Page 9 of Kept

“What’s your name?”

“What’s yours?” she replies. If she weren’t still shaking like a chihuahua in winter, I’d almost believe she wasn’t afraid.

“You’re going to regret that.”

She’s watching out the window, but I know the heavy tint makes it damn near impossible to see.

“Sarah,” she sighs. “My name is Sarah Williams, and if you kill me, so help me god, I will haunt your ass until the end of time.”

Marco snickers from the front seat before pulling himself together.

The rest of the drive is silent. I verify that my earlier problem has been relocated to one of the dockside warehouses. I’ll deal with that tomorrow.

Marco pulls into the underground garage of the Chelsea penthouse I call home. I own the entire building, though I only personally live in the penthouse. The floors below are occupied by Marco and several more of my men. He pulls next to the service elevator, and another of my men materializes from the shadows, unlocking the elevator and holding it open. I open her door, and she sits there, blinking her big blue-grey eyes at me.

I pop her seatbelt off and retrieve my jacket from her lap.

“Out.”

“Where is this?”

“Does it really matter?” I ask her, pulling the jacket back on.

She chews on her lip for a moment before giving a resigned sigh and swinging her feet out of the car. I’m struck again by how small she is. Her head barely comes to the middle of my chest.

I point to the elevator, and she starts to march ahead of me. Or, she tries. Her gait is uneven, and I realize the heel of one of her shoes has finally snapped all the way off. She grimaces and I see a drop of fresh blood fall to the concrete from the cut on her ankle.

I groan. “Stop.”

She turns and looks up at me.

“This is pathetic.” I put one arm behind her back and bend to pick her up, bridal style.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” She jerks away. If looks could kill, I’d be bleeding out on the floor right now.

Fine. I pull her arms out of the way and throw her over my shoulder instead.

“Put me down!” she yells, kicking her feet and trying to beat her tiny little fists against my back.

“Stop wiggling,” I tell her.

“Put me down!”

“No. I don’t have all fucking night to watch you limp inside. Stop fighting.”

“Asshole!”

In the elevator, I enter the code that accesses the penthouse foyer.

“Good evening, Aldo,” I greet the man at the door in Italian. If he thinks it’s odd that I’m carrying a woman over my shoulder, he doesn’t say so.

“Welcome back, Mr. De Luca,” he says, opening the door.

I step inside and hear the door close and lock behind me.

The bottom floor of the penthouse is dominated by the massive living area, and the floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around three sides of the building, allowing for views of both the Manhattan skyline and the Hudson River. Because I am who I am, the glass is one way tinted, vibrates to interfere with parabolic microphones, and is as close to bulletproof as glass can be, even against large caliber rifle rounds.

I drop Sarah onto the large sectional sofa.

---