Page 37 of Salvatore

“Wow,” I muse. “I hope you don’t fuck like you park otherwise you’d never get it in.”

I’m gifted with another conniving curve of lips, the sight making my stomach clench.

“Would you like me to ease your concerns with a demonstration,mi bella reina?” There he goes with that antagonistic endearment again, not in his ancestral language, but mine.

My beautiful queen.

What an asshole.

“I’m good.” I smile. “When you spend big bucks on designer lipstick you tend not to waste it on fuck boys.”

It’s probably the worst retort I’ve ever given—one, because I haven’t applied lipstick since yesterday morning, and two, I haven’t had anything designer since my father ruled my life. But I’m not going to waste a good opportunity to put Salvatore in his place.

He releases his belt and turns to me. “I bet I could change your mind.”

“I bet you could too. All it would take is a lobotomy.”

That tempting mouth kicks upward, all untarnished ego and overflowing confidence. I fucking hate how attractive he is.

He climbs from the Porsche, not waiting for me to follow.

“Damn you.” I shove my cell beneath my bra strap, take a mouthful of necessary caffeine, then leave the takeaway cup to litter his car and follow after him.

He’s already disappeared inside by the time I reach the lean, middle-aged man standing under his brick-enclosed stoop, his white polo shirtsleeves threatening to cut off circulation to his muscled arms.

“You wouldn’t feel like opening the front gate and letting me skedaddle out by any chance, would you?” I ask.

He ignores me, keeping his gaze straight ahead, his posture statuesque like he’s auditioning for the King’s Guard.

“Good chat.” I continue inside the townhouse, the marble tile polished beneath my black pumps, the air smelling clean and surprisingly homey.

Salvatore stands in wait before an open door a few feet down the hall. “I have something for you.” He indicates for me to walk inside.

“Your torture chamber?” I ask as I approach.

“My office.”

I raise a brow and turn on my heel to enter a brightly lit room, the sun streaming in from a large arched window unmarred by curtains or blinds. Floor-to-ceiling dark wood bookshelves line the walls to my left and right, each shelf filled with perfectly aligned paperbacks.

“You know, in some cultures it would be considered sacrilegious to have so many books while lacking the education to read them.” I flick him a two-second stare over my shoulder then turn my attention to his desk, the large slab of mahogany entirely bare except for the closed black Mac and a small stack of pages sitting neatly to one side.

“That’s rich coming from someone who quit school before junior year.” He moves to stand inside the doorframe, one shoulder leaning against the jamb.

My face heats, his ability to insult evidently far better than mine.

“The papers on my desk are for you,” he adds. “I’ll be in the kitchen. Let me know if you need help with any of the big words.”

I grind my teeth, determined to keep my expression neutral as he blocks my escape for a heartbeat, then two, until finally he walks from view, the clap of his shoes trekking down the hall.

I wait more pain-filled seconds before expelling the congealed air in my lungs. I’m in so much trouble. Probably far more than I experienced as a teen, and that’s saying something.

I inch toward the desk, throat hoarse as I stare down at the top page of the document, the first line creating an ache in my chest.

Name: Ivy Rosa Diaz.

Those three words have done so much for me. Granted me freedom. Inspired my confidence. They kept me safe for years and allowed me to live a life I wasn’t born to have.

I scour the additional information—address, family history, education—all the details I curated at the age of sixteen to separate me from the hell of my past. It’s all printed in black and white. Times New Roman. Bullet points.

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