables, but…
Exhaustion would get the best of anyone in this scenario. That’s all it was. Frankly, she should be proud she lasted as long as she had without collapsing. Better to focus on that rather than the missed opportunities. She hauled herself out of bed and into the bathroom. She used the toilet and spent entirely too long brushing her teeth. Stalling. That’s what she was doing. Fucking stalling.
She used mouthwash and then stared at her reflection in the mirror. Gone was the perfectly put-together woman she’d curated for most of her life. Her hair was wild, she didn’t have a speck of makeup on her face, and there were faint circles beneath her eyes.
Getting out of here was her top priority. It had to be her top priority. She didn’t know what time it was or what time zone they were even in, but shit had most definitely hit the fan back in New York. Lorelei could only stall for so long. She needed to be there, helping to put out fires. That was fact.
It was also fact that she had no way to get out of this house. The glass was reinforced, and the door had a security panel that she couldn’t pry off, and didn’t know the passcode to. It was eight fucking digits, too, which meant there were tens of thousands of code possibilities; it would take her years to find the right one.