From the hall, my bedroom door clicks open, and Dutch reappears.

  His expression is wild, and I realize my mistake instantly.

  “You cannot be fucking serious,” he says. “That asshole expects you to marry her?”

  “Keep your voice down.”

  He stares at me like I’ve just failed some test I didn’t know I was taking. Then, he steps back, shaking his head. “This whole thing is so fucked.”

  “No shit.” I snort and pour myself another shot and one for him too.

  He takes his, eyeing me over the rim. “You realize he’s completely lost it, right?”

  “Don’t talk shit about the boss,” I warn.

  “My boss is standing right in front of me.”

  I groan. “Shut the fuck up, man. You can’t talk like that.”

  “You already know it. I’m just saying it out loud.”

  “No.”

  “Then you’re going to have to convince her to give her cooperation some other way,” he says.

  I stare back at him, my thoughts churning.

  “Grey,” he warns knowingly.

  “Call Razor and Crow so we can go over logistics. If we’re going to let her walk in and make sure she walks out again, we need a plan.”

  “Your dad—”

  “Fuck him. She had one demand. Without it, I’m forcing her, and if I do that, no one’s going to believe this marriage isn’t real. Which means Franco’s people will come for us, and then we’re as likely to destroy the city and each other as win this war. I’m tired of watching him run us into the damn ground.”

  His eyes gleam because he wants this mutiny even more than I do. Before I can pull out of reach, he’s clinking our shot glasses together and downing his whiskey. “I’ll drink to that, boss.”

  16

  LEXI

  After watching Grey kill a man who was trying to kill me, then having him tell me that lap dance was his own personal bonus to the mission of kidnapping me, I’m convinced I won’t sleep a wink. But the moment my head hits the pillow, I’m out like a light. For the next few hours, I stir occasionally at the sound of muted voices coming from the living room and even the ding of the elevator once or twice. Vaguely, I’m aware I should get up if only to keep my guard up and my wits about me while others are inside this apartment. But sleep manages to keep its grip tightly around me until, finally, I wake, groggy, starving, and unsure when I started feeling comfortable enough in this place to knock out for quite so long.

  Padding into the bathroom, I’m reaching for the shower knobs when I suddenly remember I don’t have a single shred of clothing to change into besides the slept-in, wrinkled, smelly ones I’m wearing and the even more smelly ones I arrived in.

  “Fuck it,” I mutter and peel off my clothes anyway.

  If he refuses to buy me clothes, I’ll go naked.

  The shower is heavenly, the hot water doing wonders to wake me up and work out the kinks of the stress from the past few days. Time feels weird, like it should have been months since I was taken from the parking lot of Shady’s and brought to a strange city where two feuding families are fighting over me like I’m their favorite toy.

  Instead, it’s been days.

  And I’m already starting to adjust to this new reality.

  For some reason, that leaves me disappointed in myself most of all.

  I can’t control what’s been done to me, but the fact that I’m starting to lose my panic over it… it’s wrong somehow.

  When I’m done with my shower, I wring out my hair and wrap a towel around my body then grab my dirty clothes from the floor. Attempting to wash them in the tub doesn’t help much, thanks to the stains left by the events of last night.

  With a sigh, I give up on the idea of re-wearing them and instead yank my bedsheet off the mattress and wrap it around myself like a toga.

  “Better than nothing,” I mutter to myself and then march out before I can overthink my choice.

  The living room is dimly lit by a cloudy sky that’s threatening rain just outside the massive windows. After a quick glance revealing an empty room, I pad to the fridge in search of food. There’s not much besides eggs and a takeout container of noodles I cannot be certain isn’t spoiled. I do manage to find coffee and focus on making myself a cup before I commit to anything else.

  The apartment is silent while I fumble with the coffeemaker, adding grounds and water and hitting the power button. For a second, I think the place is empty and Grey left me here alone. It’s not like I can get out, anyway, so maybe he—

  The other bedroom door opens with a soft click.

  A second later, Grey appears.

  “Hey,” he says.

  “Hey.”

  His gaze rakes over my sheet-covered body, and I feel goosebumps rise along my skin at his perusal.

  “What are you wearing?”

  My cheeks flush. “I don’t have any clean clothes.”

  Understanding lights his dark eyes; then his mouth quirks. “Actually, you do.”

  “What?”

  “Come here.”

  He leads the way back down the hall. After a single second of hesitation, I hurry around the bar and follow him, stopping when he disappears into his own bedroom. Something about entering his personal space feels, well, personal.

  “I didn’t want to wake you up,” he says from inside, “so I had everything brought in here for now.”

  Curiosity gets the better of me, and I follow the sound of his voice, passing through a bedroom done in muted grays and blacks and creams into a walk-in closet that’s more empty than full.

  On one side, I spot a selection of pants and shirts all similar to what he’s wearing now along with at least half a dozen suits. On the other side, Grey is unzipping a garment bag and shrugging it open to reveal hangers full of women’s blouses, shirts, dresses, and even a couple of evening gowns. There are six more garment bags next to the first one, each packed full.

  “What is all this?” I ask.

  “Clothes,” he says simply.

  I stare at him. “For me?”

  “Of course. I told you last night that I’d get you more clothes.”

  “But…” He unzips another garment bag and strips it away to reveal more casual items. Sweatshirts, leggings, a tee that says “Meowdy” beneath a cat wearing a cowboy hat.

  I snort and then look up to find him watching me. There’s something about the way he’s taking in my reaction that leaves me feeling exposed.

  “Do you like it?” he asks.

  “I—yeah. This is … a lot.”

  He shrugs. “I wasn’t sure what you liked. What your style is.”

  I run my hand over the velvety gown in the first batch. “And you think this is my style?”

  “My father says we’ll be making the engagement announcement tomorrow night, and we’ll need to look the part.”

  “I see.” My stomach tightens with nerves. Suddenly, the simple gesture with the clothes feels more strategic than kind. “And did he agree to the meeting with Franco?”

  “Yes. We’re setting it up for tomorrow morning.”

  My eyes widen as surprise spears through me. I didn’t expect him to go for it, honestly. But I smooth my features and nod calmly. “Great.”

  “May I offer a suggestion?”

  “Sure.”

  “Go with the pants suit.” He grabs a hanger off the rack of the first batch of items.

  My brows lift as I survey its pinstriped pattern and classy, business-casual vibe. “Not really my style,” I say.

  “I meant for tomorrow. It’s what Franco will respond to.”

  “I see. Um, thanks.”

  “I’ll carry these over to your room if you’re ready.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  I grab a garment bag off the rack to help him and nearly drop it from the sheer weight of the thing. “Holy shit, what’s in this one? Bricks?”

  He smirks. “Shoes and accessories, probably. They pack everything in garment bags rather than boxes. Easier to carry.”

  “Huh.” I put that one back and select another, lighter option then follow him to my room, the ends of my sheet trailing behind me. “Who’s they?”

  “What?”

  “You said ‘they’ pack in garment bags.”

  “Oh, right. The delivery service.”

  I wait while he hangs everything in my closet. “You ordered all this from a delivery service?”

  “Yes. It was faster than shopping for it in person.”

  I stare at him, trying like hell to make sense of the man that is Grey Diavolo. One minute, he’s killing a man in cold blood, and the next, he’s ordering me cat t-shirts with funny sayings on them.

  “What?” he asks and I realize I’ve been staring too long.

  “Trying to figure you out, I guess.”

  He snorts. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

  “Funny.”

  But he doesn’t smile. If anything, he looks confused. “What’s to figure out? I’m not that complicated.”

  “Yeah,” I scoff. “Right.”

  “Okay then.” He crosses his arms, challenging me. “What’s so hard to understand?”

  “You’re a kidnapper, a killer, and a mafia boss’s son,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers.

  “Is that all?” he shoots back.

  “No. That’s the problem,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re also a cook, a protector of young girls, and apparently a fan of punny t-shirts.”

  His lips twitch. “Is that last one a point for me or against me?”

  “I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Fair.” His gaze holds mine, and the silence between us stretches.

  “Is Grey even your real name?” I finally blurt.

  Surprise flickers in his eyes and I can’t help the disappointment that spears through me to realize it’s not. “It’s my middle name. When I left, I started using it as an alias.”

  “Left where?”

  He hesitates. “I left the city for a few years.”

  “Where did you go?”

  His expression tightens, and I realize too late I’ve crossed a boundary somehow.

  “Away,” he says simply.

  “And now you’re back,” I say, trying to get us back onto even footing.

  “For now.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t say more. Instead, he stares at me with a look of such intensity I can feel it all the way through to my bones. Instantly, I go from trying to understand the contradictions he contains to losing myself in the dark depths of his eyes. He flicks a glance at my mouth, and I realize suddenly that we’ve somehow ended up in my bedroom with me in nothing but a bedsheet. And all I can think about is what he told me earlier, about how that lap dance was all for him.

  In this moment, I’d dance for him all over again if he asked me to.

  But he doesn’t.

  Finally, he looks away from me, toward the door at my back—like he wants nothing more than to escape this moment. An instant later, after a mumbled comment about grabbing the rest of my stuff, escape is exactly what he does, leaving me alone to catch my breath and add another contradiction to the list.

  My attraction to Grey makes zero sense whatsoever, but it’s only getting stronger the harder I fight it. The question is, what happens when I can’t fight it anymore? Who will he be then?

  17

  LEXI

  I force myself to take a deep breath and concentrate on steadying my nerves. From the window of the second-floor high-rise office where I stand in heels and a pantsuit more expensive than I used to make in a month, I stare across the street below at Altobello’s Italian restaurant. It’s a bit out of place among the surrounding skyscrapers with its one-story stature and red, checkered awning with cute little flower hanging boxes beneath the windows.

  If I didn’t know it doubled as the headquarters for a wolf pack mafia, I’d find it inviting. Instead, my stomach churns with nausea, and my palms sweat as I study the restaurant’s tempered glass windows like they’re the crystal ball I need to see how this will all play out.

  “You ready?”

  Grey’s voice snaps me back to the present. I turn from the window and face him, nodding even though I’m pretty sure I might vomit at any moment. He frowns, studying me in a way that lets me know I don’t have him fooled.

  “Breathe,” he says quietly.

  “I am,” I snap, mostly because, if he’s nice to me now, I’ll lose it. Especially since he hasn’t spoken a word to me since our strangely friendly conversation last night where he bought me an entire wardrobe and then stalked out like I’d somehow offended him by repaying him with conversation.

  His hot-then-cold attitudes are giving me whiplash.

  At my snapping reply, he says curtly, “Let’s go.”

  I follow him out of the empty office and into the lobby where a bank of elevators awaits us. The floor we’re on is emptied of employees, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s some holiday I don’t know about that’s kept everyone away or if Grey orchestrated it so his men would have a clear vantage point. Men I recognize from the warehouse the other night though none of us mention it.

  “This building is neutral territory,” Grey says even though he already gave me this exact spiel on the drive over today. “We use it for meeting with lawyers and contract negotiations. When you get there, tell them my father brought you in here to discuss your prenup and you managed to slip away.”

  “How do you know Franco will be there?” I ask.

  “Unless he’s sleeping or fucking, he’s there.” He snorts. “Actually, even then, he probably—”

  “I got it.” I wave a hand so he won’t say more about my grandfather having sex. Ugh. “And where will you be?”

  “Close,” he says, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that makes me nervous about my plan. “They aren’t just going to let you walk out when you’re finished. They’ll say it’s for your own protection, but you’re walking into a death trap.”

  “You don’t know that,” I say, but he cuts me off.

  “Yeah, I do. You think my father locking you in a tower sucked?” He grunts. “Franco’s going to put you in a basement and never let you—”

  “Okay, you’ve made your point. You think this is a terrible idea. But since I’m doing it anyway, where will you be?”

  His eyes glitter with the promise of his words. “You won’t see me, princess, but I’ll be close enough to see you. Remember what we talked about. You get yourself to the front door. I’ll do the rest, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  The vagueness of his plan would have bothered me if I’d been at all intending on seeing it through. I do my best to keep my true intentions off my face while he hits the elevator call button.

  The silence between us feels heavy. Or maybe that’s my conscience.

  No, I remind myself.

  This man kidnapped me and used me as leverage in his turf war. I have nothing to feel bad about in trying to escape him. So why does it bother me so much that I intend to betray him? And why do I hate that this is goodbye forever?

  The elevator dings brightly as it arrives, and the doors slide open. I step inside, turning to face Grey while I wait for the doors to close again. His hands are shoved into his pockets, the look in his eyes a bit wild as he stares back at me.

  “Watch your back in there, princess.”

  “I will.”

  I wonder if he and I could have been friends if our circumstances were different. Doesn’t matter, I tell myself as the doors slide closed. The circumstances we’re in make us enemies. It’s as simple as that.

  I set my shoulders as the elevator carries me off to a future that doesn’t include Grey Diavolo.

  Out on the street, the traffic and noise threaten to overwhelm me. I’ve never been in a city this big. In another situation, it could have been fun to take it all in—the chaos and the fast pace of everything and everyone around me—but today, it’s too much. My heart pounds as I move to the crosswalk and wait with the other pedestrians to cross the street. I don’t look up at the office windows behind me, but I don’t have to; I can feel Grey watching me anyway.

  He's right. I won’t see him, but I know he sees me.

  For now.

  The walk light turns green, and I move forward with the people around me. On the far side of the street, they turn left and right, the small crowd dispersing as they make their way quickly toward their destination.

  I continue straight ahead until I come to stand beneath the red-checkered awning. Before I can second-guess myself, I reach for the door and push my way inside.

  The lighting is dim, and it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. As they do, I inhale the scent of Italian cooking. My stomach grumbles for it, but I shove that aside and scan the dining room. It’s empty, but there’s a coffee mug and ashtray sitting out on the table in the back.

  I start toward it, but movement behind the bar startles me.

  “You looking for a table?”

  A man stands behind the mahogany bar, polishing a glass with a rag. He’s older than me by a couple of decades with shaggy hair and stubble. There’s a hardness in his eyes that has me stopping where I am.

  “I’m looking for Franco,” I say.

  His stare intensifies. “What do you want with Franco?”

  “I’m his—”

  “I know who you are.”

  That startles me into silence. If he knows, then why is he giving me the run-around?

  “Bobby,” a male voice calls out.

  A door at the back of the restaurant swings open, and a man not much older than me walks out. He’s broad-shouldered and dressed in a suit that looks more expensive than anything I could ever hope to own. The way he walks, with confidence edging straight into conceit, cancels out the fact that he’s mildly handsome.

  “Pop said he wants you to—”

  The newcomer stops when he catches sight of me, his brown eyes narrowing. “What the fuck do you want?”

  I tense. This is not the welcome I expected. And I’m running out of time.