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He laughed. “Not as great as I’d been expecting, but one good thing has come out of all of this.”
“What?”
His eyes flicked down the length of my body and back up again. “I got to spend time with you.”
“You’re a sick son-of-a-bitch,” I said, trying to sound tough, but my words emerged strangled, my throat tight.
He laughed again, deep and throaty. “I don’t think I’m the only one who’s sick. You’re the one who stabbed me twice and tied me to a chair. Plus hid two bodies rather than calling in the cops. Why didn’t you call the cops?”
“I don’t trust them.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t trust anyone.”
He appeared to hide a smile this time—one of agreement or satisfaction, rather than any kind of smugness. After all, he wasn’t in a position to be smug.
I realized he’d managed to switch our positions, so he was the one asking the questions, while I was answering. This guy might have let me catch him out last night, but I needed to be wary of him. This would have been easier if he’d been three hundred pounds in weight, balding, with a flat nose, and piggy eyes, rather than the lean, intense specimen who sat before me. I always thought I was better than some simpering girl who lost her mind over a guy, but this one sidetracked me for all the wrong reasons.
I forced myself to stay on track. “What about my sister? Were you supposed to kill her, too?”
“No. Not her. He wants her back.”
I froze. “Why?”
“He thinks you’ve led her astray. Pulled her from the family.”
I had to bark back laughter. “You have got to be kidding me. I’m the one who led her astray? That man doesn’t even know the meaning of family—not a family outside of whatever criminal venture he’s up to next, anyway. That’s his family to him, the people who are working with him. Or at least they’re family for as long as he wants them to be. Once he’s got what he wants from them, he doesn’t give a shit. And as for him caring about his real family—maybe you should ask him what happened to his wife!”
My anger had gotten the better of me. I was aware that I’d just ranted to the same man who’d already told me he wanted to see me dead. I didn’t know why I thought he would give a shit, but just in that moment, it felt good to talk. I hadn’t been able to speak to anyone properly for months, always watching what I said, whether that was with strangers or my own sister. But this stranger knew the truth of my life, so it didn’t matter.
I was wanted dead by the most powerful mobster in the country. Trouble was, he was also my father.
“Hey,” he said, almost amiably, and I had the feeling he’d have put his hands up in defense had they not been strapped to his thighs. “Don’t shoot the messenger.” And then, in my astonished face, he laughed at his own joke.
I scowled. “You’re not even remotely funny.”
“I’m aware of that, but what’s that saying about being in a position where you have to either laugh or cry? Considering my current situation, I’m not about to sit in front of you and start bawling like a baby.”
“We’ll see about that. If you don’t tell me what I need to know, I might just do things to you that will make you want to cry.”
His head tilted slightly to one side, and I noted the square jut of his jaw, and his long lean throat. “I wasn’t aware I’d been holding out on you.”
“I don’t trust you.”
“You don’t trust anyone. I remember.”
I had the sudden unnerving feeling that he was flirting with me. That wasn’t good. I needed him to take me seriously. Did he always use the cute half smile and the come-to-bed blue eyes as a way of getting what he wanted? I didn’t know anything about him, but I figured he probably did. I wasn’t going to let him think he could get away with it.
Rising from the chair, I rounded it to stand in front of him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I gave a smile that moved my lips but that I didn’t allow to touch my eyes, and then I reached down and took hold of the piece of tape holding the thigh wound together.
“This,” I said, as I gave the end of the tape a yank, tearing it from both the wound and the skin of his thigh. I’d torn away a good chunk of hair from his well-muscled thigh, and the wound opened up again, specs of bright red gleaming from around the darker blood which had dried and crusted to start to heal.
“Fuck!” he yelled, then clenched his teeth against the pain, rearing back and stamping his feet down on the ground. He repeated that several times, and for a moment I thought he was going to tip the chair over. Would he pass out again? But no, he seemed very much awake and now he glared at me with anger and hatred in his eyes. That was better.
I figured he’d take me seriously now.
