Page 21 of Brutal Vows

Her focus shifts to the camera mounted on the ceiling. I watch in fascination as her pupils shrink, revealing the pure perfection in her mesmerizing green irises.

I need to put distance between us before I wax poetic and discover all the wicked ways her body can pleasure mine, so I drop my hand and turn away.

When I step into the hallway and turn to grab the door handle, our eyes meet. She swallows and glances at my hand on the door before searching the room with frantic eyes. The edge of panic fades from her expression when she notices the lamp on the bedside table.

Shame and worry flitter through me as I recall her cowering in the fetal position in the shower. I never left the room, but she gave no hint of her mental anguish until she was nearly catatonic.

I should relish the power I have over her, but bitterness coats my tongue as I replay how dull and lifeless her eyes had been when I took my belt off her face.

Julieta earned way worse, but this woman has not. Not yet. I can’t put her through more trauma until I know how she’s involved with the mafia scene in New York.

Even if she’s innocent—which is highly unlikely, but I’ll never forgive myself if I cause unnecessary harm to this stunning woman—I can’t let her go.

It can’t be a coincidence that she’s working at the clinic the Dorian clan shot up.

I don’t believe in coincidences. Not when my family’s safety is at stake.

Whenmia gattinahides her relief under a glare and aims her gorgeous green eyes at me, I smirk and shut the door between us, reveling in the worry and surprise twisting her features as she realizes I saw and understood her moment of weakness.

I pull out my phone and bring up the camera app as I stride down the hall and through the living room to the front door. The dimly lit room results in a grainy image, but her wide eyes flash as she studies the room. I swap to a different camera and check the parking lot and entrance before opening the door and retrieving my duffel from my trunk.

After sending a few texts, I close myself in the second bedroom and change into a dry t-shirt, jogging pants, and sneakers before hanging up my wet, dirty suit—sans the coat—and heading back to the car. When I check on my captive again and the blanket remains firmly around her shoulders, the kernel of respect lodged behind my sternum grows.

Most men would’ve lost their composure and fought against their bonds hard enough to lose the blanket as soon as I left the room, even with the camera blinking in the corner.

I lock the front door and ensure the security notifications are active on my phone before settling into my car and heading toward the clinic. When I drive by the police car at the corner,the last rays of evening sun streak across the officer’s face. His eyes meet mine. We nod.

I park in a nearby lot and leave everything except my car keys in the glove box. Although the setting sun casts long shadows across the concrete, the streets prove empty of foot traffic since most businesses have already closed for the evening, but a curtain moves in the upper window across the street.

After the drama of the day, no one wants to be caught scoping out the scene of the crime, but the shopkeepers living above their stores can’t help but peek.

I lock my car and zip my keys into my pants pocket before rolling my shoulders and stalking across the parking lot.

The scars on my chest pinch as I stretch and warm up as though I intend to run a few miles in the crisp evening air.

I start toward the police officer and make eye contact with him in the rearview mirror as I approach. He rolls down his passenger window and tosses a set of keys onto the sidewalk. I stoop down and pick them up on my way past.

With the lights at the front of the clinic shattered and the awning casting the entrance in shadow, I unlock the door using the keys I bought off the corrupt cop and slip inside. I pick my way through the lobby in darkness and continue down the hall to the break room with relative ease. Once inside, I check for windows before closing the door and turning on the light.

With a kitchenette, a small table, two chairs, and a loveseat on the left and two doors on the right, the break room is small but furnished with name brand furniture and appliances. The first door leads to a bathroom complete with toilet, sink, and shower, while the second sports two rows of floor-to-ceiling lockers with a bench in the middle.

Two name tags on the lockers catch my attention. Livia and Loretta. The names of the Giordano twins.

I toss the keys into the air and catch them as I step forward.

With Livia’s locker halfway open, I know it doesn’t belong to the woman I left tied to a chair from the floral scent wafting from within, but I check every shelf and rummage through the clothes pockets before turning to the locker with Loretta’s name tag on the front.

Unable to resist the primitive urge, I open the door, stick my nose to the crack, and inhale. Delight barrels through me and my cock tents my joggers. I release my breath on a groan and torture myself with another delectable whiff of sweet vanilla and woman.

After savoring her unique blend, I swing the door wide open and study the contents. Her phone and purse sit front and center, a small duffel fills the bottom, and a clean set of streets clothes hangs off the bar. A quick check of her purse reveals her wallet, a few typical items, and a small first-aid kit. The address on her driver’s license is a few blocks away and one of the nicer apartment complexes in the area.

I quirk a brow at the discrepancy between the issue date and the expiration date. New York licenses last eight years, but her issue date was only four years ago and the expiration date is in a few months. Which means she originally applied for—or renewed—a New York license eight years ago but changed her address four years ago.

According to her birthdate, she’s turning thirty-five in a few months. Theoretically, she could have been here since she was eighteen if she renewed instead of applied.

Whether she’s lived in New York for eight or sixteen years is important, but neither option is acceptable.

Either way, she’s had too much time to grow roots in my backyard. I’ll pluck every single strand out, including the ones with her twin, and find her motives for moving to New York City.

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