Page 206 of Rosetti Family New York
I run my fingers over my arm, over a bruise I didn't know I had until now. Dried blood cakes my wrists. The room is beautiful, so wrong. And Rafe is gone, leaving me to the mercy of his suspicious family.
I didn't expect this. Didn't expect the coldness, the interrogation, the locked door. But what did I expect? That I'd waltz into the Rosetti mansion and be welcomed with open arms? That they'd trust me immediately, just because Rafe seemed to?
I am such an idiot.
I stand and move to the bathroom, wincing at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is a tangled mess, my face pale and drawn. There's a smear of blood on my cheek that I didn't even know was there.
The shower is as luxurious as the rest of the room, with multiple jets and shining chrome fixtures. I turn it on, letting the water run hot, then strip off my dirty clothes and step under the spray.
The water stings my rope-burned wrists, but I welcome the pain. It grounds me, reminds me that I'm alive. That I survived.
As I stand under the pounding water, I try to process everything that's happened. Ethan. The Callahans. Rafe rescuing me. And now, being locked in a room in the Rosetti mansion, treated like a potential threat.
I need to be smart about this. Need to prove to them that I'm not a danger, that I can be trusted. That I'm on their side.
Because whether I like it or not, it seems like the Rosettis are my only option now. My only chance at finding out what really happened to Maddy. My only chance at justice.
And if that means enduring their suspicion, their interrogations, their locked doors, then that's what I'll do.
I'll prove myself to them. I'll earn their trust.
Whatever it takes.
17
Sloane
Iwake to the sound of a key turning in the lock. My heart races as the door swings open, revealing Emilio standing in the hallway, dark hair falling across his forehead. I push myself up on my elbows, still groggy from a fitful night of sleep.
"Morning," he says, his face expressionless.
I eye him cautiously. "Am I being relocated, or..."
"You're being granted limited access to common areas," he replies, as if reading from some invisible rule book. "Kitchen, main living room, courtyard. Everything else is still off-limits without an escort."
I sit up fully, surprised. "What changed?"
Emilio leans against the doorframe, studying me. "Dom and Besiana spent half the night discussing you. Rafe vouched for you. Repeatedly." His mouth quirks up at one corner. "Loudly."
The thought of Rafe defending me sends a flutter through my chest that I quickly try to suppress.
"So I'm not restricted anymore?" I ask, trying to keep my voice neutral.
"Let's call it a probationary period," Emilio says. "Don't make us regret it."
With that, he turns and walks away, leaving the door pointedly open. A clear message: you can leave, but we're still watching.
I shake my head and look around. The room is bright and modern, with sharp edges and cold light, with a white carpet like fresh snow. My clothes are in a neat pile, washed and folded. It’s sweet but creepy, like someone has been hovering while I sleep. Probably fifty someones in this family.
It comes rushing back. The confrontation with Ethan. Rafaele storming in to find me just when I was starting to panic and pulling me to his chest, soothing me with words softer and quieter than I ever thought could come out of his big, rough self. Then the enormous, sprawling mansion that he lives in with his family, like some kind of modern-day American prince.
The bathroom is as big and fancy as everything else, all chrome and glass. I shower, trying to adjust the temperature before I turn into a popsicle, then pull on my freshly laundered jeans and t-shirt. No sign of my coat. I comb through my hair with my fingers and shake off the last of the water, shivering.
I cross to the massive walk-in closet I found yesterday and take a long, slow look. Dresses and suits, mostly. Everything looks expensive and brand new, still on the hanger. Half this stuff still has tags on. I paw through the racks, feeling like a raccoon who’s stumbled into an Upper East Side boutique. There’s even a pair of Manolos in my size.
There’s silk everything. Black everything. Rosetti style, I guess.
Finally, I find a simple black sweater and yank it over my head, muttering a small apology to Coco Chanel. At least it fits. I put on a pair of boots I’d never pick myself and head out into the hallway.
