Page 37 of Wicked Mafia Sinner

The call goes directly to voice mail.

“Grrr! Son-of-a-bitch!”

Maybe it’s for the best. What would I even say? How do I explain any of this when I don't understand it myself? Raine would hear the gaps in my story and fill them with panic, and I can't manage her panic right now. Mine is taking up all the available bandwidth I have.

I put the phone down and lift my hand to the locket at my throat. Still there. The gold is warm from my skin. I pop it open and the dried lily of the valley sits in one half, fragile and pale, a pressed ghost of something that used to bloom in Mom's window box. I touch it with my fingertip. Close it. Hold it in my fist.

I need a shower. The soap from last night has dried into a crunchy shell in my hair and I probably look like a creature that crawled out of a swamp. If I'm going to figure out where I am and how to get out, I should at least do it without looking like a before photo in a shampoo commercial.

I wrap the blanket around myself and shuffle toward what I hope is a bathroom. The door on the left opens into exactly that, black marble and chrome fixtures and a shower the size of my entire bathroom back home. Everything is sleek, expensive, and designed for one person. One toothbrush in the holder. One towel on the rack. One razor on the shelf.

I grab the mouthwash and open drawers until I find a pack of brand new toothbrushes. “Bingo.” More towels are stowed in a closet behind the bathroom door.

Once I’m done, I turn on the water and wait for it to heat up, which takes about three seconds because of course a billionaire's underground lair has instant hot water. Steam fills the space. I drop the blanket and step under the spray.

The heat hits my shoulders and I groan out loud. Two days of running, hiding, not sleeping, fighting off assassins and then getting hauled into the underworld of a mobster leaves a girl stiff head to toe. My muscles scream. The cut on my shin stings when the water finds it and I look down at the dried blood washing pink down the drain.

I didn't even notice that cut last night. I was too busy trying not to die.

The soap in my hair dissolves and I lather a fresh round into the long length. Rinse. Repeat. And then again simply because it smells like lavender and honey. I grab the conditioner and work that in before reaching for the body wash with the scent of cedar and pine. By the time I'm done, my whole body is going to smell like Rowan Volkov and I'm not sure how I feel about that.

Actually, I know exactly how I feel about it. The heat pooling low in my belly when I breathe in his scent tells me exactly how I feel about it, and that feeling is inconvenient and inappropriate and absolutely not something I'm going to think about right now.

I shut off the water and grab the fresh towel from the rack. It's huge, plush, and simply divine against my skin. I wrap it around myself and stand in front of the foggy mirror, swiping a hand across the glass to see my reflection.

I look like hell. Bruises have formed on my forearm where the human tanks grabbed me. Dark circles color the patches of skin under my eyes. But my hair is clean and my skin is warm and I'm alive, which is more than I could say for certain twelve hours ago.

Now I need clothes.

I pad back into the bedroom and stare at the closet. Dark suits. Dark suits. More dark suits. The man owns approximately forty-seven variations of the same outfit. I bypass the suits and grab the gray t-shirt from the shelf, the one casual item he apparently owns.

I pull it over my head and it falls to mid-thigh. Long enough to cover everything that needs covering. I look like I'm wearing a nightgown made for a giant, but it's better than the towel and significantly better than naked.

My boots are still by the bed. I push the paper back in and turn it upright.

I should read it. I pull it back out and run my finger over the crease. Pure curiosity moves my fingers to open the folded paper, but I stop when I see the first word.

Rowan Volkov.

Oh, God. Just as I feared. It does involve Rowan. I inhale, hold, and release. I feel calmer but my hands still tremble. Whatever is on this paper got a man killed. Reading it will make all the fear come back and I don’t need anymore adrenaline jacking my system. My body is running on fumes and fear. I need a minute to breathe before I add more nightmare fuel to the pile.

Later. When I've had a moment to process everything. When my hands stop shaking, I’ll read it.

It’s hard, but I shove aside the weight of my problems. The fact that all my flowers are dead by now and I missed my publishing deadline stings. But I can’t do much about any of it right now so I tuck the dead man’s paper back into my boot and focus on my new surroundings. I look around the room for clues about the Volkov who rescued me. A man's home tells you more about him than his words ever will, and Rowan Volkov is a man who rations his words like they cost him money.

I leave the boots by the bed and pad out to the hallway. Black marble covers everything out here too, cool and smooth under my bare feet. The short corridor opens up after a few steps and I stop dead.

The space in front of me is a cavern carved out of black marble and stone. I know I saw it last night, but too much adrenaline jacked up my senses. Now I can appreciate the beauty of my safe haven, I guess I can call it. For now, anyway.

“Hello,” I call out just to make sure I’m the only one here. The ceiling is vaulted high enough that my voice echoes back.

To my left, the pool shimmers blue beneath the surface lights, the water casting ripples of light across the rock above it. Beyond the pool, floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire wall, and through them I can see a valley dropping away to a lake that seems to go on forever.

Gray morning light pours through the glass, falling in pale shafts across a leather sofa, a low coffee table, and massive bookcases carved directly into the stone wall.

Books give way to a massive collection of records.

“Wow.” I cross the room and run my fingers over the protective cases of actual vinyl records. There have to be hundreds of them. They are all organized in built-in shelves beside a record player set into a polished wood case.