Page 20 of Cruel Deception
“Yeah,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.
His eyes narrow. “What’s that supposed to mean? Are you telling me you did it?”
“I’m telling you he deserved it.”
“Don’t play games with me, Charlotte,” he growls, stepping closer. “Did you kill him?”
I don’t flinch. “I didn’t touch him. But if I had the strength, I might’ve.”
His eyes narrow, jaw clenched. “You expect me to believe that?”
“You think I could snap a man’s neck?” I counter, my voice steady despite the ache in my chest.
“Answer me, Charlotte,” he snaps, his patience fraying.
“I was looking for the bike when I heard him scream. By the time I got there, he was gone,” I say, meeting his gaze.
He steps closer, his voice dropping to a growl. “You killed him. Just admit it.”
“I didn’t,” I say, my voice rising. “Believe me or leave me alone.”
He shakes his head, muttering, “My daughter’s a damn monster.” Then, louder, “You can’t go around killing my men. You’re staying locked in here until I decide what to do with you.” He turns, slamming the door shut, the lock clicking with finality.
I leap up, pounding on the door. “You can’t do this!” I shout, but his footsteps fade.
Locked in my own father’s house? After he abandoned me for a decade?
The bastard. How long does he plan to keep me caged? I pace, fury and panic warring in my chest, until an idea sparks. There’s one way out—one reckless, dangerous way.
I grab my phone and dial Luca, his number burned into my memory from the day we signed the marriage contract.
He answers on the second ring. “Miss Charlotte,” he says, his voice smooth but distracted, overlaid with the scratch of a pen. “Send those files to our men in Palermo,” he orders someone in the background, his tone clipped, authoritative.
“Luca, can we move the wedding up?” I ask, my voice steady despite my racing heart. “Two months is too long. How about... two weeks?”
“You set the two months, Miss Charlotte,” he says, a hint of amusement in his voice. “If you want tomorrow, I’ll make it happen.”
“Day after tomorrow,” I say quickly. “I’ll need tomorrow to prepare.”
“Done,” he says, unfazed.“Kill the two bastards in that photo. I want their heads boxed and delivered before 3 a.m,” he adds, clearly to his men, his voice cold, casual, like murder’s just another Tuesday.
I swallow hard, pretending I didn’t just hear someone’s death sentence get ordered like room service. “One more thing,” I push on. “I need out of my father’s house. He’s... keeping me here. I want to be at your estate tomorrow. For prep.”
“Consider it done,” he says. “Anything else? I’m in the middle of business.” In the background, he adds, “Spare the wife. She’s not part of this.”
“That will be all,” I say, my voice small. “Thanks.” I hang up, exhaling a shaky breath.
His mind was barely on me, his focus split between mafia orders and whatever blood-soaked deal he’s orchestrating.
Will he even follow through? And if he does, will my father suspect something? I don’t care. Anything’s better than being caged here, under the thumb of a man who might’ve sold my mother to monsters.
I collapse onto the bed, too drained to even pull the covers over myself. Hunger gnaws at my stomach, but exhaustion grips tighter, dragging me under before I can think about food.
The silk sheets are too soft, too luxurious—a mockery of the storm in my head. A thousand thoughts race behind my eyes like wildfire.
Cassian’s cold voice telling me to unzip his belt.
The way his knuckles tightened on the wheel.
