Then he stalks off, his steps echoing against the marble.

  My legs tremble, and I plaster myself against the wall, needing support.

  God, I hate this infuriating asshole.

  This is temporary. Five more months until I’m thirty-five. Five months to figure out what The Association wants with me. What could my mother have written in her letter? I asked my brothers, and they had no clue either.

  But I’ll find out. Because if there’s one thing Lana Anderson isn’t, it’s someone who wallows and cries.

  I draw a deep breath, steel my nerves, and start up the stairs. Ren meets me on the second-floor landing and leads me down an equally sterile hallway to the room on the farthest right.

  He hands me a phone. A message blinks back at me.

  Ren

  This is your suite.

  I stare at the words on the screen.

  “You don’t speak?”

  A sharp nod.

  “But you can hear.”

  Another nod.

  Ren

  I hear just fine.

  He swings open the door to my bedroom.

  Like everything else in the house, it’s modern luxury with neutral wallpaper with gold filigree, chrome furnishings, and a simple crystal chandelier. There’s a king-sized bed with a dove-gray leather headboard and one lavender armchair, similar to the one I have at home, by the bay windows. Tucked away in another corner is a desk.

  Ren hands me a folder. Inside are drafts of press releases for the Berisha and Sons Company about land purchases, building permits, upcoming mergers, earnings reports, and things of that nature.

  I’m familiar with these things from my time at Fleur, which unfortunately I had to resign because of my marriage to Elias. It wouldn’t look good to have a C-suite employee married to a known criminal.

  Among the issues, it’s been hard to let go of that part of my life—having a career. While it didn’t fill the emptiness inside me, it was something I took pride in.

  Ren types on his phone.

  Ren

  Elias said, “Make yourself useful.” Text me if you have questions. I’m on speed dial two.

  The Shadow King has thought of everything, apparently. From the priest, the rings—I stare at the simple diamond wedding band—to now…assignments.

  I’d laugh if I weren’t so pissed off.

  He hands me a laptop and points to the antique desk in the corner—the only piece of furniture that looks out of place in this otherwise modern room. Something about it seems familiar, but I can’t place it.

  Ren

  Elias keeps a small team. Hannah, the cook and housekeeper, will meet you later. Don’t try to leave. I don’t like chasing people.

  His lips twitch.

  Ren

  I’m much better at shooting them.

  He disappears before I can ask him questions. Who is he? Why does he have a mask on? Where’s Elias going to sleep?

  The last question has my pulse reeling.

  He’s not expecting a wedding night, is he?

  Because if he comes near me, I’ll cut his dick off.

  Gritting my teeth, I cross the room to the desk and yank open the drawer, grinning when I find a pair of scissors.

  This will do.

  I slide it into my jacket pocket.

  But then, I notice something on the corner of the desk. A small red box topped with a black bow.

  My heart flutters because I know that box.

  Geraldine’s Chocolates.

  How does he know?

  Seriously, Lana, does it matter how he knows? The man probably keeps food logs of everything we eat, the devil.

  My stomach growls. I ate nothing the entire flight, and now my biggest weakness is calling my name.

  I peel off the lid, biting down a squeal when I see a dozen of their limited-edition champagne roses confections.

  The addictive sweetness hits my taste buds, and my mood immediately improves.

  But then, I start hallucinating.

  “Meow.”

  The chocolates are laced. That has to be what’s happening.

  There’s no way the cold mobster has this adorable little creature who just wandered out of my walk-in closet like it was waiting for me.

  A beautiful calico cat—brown, orange, and black patches. Soft white fur.

  “Meow.”

  I crouch and offer my hand. It rubs its graceful body against my fingers.

  “What are you doing here with the devil?”

  Oh! I recall the animal noises I heard in the car. They must be from the cat.

  “You know, I saw a cat just like you the other—”

  A gasp tumbles out of me. I pick up the feline, looking at her right side, her left, at the very familiar red collar around her neck.

  It’s the same cat from the café! The place that burned down.

  The cat purrs, knocking me out of my thoughts. How does Elias have the cat?

  Confusion bubbles in my chest. I snuggle the cat, relishing its warmth.

  And slowly, the tightness in my chest eases. Cat, scissors, chocolates. Things are off to a better start than I originally thought.

  First, contact my family.

  Then I’ll figure out a plan—a plan that definitely involves the off-limits third floor.

  Chapter 18: DETECTIVE WIFE

  The bastard barricaded the staircase to the third floor.

  “Ugh.” I grunt as I try—and fail for the third time this past week since we moved here—to dislodge the wood planks he installed in front of the landing.

  There’s a temporary door, but it’s dead bolted.

  I need a Plan B. Maybe I can convince Hannah to help me? I know she won’t tell me anything because I’ve tried prying her for info on the Shadow King. But maybe she can buy me a hacksaw or something.

  I growl. Like that isn’t suspicious. At all.

  Someone snorts behind me.

  I whirl around, finding Ren leaning against the wall, twirling his cell phone.

  He moves silently too, just like a certain someone.

  Cece, my cat, rubs her lithe body against my jailer like she likes him.

  Traitor.

  Tail lifted gracefully, Cece prances away, but not before looking at me and giving me an “I’m innocent” meow.

  I scowl at the barricade. “Seriously, what’s he hiding up there? Dead body? A mentally ill wife who makes creepy sounds at night?”

  He arches his brow and types on his phone.

  Ren

  Spoiler alert. And Jane Eyre, really?

  My jaw drops.

  Ren

  When you spend this much time with the man, you read. A lot.

  “The dealer of secrets likes books?” My mind flips to him thumbing his novel in the car last week when we first arrived.

  I hate the way my heart flutters at the idea—a man reading is the sexiest thing ever. I may be a subscriber to the “Hot Men Reading in Public” thread online.

  Ren

  You wouldn’t be asking if you’d seen the library, which is up there.

  He motions to the barricade and rolls his eyes.

  Ren

  He’s doing this to piss you off. I’ve never seen him so amused.

  My eyes narrow, and I glare at the security camera.

  It blinks. Once. Twice.

  A growl rumbles from my chest. The asshole is watching us.

  A snicker draws my gaze back to Ren, who shakes his head, jaw twitching behind his mask. He types on his phone again.

  Ren

  I’ll talk to him. Just…for the love of God, behave. I really don’t want to shadow you everywhere.

  Brow cocked, he unfurls himself from the wall and saunters down the hallway, but not before I catch him pulling a bottle from his pocket, uncapping it, and tossing something into his mouth.

  Pills? Vitamins?

  “I’m well-behaved! The best damn prisoner you’ve ever had!” I holler after him.

  Then I slap my forehead.

  Being trapped indoors for a week is driving me out of my mind.

  Best damn prisoner? Really, Lana?

  That’s what growing up with four competitive older brothers does to you—makes you want to be the best at everything.

  Shaking my head, I prowl down the hall, opening doors, peeking into empty rooms. Between completing the random PR assignments Elias has given me since we arrived, I’ve spent my hours snooping through every inch of this house that’s unlocked and available to me.

  So, I already know there’s nothing here.

  Bedrooms. Lounges. More bedrooms. No half-shredded documents. No sticky notes with imprints of important messages.

  No clues. Heck, I have no clue what I hope to find, but I have to trust I’ll recognize crucial info when I see it.

  My stomach rumbles, and I glance at the modern clock at the end of the wall. Eleven.

  Can I sneak a banana from the kitchen without Hannah noticing?

  I’ll need fortitude for my food strike later, when she inevitably tempts me with some fancy Italian feast.

  Okay, maybe I’m not the best prisoner. But not eating is the only way I can think of to rebel against this situation. I have to show my discontent somehow.

  Not like the bastard cares.

  I traipse down the stairs, past the empty living room toward his office.

  On a whim, I press my ear against his door, listening for sounds.

  It’s quiet.

  My pulse rattles as I reach for the doorknob and turn, fully expecting it to be locked—

  Click.

  It opens.

  The light is on in the adjoining bathroom, but the door is wide open and no one’s inside.

  Swallowing my gasp, I tiptoe inside the masculine space, walls paneled in black wood and leather, illuminated only by the pale daylight peeking through the gaps of the dark curtains. A treadmill rests in the far corner next to a lounge area.

  Built-in bookshelves are filled with books—Ren was right, the mobster likes to read—notepads and folders stack neatly on a stately walnut desk. A lone laptop is perched on top, flipped open.

  I bite back my squeal of excitement and hurry over, first checking the notepads for pen marks or messages.

  Damn it. They’re pristine. No clues here.

  The folders contain nothing interesting—articles about the stock market and prominent people—probably research he’s doing on his next marks.

  There’s a slip of paper tucked beneath it. A hastily drawn diagram with random words.

  The Council, six different last names, one of which is the Berishas, a list of companies, and at the bottom, phrases that put things into perspective.

  Russian Bratva, Irish Mob, Chinese Triads, Italian Mafia, Albanian Mob.

  This has to be a big-picture diagram of The Association’s structure. My pulse quickens as I review it again, trying to make sense of it. I recognize the last names under The Council—some of the wealthiest families in the world who are part of my family’s old-money circles. The company names are Fortune 500 conglomerates owned or affiliated with them.

  My mouth dries, and I swallow.

  That’s it.

  That’s why The Association is so dangerous, why they get away with all these heinous crimes. They control the wealth and de facto governments. And now it looks like they control the gangs too.

  Mind reeling, I return the paper to its original spot and continue searching.

  Most of the drawers are locked, with the only one unlocked being a perfectly organized, color-coded stationery drawer. Ten black pens. Ten blue pens. Ten red pens. More sticky pads. Small box of paperclips.

  The devil is precise.

  I check the laptop next, but unfortunately, a facial scan flashes the moment I press a key.

  So, that’s a no-go.

  Wishing I had a voodoo doll with me so I could jab my frustrations into it, I turn to the bookshelves to check out his selections.

  Philosophy. Biographies. Sun Tzu’s The Art of War and Niccolò Machiavelli’s The Prince.

  Figures. The dealer of secrets gets his education from the greatest strategists in history.

  I pull out a book I’ve seen before but haven’t read.

  Dale Carnegie’s How to Win Friends & Influence People.

  I scoff and mutter, “Like he needs to make friends, the manipulating, emotionless, spineless—”

  “Wouldn’t finish that sentence if I were you.”

  I freeze. My breath hitches as the scent of vetiver, smoke, and salt wafts to my nose. Then, a column of heat appears at my back.

  My heart twists and jumps like it’s competing in the Olympic qualifiers.

  Clearing my throat, I stuff the book back on the shelf and turn around.

  My voice deserts me.

  Elias, my husband, is standing fresh from exercising, his half-naked, glistening body inches away from me, a towel curled around his neck.

  Fires ignite on my skin, heat suffusing my face.

  My feet stumble, my back plastering against the shelves for support.

  Muscles. Endless stretches of sinewy muscle.

  And ink. Ivy, vines, roses coiling up his arms, swirling over his chest. A lone Chinese character sits above his right pec—old, inked deep. It must be meaningful.

  Sweat drips down his body, writhing a sultry path down his broad chest, the grooves of his abs, a trail of dark hair disappearing beneath his low-slung gray sweatpants.

  Then there’s the heavy bulge appearing to grow by the second.

  My lungs try but fail to retain oxygen. My fingers grip the hem of my shirt.

  Anything other than pouncing on this virile man in front of me.

  “A deviant,” he rasps.

  “Wh-What?”

  I snap my gaze up, meeting his intense eyes—pupils invading the green of his irises. A droplet of sweat drips from his dark hair, trailing down the bridge of his nose to his full lips. His shadow looms over me, trapping me in a purgatory of wicked temptations.

  “You want freedom, but you don’t follow the rules,” he murmurs, his gaze snared on my lips. “Now, how can this partnership work out?”

  He dips his tongue out. Like he’s hungry. Famished for something.

  My core clenches.

  Then his words register.

  “Partnership!” Fury chases up my spine like a blast of frigid water, cooling whatever lapse of sanity just transpired. “If this is your idea of partnership—locking me up inside a spooky mansion like some Victorian heroine—think again.”

  His eyes flare. He shifts, the scary scar on his cheek twisting under the dim light.

  “What we have is not a partnership. It’s a kidnapping. And if you think I’m going to sit around and let you bulldoze me, you’ve got another thing coming.”

  His lips twitch, like he’s struggling not to laugh.

  I want to strangle him and kiss him in equal measure.

  The thought horrifies me, and I shove past him, needing to escape the chaos inside me.

  “Elias Kent, we’re just warming up. You’re up to something—something important enough for you to risk everything—and I’m going to find out what that is.”

  Whirling around at the threshold, I glare at him.

  But his expression has me scrambling back—a prey who knows she’s pushed too far.

  His nostrils flare, his lips flattening into a thin line.

  A cold current sweeps the room as his body stills—lethal and quiet, the way a lion lies low before it strikes.

  Elias rolls his neck, the joints crackling through the air.

  “Wouldn’t you want to know?” he murmurs, voice gritty. “But you never will. Because you’re right. I was mistaken. This—” he jabs his finger on the table, “—will never be a partnership.”

  Elias bares his teeth, a cruel sneer befitting the king of the underworld.

  “If you value your life, don’t let me catch you in here again.”

  Chapter 19: THE CATACOMBS’ MASK

  Ren’s words hammer through my mind as I descend the spiral stairs leading into the underground labyrinth beneath Saint Michael the Redeemer three days after I caught the vixen snooping around my office.

  Looking too delectable and at home—my home—in her oversized T-shirt and leggings.

  “She’s been asking to go to the Hollow Gardens. Something about a special tree. I told her the place was closed for reno.”

  Our words were carved into the tree two decades ago. She’s thinking about Kian.

  Ever since last week when I almost succumbed to my basest impulses to kiss her pouty lips in the office, I’ve kept myself busy, avoiding Lana as much as I can. I don’t entertain the idea of sleeping in the same room as her.

  I’m afraid if I touch that lithe body of hers, I won’t be able to stop myself.

  But I’ve seen the security footage. My princess is restless.

  She continues her amateur detective hour—checking locked doors, drawers, anything forbidden. When I checked my feed this morning, she was digging through the recycling bin in the kitchen. As if I’d ever throw out anything important that way.

  That devious streak of hers hasn’t dimmed.

  I should be pissed that she’s actively disobeying me. If she were anyone else, she’d be buried six feet under.

  But fury doesn’t ignite in my gut.

  It’s because I expected this from her, of course. That has to be it. Nothing more. I want to see how far she’ll take her investigation.

  And she’s spending a lot of time with the damn cat. The feline follows her everywhere like she’s decided she’s a dog. Lana saves all her smiles and snuggles for her.

  Damn cat. Why did I rescue it again?

  You know why, you sick psycho. She liked—

  I don’t let myself finish the thought.

  I only allow myself twenty-eight minutes a day to let my impulses run free. And most of those twenty-eight minutes are spent watching Lana.