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“It wasn’t just your boyfriend, was it?” Nat asks gently.
I don’t know how she’s so damn perceptive, but I nod, sniffling. “My foster parents, too,” I admit, my voice quaking.
Nat’s fingers tighten on my shoulder before she retracts them, balling her hand into a fist. “Your parents tried to sell you along with your boyfriend?” she asks, horrified.
“Foster parents,” I correct her. “But yes.”
Nat gapes at me, her cool façade breaking. Her face suddenly clouds over with anger, her eyes narrowing into slits. I take an instinctive step back as Nat looks terrifying.
“Would you like them to be taken care of?” Nat asks casually, staring at her nails with measured indifference.
Taken care of—oh.
I shake my head wildly, ignoring the throbbing from doing so. “No! No. Please don’t hurt them. I can’t have that on my conscience.”
“On your conscience?” Nat splutters. “Alexis, they tried to sell you as a sex slave! Why are you still loyal to them?”
I don’t expect Nat to understand my situation, and frankly, I don’t find it to be any of her business. But maybe if I tell her why I feel this way, maybe she’ll stop asking me so many damn questions.
“I’ve been in foster care since I was six,” I say, feeling as though I’m stripping myself raw in front of Nat. I don’t like to talk about my past. “I was in a pretty terrible situation. My previous foster family abused me, and I ran away. After a few days on the streets, I was nearly kidnapped. Just before I was shoved into the car, my current foster father rescued me. I’ve been at their home ever since. They protected me when no one else would.”
“They’re bad people, Alexis!” Nat points out, and I can’t help but laugh.
“Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black?” I ask, watching as Nat’s face screws up in annoyance that I called her out on her hypocrisy. “I mean, you’re in the Mafia. I don’t think that gives you some moral high ground.”
Nat scowls. “I may be a lot of things and have done some unspeakable acts, but I’ve never tried to sell my loved ones to sexual slavery. There’s a line, Alexis.”
I shrug, finding her reasoning to be pretty flimsy. “I owe them my life. You don’t have to understand why, but you need to accept it. No one is to hurt them.”
An alarm suddenly blares, its wailing tone high-pitched. The hair on the back of my neck stands up as I jump, looking around. Nat’s face pales.
“What’s going on?” I ask fearfully, but Nat’s already scrambling for the door and wrenching it open. She disappears down the hall, leaving the door ajar. I hear men shouting and see a gaggle of men rush past my door.
Whatever’s going on isn’t good. But this might be the distraction I need to get out of here.
Poking my head out the door, I see the hallway is empty. This is my chance.
I rush down the hall and come to a staircase that leads to a front door. My heart leaps into my throat. Freedom.
I nearly throw myself down the stairs, my feet making quick work as the door gets closer and closer. I reach out to grab the door handle, almost tasting the night air, but someone grabs me from around my middle and hoists me backward.
No! Not again! I flail in my captor’s arms, trying to sink my elbow or knee into something soft, but all I meet is hard flesh. “Let me go!” I shriek.
“You aren’t leaving until Damian says so,” a deep voice rumbles into my ear as I’m carried back upstairs. Tears prick my eyes as I see my freedom slipping away with each step back toward my prison.
I was so close. So close.
My captor deposits me outside a bedroom and opens the door, keeping a tight hand around my wrist to prevent me from escaping again. He pushes me in and shuts the door behind him.
The bedroom I’m in is incredibly spacious, with vaulted ceilings and large windows that let in plenty of natural light during the day. However, the room has a distinct lived-in feel, with clothes and magazines strewn about haphazardly.
Framed photos of classic sports cars, like the Ford GT40, Lamborghini Countach, and Ferrari Testarossa adorn the walls. Along one wall is a massive wooden dresser, its top covered in diecast model cars. The open closet door reveals a tumbled mess of clothes, shoes, and car detailing supplies.
A plush dog bed sits in another corner, surrounded by an assortment of well chewed toys. But my attention is fixated on the king-sized bed in the center of the room, where Damian lies on rumpled red sheets, his chest wrapped in white gauze and bandages. A small dachshund is curled in the crook of his arm. The dog perks up when my captor and I enter the room, a warning growl coming out of its tiny body.
Nat is sitting on a chair beside Damian’s bedside and scowls at the dog, her face pale. “Quiet, Biscotti,” she orders.
Although the situation looks serious and I should be frightened, I fight a smile when I hear the dog’s name. Maybe I’ve seen too many Mob movies, but I would have expected a Mafia Don to have a pit bull or a German Shepherd, not a lap dog named after a cookie.
