The Woman in the Trunk

"Whoa," I said a few hours later when I could hear a click in the hall.

There she was.

In a red dress and black heels.

Why Emilio had someone pick up dress clothes for a woman being held against her will in the spare room of my apartment was beyond me.

"I figured, if he wants a spectacle, might as well go hard," she said, that stubborn chin of hers jerking up, ready, defiant.

She looked like a woman ready to take on the world.

Or New York City's Capo dei Capi.

Which was really the same thing.

"You look good, babe," I told her, trying to remind my body that we decided not to touch her again.

"If he wanted sniveling and simpering and begging, he chose to have the wrong woman kidnapped," she added, eyes hard.

You had to appreciate her spirit.

It was the sexiest thing about her.

"Good," I said, nodding. "Keep that mindset. We might make it out of this thing tonight," I said, grabbing my keys. "Ready?"

"Yep," she said, the word snapping out as her back straightened.

"We're going to do everything we can to avoid anyth—" I started to assure her as we closed into the elevator.

"Don't," she cut me off, shaking her head. "I think we both know you can't make any promises tonight. I'd rather not get hopeful about some scenario that isn't going to happen. It will undo all the prep-talking I did while getting ready," she said, staring straight ahead at her reflection in the mirror as the doors opened.

She looked like what she was.

A woman on a mission.

Stone fucking cold.

A part of me itched to slip my hands up her skirt, to warm her up.

But she was right. She would fare better if she kept her guards up. The dress, the heels, the makeup, it was all warpaint. Taking any of that away might shake her confidence, make the whole thing worse.

My hand went to her lower back, making her body jolt at the contact, but not move away, as I led her into the parking garage.

There was no fighting, no trying to get away. We both knew we were beyond that now.

Hopefully, this would all be over by the end of the night.

And no permanent damage would be done.

It was a short drive to my father's brownstone, but my stomach worked itself into painful knots all the same, my mind unable to think of anything but the fear and pain in her eyes if I was ordered to turn on her.

My father had three of his guards around. With Christopher and Emilio there for me, despite not being expressly told to follow.

Leon would be shitting himself walking in. Or maybe he was just delusional enough to think he could charm the lot of us, and work his way back into our good graces.

At my side, Giana was ramrod straight, but her gait was calm and confident as we made our way up the front stoop. She didn't even bother to glare at my father's guards who were openly eye-fucking her before we disappeared inside.

"The fuck is this shit?" My father's voice boomed through the house, high-pitched and irritating, and my gaze went to Giana to see if she was surprised by the lack of depth there.

"The fuck is what shit?" I asked, facing my father as he came down the hall.

"What? We don't lock up prisoners anymore?" he asked, giving Gigi a cold once-over. She did the exact same thing, but slower, picking all the pieces of him apart, examining them, finding them lacking. Judging by the way his jaw started to tick, he saw this as well.

"She wasn't resisting, but if you wish it," I said, digging into my breast pocket where I'd tucked the cuffs in case she got cold feet between my apartment and the brownstone.

I slid them open, and Giana turned to face me, holding her wrists out in front of her, letting me click them on.

I tried to catch her eyes while I did it, but she refused to look at my face.

"Is Leon here yet?" I asked.

"He's not supposed to be for another half an hour," my father said, turning and walking into the dining room, leaving all of us to follow. "Why did you bring Emilio and Chris?" he asked, moving to the liquor cabinet.

"They pull guard duty when I need to handle business."

"I have my own men here."

"I see that," I agreed, then walked over to make my drink. My father was not someone who played host. And maybe in his position, I wouldn't either.

"Sit down," he demanded, glancing at Giana. "No, the other side of the table," he commanded as he took the head. He wanted her in the back near the wall facing the doorway, so her father would see her when he came in. My father wanted to watch Leon sweat. He got off on that shit.