Page 17 of Savage King

"Enter," I yell at the door, and a maid comes in, rolling a tray of food in front of her.

"Just put it on the bed there," I command, then I help Scarlet into my torn shirt and tie the ripped ends on top of her shoulder. "There."

It looks ridiculous, but it's the best I can do right now. Scarlet still looks as beautiful as before, but it doesn't matter. She is one of those rare beauties who would make a burlap sack look attractive. If anything, the ripped shirt and bruise on her cheek only give her beauty a dramatic touch, which enhances her looks.

"Doc said the IV can come out tonight, so then we can get you more appropriately dressed."

I tuck her in, place the tray beside her, and show her how the remote and the TV work. "I won't be too long."

She stops me just as I reach the door. "Antonio?"

"Yeah?"

"I have questions. And I want to see my dad."

"I promise I'll explain everything when I return, and you can call your dad then also."

"Am I your prisoner?" she wants to know, tilting her head, probing me with her deep sapphires, trying to look down to the bottom of my soul. She won't find it. I lost that part of me a long time ago.

Questions burn inside my head,and the need to talk to my dad is overwhelming. So far, Antonio has been nothing but nice to me, but I'm not fooled. I might not be as knowledgeable about criminals as my dad is, but I'm not ignorant either. I've heard the rumors about Antonio DeLuna. I'm pretty sure I know what kind of man he is.

Dangerous! is the first word that pops into my head.

Everything about him screams danger. Something that shouldn't attract me. But yet, there is a flutter in the pit of my belly saying otherwise. And it's not only because he is the best-looking man I've ever laid eyes on or because of the way he fills out his suit. No, there is more, a lot more that I'm too chicken to try and figure out right now. I remind myself that Antonio is a criminal. That he has his own motives forrescuingme—if I was trulyrescued. Right now, I feel like I went from the pot into the frying pan.

It doesn't take a genius to put this puzzle together. Carlos abducted me to blackmail my dad to rule in his favor and to keep him out of jail. Carlos is responsible for the death of Antonio's father. So, assuming Antonio wants him in jail isn't a far leap. Now,hecan blackmail my dad to send Carlos to prison. The thing I can’t figure out iswhyhe wants that. I would imagine in his world, there are other kinds of punishment for people who kill someone they love. That question, however, needs to go on the back burner. At present, I'm vested in finding out my role in this latest scheme and what will happen to me after the game ends.

He's already by the door, ready to leave for theoffice, or wherever mafia bosses go. I pull my courage together and stop him. "Am I your prisoner?"

His green eyes regard me whimsically, "You're my guest." He finally settles on.

"Guests can leave." I counter, wondering if I'm stupid or brave. God knows I wouldn't have spoken like this to the accountant-looking guy, Hank, or Marcos.

He is still standing by the door, and my heart does a little flip-flop. I've always had a thing for men in suits, but he's taking it to the next level. Power bleeds from every pore of his body; a line around his lips announces to the world,fuck with me and see what happens. I'm very much attracted to him, but if he's just another kidnapper, a man who might kill me, I'll have to push that attraction from me as far as possible. It might be good advice either way because being attracted to… to… a gangster can't be healthy in the long run.

"Right now, Carlos thinks you're dead," Antonio says slowly, as if to make sure I fully understand the consequences. "If he even gets a whiff of you still being alive, he'll come after you again—or your father. So, I'd prefer it if you'd think of being here as my guest for now."

He opens the door. "I promise we'll talk later, Scarlet."

The moment he closes the door behind him, it feels as if all the air has left the room with him. Good grief, that man is a force. It's not just his good looks that get me hot and bothered. It's that aura of danger that surrounds him. His totalI don't give a shit attitude, the self-confidence with which he carries himself, the way he expects his orders to be followed. There is so much to him that attracts me when it shouldn't.

I've been a good girl all my life. I followed all the rules. Datedsensiblemen who not only broke my heart, but my self-esteem. I only ever brought A's home from school. I was valedictorian of my graduating class in high schoolandcollege. I never even hung with thebadkids. I studied and became very successful in my field. Made good friends. I ate healthy, I exercised, and I went for regular checkups with the doctor and dentist. I did everything I was told to do. And where did that land me? In a mobster's basement, tortured, and then in the claws of another mobster—not that Antonio has claws, but…—anyway, my point is, I did everything right. I lived by the rules. Never even got a parking ticket, and still somehow, my life now lies in the hands of a criminal.

This makes me wonder if being a good girl really is what it's been cracked up to be. What if I hadn’t been a good girl? Would I have still landed here?

It's probably a moot point to think about now. But what would a bad girl do in my situation?

The answer frightens and stimulates me in equal measures. Because it's quite simple, she would seduce her abductor. She would make him fall in love with her until he was so besotted he forgot his own name. It wouldn't be a hardship either, judging by how he fills out his suit…

Then again, I'm not a bad girl. Mom made sure of that. She demanded that I be the best-behaved, the prettiest, the smartest, and the most graceful girl in New York. I went to ballet classes, learned how to dress, talk, and walk like a lady. Mom always insisted that I had to be a good girl because I was a walking representation of what my dad stood for as a judge, and I needed to be mindful of that at all times. I can only imagine what would have happened to me had I gone out drinking with my friends. Or—gasp—smoked pot. I did none of these things. Mom had literally hammered into me that we would be doomed if I misbehaved—I still have the scars from the switch she liked to use. She warned that we would lose everything if I messed up.

And look where we are now.

My dad, making deals with the Cosa Nostra.

I lean back in the bed, all appetite gone despite the delicious scents coming off the tray. I drink some orange juice and then play listlessly with the remote. Nothing on TV captures my interest. How could it? The last days of my life play out in a continuous loop, like a nightmare inside my head.

I settle on mindless cartoons. The bangs and squeals make up a nice white noise background as I lean back further in the pillows and close my eyes. Accompanied by the oinks and boinks ofthe hapless coyote and his intrepid prey, my sleep is restless as impressions of my abduction and torture haunt my dreams.

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