And that's when the sound of footfall sounds in the far distance, while I can do nothing but stand there, barefoot, while the lone standing camera watches me.

But instead of showing whoever the fuck is hiding behind the screen that they've won, I smile up at it and send whoever the fuck I know is watching me a big fuck you with both my hands.

In retaliation, the asshole behind the camera strikes in the form of a pinch to my arm. Only it proves to be far worse than I'd imagined when I look down to see the tip of a vile lodged into my skin. The same type of vile you'd use to take down a large animal.

Horse tranquilizer.

There was arguably no sentiment I shared with my Italian side of the family, but that changes when I realize we've suddenly got one thing in common, our hatred for Russians.

. . .

I was thirteen when my papà started drugging me, but twelve when my jido did it.

As wrong as that may sound, it'd been out of love, entirely for my own benefit.

My jido had an odd way of showing his love, and my papá was far too paranoid for his own good. I was born with a target on my back and two powerful men who had no one else to love but me.

Not only did I need to be faster, smarter, and better than anyone who'd want to bring me harm, but I needed to remain underestimated. And speeding up my body's reaction time to sedatives was part of said process.

It was always controlled and relatively safe. My grandfather studied chemistry in university, and seeing as I didn't develop any permanent health issues, it was good enough proof that their methods -although unorthodox - worked.

I'd been hit with a variety of sedative tranquilizers, and while the headaches, confusion, muscle numbness, and nausea sucked, it made my reaction time three times faster than that of a regular human.

It also proved to work in my favour more often than not, especially when the dumbasses around me hadn't done their homework.

My sense of consciousness returns to me just as quickly as I begin to assess my surroundings. A set of hands is at my back, handling my wrists as they bind them, but two voices are speaking.

I don't bother trying to make out what they're saying and instead, focus on working up the strength to move my numb muscles.

Despite my frozen limbs, my body's ability to sense touch isn't gone, which proves to be even more satisfying when I realize just how much of a shitty knot this dumbass is tying my hands in.

I have to fight back a smile.

"mogu ya razbudit' yeye?" This voice is that of a woman's, and all thoughts of smiling vanish in the next moment as the harsh sting of a palm against my cheek forces my head to the side and my eyes to snap open. (Russian| can I wake her up?)

Anger slowly clogs every pore in my body, while I can do nothing but slowly turn my head to the blonde bitch staring down at me, a smug look in her eyes. "You'll pay for that." I seethe.

Like an overweight horse, she makes a mhmp noise and tilts her head in amusement to the person next to her. I follow her gaze to see the inept Shrek, who's looking at her in a mix of awe and amusement.

Gross.

Had it not been for the way my fingers began to twitch, I'd gag at their antics. But my mood is uplifted by the events of my muscles waking up.

I smile weakly at the girl. "I wonder how well that smile will hold up after I've used your long, dried-up hair as a noose around your neck and watched you die a painful death." The thought strengthens my smile while it wipes hers.

With a glare, she lifts her hand and makes a move to slap me, but doesn't follow through with it, clear that she's trying to get me to flinch.

But I don't fucking flinch.

That makes her even angrier. She steps forward, her accent thick as she speaks in English. "I will kill you, you traitor."

"Traitor?" Despite my instinct to raise a brow, I stay still, not wanting them to know I've gained control of my body yet. "When have I ever proven to be loyal to your unpleasant ass?" And then I trail my eyes to the big-nosed man next to her."How's your puny dick doing, by the way?"

My lips twitch when I sense the girl's eyes blaze at the mention of his dick. Her jealousy satisfies me.

"ona togo ne stoit." Another voice chimes as a series of footfalls follows, dragging my attention to the numerous bodies that trail into the room. (She's not worth it)

Twelve bodies to be exact, all decked in matching black uniforms, weapons tucked into their waistbands.

So particular.

Nine of them men, three of them women. But my gaze zeros in on the twins, one of whom has a bandage wrapped around his head while he glares daggers at me.

I twist my hands behind my back and loosen the shitty excuse of a knot. My Sitto could tie a better knot than this, and her fingers were three times chubbier than those of a normal grandmothers. "Look who's decided to finally wake up from his nap."

There's a universal face every man makes when he's been undermined, when he's taken a hit to his ego and can't accept it. His brows draw down towards his nose, and his eyes glare so hard it's comical.

That face was something I lived to see in every man I encountered.

Once I've grown satisfied with the look of the

Twinkies face, my gaze coasts to the backup I suppose is here to tame little old me.

Nine men and three women.

All my father hired were lousy men, seeing as they believed women were meant to be protected from violence instead of the ones causing it. Something about this scene, however, is refreshing.

I liked the diversity.

The Twinkie of a man looks like he's going to strangle me, so does his twin, but the moment he makes a move to step forward, a loud creak echoes from behind them all, and everything stills.

Although the atmosphere before the creak wasn't loud, everyone seemed to fall completely silent and still, so still that the thick blanket of silence washing over the room rings in my ears as I watch every single person in the room lower their heads.

Not a whisper, a twitch, nor a breath out of place, and I'm smart enough to sense a shift in the murky air that sharpens to ice.

Sensing the lack of room for ignorance, I straighten my spine and know that whatever's got these people so strung up is coming from the entrance, behind them all.

The Russians in this room are naturally taller, yet I still make out the top of a dark head of hair and eyes that brush right over everyone's head.

That's when I realize that it's not a matter of whatever but whomever.

And this whoever's got eyes a rich deep blue, with a depth I'd imagine the undiscovered parts of the ocean to have. Dark, with millions of unknowns swimming in its depths.

It isn't long before the crowd is parting like the Red Sea. I can't tell if it's respect or fear controlling their mechanical movements, but the path they clear allows the governing superiority to bleed off him and travel right into the pits of my stomach.

That alone tells me this is the man behind it all.

I get a good look at my true captor, the man who's been able to stir something other than dislike in my stomach.

Alarm. Unease.

Despite the irrelevant feeling, I can tell the striking contradiction of a man who has grown accustomed to leaving those who are interested in interacting with him intimidated and beyond unsettled.

Yet it's clear what draws those people in, in the first place.

His appearance.

Conventionally attractive was too much of an understatement. I wasn't religious, nor did I believe in myth, but he was the closest I've ever come to seeing a perfectly curated man, one as godly as described in Greek mythology.

But perhaps that's all this is, a myth, an illusion, one curated in my head out of pure boredom. That's the only viable explanation as to why someone- let alone a man- was able to capture this much of my attention.

I remain unbothered, uninterested as his attention comes to me, but I can't help the ounce of electricity his entire demeanour drags out of me.

Intense. Overwhelming. Terrifying.

He scares me, just a little. And I can't help the way that fear sparks at my excitement.

This is going to be fun.

His slow footsteps sound like alarm bells in my head, calculated as he leisurely makes his way to me. And when he gets close enough to study my face, I take the moment to examine said mythological beauty, but my eyes just go right back to his.

A type so enticing and a shade so endless, one would get lost looking in them, that is, if they were brave enough to make eye contact in the first place.

Something none of the people in the room seemed brave enough to do.

That restores my ego, just a little.

I have to physically wrench my gaze from those eyes, and when I do, they move to trail the slope of his nose, impeccably straight, proportional to his face, but large enough to sit on and do a thorough job at that.

His skin is unblemished, far fairer than mine, but his lips just as pink. His face is void of any obvious emotion. Yet even when his features appear relaxed, his jaw and bone structure are strikingly sharp.

A scar mars his left cheekbone. On anyone else, I'd consider it ugly, but on him, it shatters the air of perfection that makes one question if a man like this is real.

It shatters the myth in my head, telling me this man's aura is as harmless as he is a figment of my imagination.

His touch, far from soft, caresses my chin as he grips it, his body temperature hot enough to burn my skin.

I can't help the way my body reacts, and my mind veers into dirty places. Only when I realize where I am and what this is do I force the little whore inside my head, telling me that under different circumstances, I'd fuck this man, back into her shell.

And I'm glad I do so when I realize those endless pools of blue are examining me like I'm nothing but a doll up for sale, and he's deciding if he likes me enough to keep or not.

He finally speaks, the natural gravel of his tone seeping into my ears and destroying the silence he's created in his wake. "Eta zhenshchina ne ta, kotoruyu ya khochu." (Russian| This woman is not the one I want.)

His words aren't directed at me, and the way he's completely indifferent to my existence, especially when he's the one who's leading all this shit, rubs me the wrong way.

"If you're going to have the balls to kidnap me," My voice is cool as I twist my hands behind my back, undoing the knot. "The least you could do is speak to me directly."

The man proves to be just like every other man I've encountered - shitty and useless - when he stands, towering over me in his perfectly tailored suit and ignores me. "Kto eta zhenshchina?" (Who exactly is this woman?)

His voice isn't booming or angry. It's even and calm as he straightens out, leveling my face with his crotch.

I briefly think about what the implications of head-butting him in the dick would bring, but stop when something catches my eye. Something dark, strapped to his belt, beneath the flap of his blazer.

Bingo.

"Doch' toy ital'yanskoy svolochi." Unlike with me, the inept Shrek sounds hesitant and weary with his tone. (the daughter of that Italian scum)

I catch a variant of the word Italian in his spiel and suddenly know where all this is stemming from.

I heave an annoyed sigh.

Since the beginning of time, the Italians and Russians of the criminal world have not gotten along. They never formed alliances, always worked against each other in business, with neither of them playing nice.

I didn't involve myself in this drama, but I knew enough to know that things had settled down over the last decade.

And this right here marked the end of the unproblematic era between the two.

But I didn't give a shit, and wanted no part in any of this. Petty crime empires weren't my cup of tea anymore.

"Ona ne." His voice reeks of indifference as he makes a move to turn around, while my gaze is trained on the gun. "Ubey yeye." (She's not. Kill her.)

I'd be a fool not to take the opportunity.

Which is why I do so, swiftly slipping my hands out of the knot and swiping his gun out of its holster. It takes me a mere twenty seconds to jolt up to my feet and have the gun aimed at him.

He's taller than I'd anticipated, which is exactly why the barrel of his own gun is pointed at his chest and not his head.

Clicks sound off around the room, and I glance over to all the men and women now pointing their own guns towards me. Yet the man in the centre of all the attention barely blinks at my sudden display.

No surprise, no alarm, nothing.

It irks me.

"I'm a little offended that your men would think a shitty knot would do in tying up an Ademaro." I offer smugly.

The man turns to me, finally settling his gaze on me, as though he's finally deeming me worthy of an ounce of his attention. But even then, it's voids of any interest.

The lack of reaction to my antics makes me antsy. Never had I been undermined by something as simple as a reaction, or lack thereof.

My fingers tighten around the gun in my hand as I consider how things could escalate. Guns weren't my weapon of choice, nor did I necessarily like using them for personal reasons, but for him, I'd make an exception.

"Who tied the ropes?" The first words of English out of his mouth are smooth, punctuated with ease, and his accent isn't thick; it's merely hinted in a way some might find intriguing.

But I'm focused on the way the phrase comes as a simple demand. One that sounds far too casual and dismissive for my liking.

But that's not what sends my mind into a spiral. It's the way his eyes examine me with indifference, yet he chooses to speak in English, not because he's speaking to me, but because he wants me to hear.

An arrogant man. I hated those.

The man who'd spiked my drink, also known as the inept Shrek, steps forward, his head hung, eyes cast downward. "ya sdelal." (I did)

A beat of silence passes, while the man before me shows no reaction. It's as though he could not function like a normal fucking human.

The question must have been a distraction because in a matter of milliseconds, he snapped my wrist, twisted the gun from my hand into his, and fired one lone bullet, straight into the man's forehead.

His head quite literally explodes. It's a gruesome sight that sends blood splattering onto the people standing around him.

No one bats an eye or even flinches. Not even as the blood of a fellow companion trickles down the sides of their faces, clothes, and onto the dirty floor by their feet.

Nothing. They stand rigid, enslaved to their positions out of pure fear.

It's something I've never seen before, which tells me I'm in over my head. And this realization sparks the one where the gravity of the situation settles on my shoulders, like a dead weight.

Shit.

Whoever these people were, they operated differently. Loyalty and family didn't uphold any value in keeping your life, as they did with the Italians.

This man was a cold-blooded tyrant.

A type so evil he wouldn't bat an eye whilst shooting a man who'd probably stuck by his side and remained loyal to him.

At least the Italians slapped some sappy shit about family to keep everyone in check. This man didn't need to appease the masses to keep people in check.

Interesting.

Perhaps he'd done that to scare me, drill through his superiority over me, or get a reaction out of me. I don't give him any of those things as I give an unimpressed sigh. "Well, that was a bit dramatic, don't you think?"

He flips the gun back onto me with too much ease for me to catch his bluff. "Sit down."

The day Celina Ademaro listened to the demands of a man without fighting back was the day hell would freeze over.

I stand tall. "And if I don't?"

From what little I heard, the bratva was a close-knit family operating mainly in Russia.

This man, however, didn't operate under a crime family, where power was distributed, albeit unevenly. This was simply him and his army.

He held all the power.

"Your blood will stain my thousand-dollar suit." My response was in an attempt to anger him, annoy him. But once again, I get no reaction but cold indifference as he finishes his sentence. "And inconvenience my day more than it already has."

I may not have been able to call his bluff, but I sure as fuck was smart enough to know no made man would go through all this trouble just to kill their collateral. "You'll need to try a bit harder." A smug smile graces my lips as I find the upper hand. "I highly doubt-"

My left ear rings, my eardrum threatens to burst, and a burning sensation prickles the entire left side of my face. I'd been shot at enough times to know that he'd not only grazed the shell of my ear with a bullet, but he'd sliced off an inch from a few strains of my hair along with it.

The glare I send him is doused in hatred as my hands shake at my sides and my body threatens to explode. It's in that moment, as I'm staring at his stoic face - void of any emotion, that I vow to kill this man before I die.

He raises his dark brow a fraction of an inch, a move so subtle I wouldn't catch it had I not been so perceptive. "Do I need to repeat myself?"

Despite the ringing in my ear, his voice pushes past it, loud and clear.

"When my father gets word of this, you'll be a dead man." It takes everything in me to bite my tongue and do what he says. "And I'll make sure I get the honor of slitting your throat."

He's unfazed by my threats.

I wanted his head, and I'd do it with my bare hands.

"Tell me your name." He doesn't even have the decency to form it as a question.

"Celina Ademaro." My teeth slam together as I grit out my response.

The man puts his gun away, a clear sign that he doesn't see me as worthy of being a threat, and instead pulls out his phone, before directing all his attention to it.

I sit there seething and plotting every single detail of his gruesome death while he clicks away at his phone.

He doesn't have a gun to my head, and my hands aren't tied, but he's proven that he doesn't need to. He could and would win.

Which is why I'm smart enough to shut up and comply, for now.

"Celina Ademaro doesn't exist." It's only when he slips his phone back into his pocket that he looks back at me.

My hands tighten around the metal of the chair in an attempt to keep my temper at bay. "My father didn't want me tied to his name." I grit, forcing out an explanation. "I took my mother's legal last name."

Despite the situation, it was the truth. Ademaro put a target on my back. This way, I was able to go to school and live a life away from the spotlight.

His tone is dismissive and cold once again. "Prove it."

No room for argument, nor is there any room for understanding.

"My father's ring." I make a show of holding my hand up in front of him. "If you focus your beady little eyes on this," I turn my hand and display the small engraving. "You'd see my last name engraved on it."

The man glances at it, no doubt spotting the Ademaro carved into the gold band. It was the same ring that the other two men who founded the Galanti mafia wore, only they had their last names engraved on their rings.

The man eyes me for a moment, almost in contemplation, before taking a step forward.

I sit, paralyzed as his large hands reach for the collar of my shirt and in one fast motion, he tears it down the middle, leaving me in nothing but my black bra.

Not only does he violate me so easily, but he doesn't look the least bit interested as a chunk of my shirt dangles from his hand.

I try to glare at him, but he moves behind me and so I use my words, "I'll kill you for that-" a hand curls itself around a chunk of my long hair and he pulls my head back before shoving the piece of cloth into my mouth.

And it's only after he's snapped a photo of me, restrained, gagged, and in nothing but my bra, does he slip his phone back into his pocket and look down at me, his stare so naturally unnerving I almost fear for my life.

"You'd die trying."

Celina

If you told me I'd be spending my Friday night tied to a chair, topless, with the most attractive man I'd ever laid eyes on. I'd be disappointed to know that it was to prove my relation to my papa as twelve - now eleven - people watched.

But alas, here I was, humoring this man while inadvertently humiliating myself.

The man's fingers fly across his phone screen, and I can't help the way my eyes linger on his hands as he sends out a text, the picture he'd just snapped of me no doubt the subject.

I debate on telling him that I'm the worst person to hang over the Italian mafia's head, especially when half of them didn't know I existed, and the other half alienated me. But I bite my tongue, knowing that if I did so, my chances of getting out of here alive would be cut in half.

With that thought in mind, I dart my eyes to the door.

Five people stand in my direct line of escape: four men, one woman.

I could take out the men with ease, but the woman, she was slim and small, meaning what she lacked in build, she made up for in skill.

She'd be a challenge.

I'd need to take her out first-

"You try anything, and I'll kill you myself." My captor's smooth voice breaks me from my thoughts, and I turn to look up at him, while his attention remains on his phone.

I spit the rag in my mouth at his feet, aiming for his shoe, but it seems like his instincts are more attentive than a trained assassin's, for he steps a quarter of an inch to the side, dodging the hit.

"I'd like to see you try." Despite the indifference oozing off him, my anger is clear as day in my response.

He slips the phone into his pocket and finally graces me with a glance, albeit fleeting and filled with disinterest, "I wouldn't need to try." There's no smug note to his tone; it's as though he's stating a fact.

I chuckle in disbelief, a sound that'd wound any man's ego. He doesn't take the bait.

He does, however, step forward, the move casual, yet his figure is large enough to naturally intimidate.

Despite his tall height, he's anything but lanky. Broad shoulders, hands creeping with the type of prominent veins one gets from building up physical endurance, and a lean build I could recognise even beneath his crisp suit.

I didn't like the threat he imposed when he stepped into my personal space, and so, with a jerk of my knee, I aimed for his groin. Before I can make contact, he uses his knee to swiftly nudge mine to the side and darts a hand out and around the base of my throat.

His palm is so large that his hand is almost able to span the entire circumference of my throat, albeit uncomfortably.

"I'd simply hold you like this." His stare is the equivalent of a man watching grass grow. Dull and tedious, while he uses the strength of his hand around my neck to drag me up to my feet so the tips of my toes skim the floor.

As my throat begins to close and my instincts kick in, I swing my foot forward, knocking my knee into his abdomen, which seems to be made of steel because the action doesn't deter him.

All it does is cause his hand to tighten its grip and lift me higher until I'm nearly dangling in the air, completely at his mercy.

I gasp for breath, and he doesn't blink an eye.

"And do one of two things." His voice is calm, his eyes too. The man feels nothing. I claw at his hand around my throat and swallow back my panicked breaths as he continues to tighten his hold, inch by inch.

To struggle would show him weakness, and I'd die before I begged for my life.

He pulls me closer, yet keeps me a safe distance away from him. "Either watch the life drain from your beady little eyes." My words are thrown back in my pale face as his deep voice seeps past the havoc he's creating in my mind. "Or use the gun at my waist and let you join him."

He doesn't clarify, nor does he need to. Not when a man is lying on the floor with a bullet lodged in his brain.

And that's precisely why it creeps into my bones. Like a plague, a paralysis, one that's reserved for the weak and softhearted. And for the first time in a long time, I feel fear.

It isn't the type that I find solace in, nor is it the type that draws my curiosity and captures my excitement. It's the type that makes me feel like a shell of the little girl I once was.

The little girl I refused to resort to.

And as the lack of oxygen flowing through my body darkens my vision, I begin to find peace in my inevitable fate.

That is, until it's ruined by the soft chime sounding from his pocket.

It isn't until he's pulled out his phone with his free hand, the one around my throat not slackening in the slightest, that the peace turns into anticipation.

My captor's blue-eyed gaze remains unchanged while I wait, unknowing of what he's going to do next.

The man was unpredictable, ruthless, and for once, I couldn't call his bluff.

He takes one glance down at the screen and must deem whatever he sees more important, for the next thing I know, he's letting me go with a simple flick of his wrist.

A flick of his wrist that sends me flying and nearly toppling onto the floor before I catch myself on my one steady foot. A move that causes my left ankle to burst with pain. The unbearable kind that tells me the chances of it being fine are less than stellar.

The pain in my ankle is quickly overpowered by the urge to suck in copious amounts of oxygen. I refrain, limiting myself to small, steady inhales, forcing the need to gasp and wheeze down to keep a small shred of my pride.

As though he's able to read right through me, the Russian tyrant moves his gaze from my face, down to my ankle. Never had I experienced someone look so unbothered while asserting their dominance and succeeding. This scar-faced monster has managed to do it with just one glance.

I didn't let men exercise their dominance over me often, but when they did, I grew to realise there was only one way to eliminate the power they had over me.

Kill them.

I force myself past the shortness of breath but find myself in a mental battle, fighting the urge to take a seat and relieve the pressure on my now sprained ankle.

It's only when my logic kicks in, telling me that a sprain is less of a disadvantage than a broken ankle, that I take a seat while he answers his phone, the voice on the other end booming on speaker for everyone to hear.

"You son of a bitch, you're a dead man-" Despite my tendency to refuse the comfort of others, my papá's voice causes the veins around my beating heart to loosen until I can breathe evenly.

A barely there nose of acknowledgement escapes the back of the man's throat, a hum but perfectly in tune. "How pleasant of you to finally return my calls." His composure is completely intact, while my father is so clearly seething on the other end.

"Where is she?" Come, my papá's demands.

"Right here." He eyes me like a commodity, one he's watching for any signs of emotion. I don't give him any.

"I can see why you keep this one away from the spotlight." He takes a step closer, and I jut my foot out to keep him away. He merely kicks it aside. "She's unbearable, unpleasant, and a terrible excuse of a woman." That gets a hint of anger out of me as I narrow my eyes. "Even more so than the other Italian women in your family."

My father remains silent, clearly considering his words carefully, but in the end, his temper gets the better of him."If you've harmed her in any way-"

My papá's behaviour begins to turn embarrassing, which is why I cut into the conversation. "I'm fine, papá."

His sigh of relief blares through the speaker like a scolding, "Are you okay?"

The only sign of acknowledgement I get from the Russian is the slight raise of his brow, but even then, it's mockingly.

"Yes." I grit my teeth reluctantly, knowing I'd slit my eyeballs open with my fingernails before I admitted I wasn't in front of this man.

"Have you had anything to eat?" His pestering and the obvious worry in his voice do nothing for my case. In fact, the last thing I needed was to be babied before a room full of his enemies.

"No." I brush off.

"You need to eat." His voice hardens, "Get some sugar-"

"Okay, let me just ask the man who'd nearly shot my ear off for a fucking juice box." Despite the little voice inside my head saying it, I don't speak the thoughts aloud. Instead, I settle for a repeat of my previous statement.

"I'm fine, papá." The thought of him making me out to be some damsel makes my skin crawl. "Cosa vuole?"(Italian|What does he want)

There's a pause before he answers. "Non lo so." (Italian| I don't know)

My papá was as good a liar as he was at taming his emotions. He did, in fact, know, but he just wasn't going to tell me.

Luckily for him, I knew better than to pry, nor did I necessarily give a big enough shit to invest myself in this drama.

"Qualunque cosa sia." My voice is low as I stare into lifeless eyes, relishing in the way he'll need to scramble to make sense of my words. "Non darglielo." (Italian| Whatever it is, don't give it to him.)

"Non è più un'opzione."

(Italian|That's no longer an option)

I heave yet another sigh. If there was one thing my papá's world revolved around, it was family, and aside from everyone working under him, I was the only direct blood he had.

Silvio Ademaro was hardly ever vile; he upheld the image of a perfect gentleman. But right now, he was moments from making a rash decision.

I needed to be his voice of reason.

"Mi ucciderà quando otterrà ciò che vuole." I twist my ankle, building up a tolerance for the pain, and glance around the room at his army of imprisoned Russians.

(Italian| He'll kill me when he gets what he wants.)

I can feel papá's hesitation as apprehension seeps through his emotional mess of a mind. "E se non gli do quello che vuole? Cosa succede allora?"

(Italian| And if I don't give him what he wants? What happens then?)

I don't get the chance to speak as another voice beats me to it. "She still dies." The low baritone wipes the smugness from my face only for it to tighten as I fight the urge to hold back my surprise. "Only this time," he tilts his head, seeming to grow satisfied with my strained expression, "I have the pleasure of dragging it out."

My papá's curses flow through the air, but I stay silent, my eyes boring in on the man whom I had yet again underestimated.

Of course, he speaks Italian.

"You have forty-eight hours to get me what I want." Perhaps I'm imagining the satisfaction on his face, but he holds my eye while speaking into the phone. "Or I start sending her to you, piece by piece."

I don't get to hear what my papá has to say, for the scar-faced man hangs up on one of New York City's most powerful Italian men.

Perhaps the lack of glucose in my bloodstream is making its way to my head, because all I can manage is a pathetic observation. "You understood us."

He glances down at the watch on his wrist. "You underestimate me."

His ability to dismiss me so quickly, alongside the power dynamic he has while standing, has me shooting up to my feet.

"Go to hell." And while I'm not proud of stooping so low, I spit at his feet and relish in the way my spit finally lands on his expensive shoe; it's enough to make him pause.

The slightest bit of tension overcomes his body; it's minor, but the only thing I've been able to drag out of him.

"I'm already there." My action seems to have struck a nerve, for the next thing I know, he's moving his foot forward and kicking my feet out from under me. He does it so effortlessly while I'm left to crash back into the hard chair and watch his ever-so-large figure step up to me. "And for the next forty-eight hours, I'm afraid you'll be joining me."

I don't dare admit I'm the least bit intimidated by him.

Unimpressed, I roll my eyes. "Whatever it is you're so desperate to have from my papá, you won't get it." I force myself back up, ignoring the pain in my ankle as I push past all my emotions and assert my own dominance.

Truth is, the man needs me alive and in one piece for the next forty-eight hours, that is.

"The only way you'll get my father's compliance is if I beg for it." My eyes coast around the room, the number of people here for little old me restoring my confidence.

I stand a little taller and tilt my head up at the most powerful man in the room. "And I'll die before that happens."

He could beat me, harm me, and play mind games with me all he wanted. But I'd been trained for a day like this.

He wouldn't be able to break me without going insane himself.

Something flickers in his eyes, it's minuscule and gone in an instant, but I catch it.

Annoyance.

It should scare me and act as a warning, but all it does is excite the fire in my chest, begging to explode.

"Show her to her room," I note how he speaks in English, his tone stone cold as he turns and begins to make his way out of the room. "You have my permission to use force, just make sure she's still breathing by the end of it."