by Kelsie Rae
I don’t move.
“Come on, Q. I’ll show you inside.”
Unfolding himself from inside the tiny car, he closes the door then waits for me to follow him. When I don’t, his jaw tightens.
“You promised me, Q,” he calls before turning around and holding my stare through the windshield. “You promised you’d do whatever I asked if I let you hurt Burlone. I kept my end of the deal. Now, I need you to keep yours. Will you please get out of the car and come inside?”
Please.
It’s funny. That word never worked for me when I was begging Sei to stop. When I was pleading for him not to hurt me. Not to use me. Not to make me do all the despicable things he made me do.
The squeak of the hinges on the passenger door makes me jump as Diece tugs it open then offers his hand for me to take.
“Please?” he repeats.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I fight off the urge to run. Then I slip out of the car without his help. The gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he steps back to give me plenty of space. With a glare, I cross my arms and wait for his next command.
Because they always demand more.
3
Diece
“Ladies first,” I mutter, motioning to the entrance of Matteo’s place.
With her chin to her chest and her eyes on the ground, she heads to the entrance. I follow behind her, then use the large gold knocker to announce our presence.
Matteo Moretti answers a few seconds later. The bastard stepped back from the family business when his father started strengthening their family’s connection with Burlone Allegretti. But he’s proven to be a friend of the Romanos when we’ve had our backs against the wall. And today is no different. His gaze lazily scans us both up and down before he steps back to allow us to enter his family’s summer house. The one that’s been vacant for years and belongs to one of Burlone’s associates. It’s the last place anyone would look for us. Especially Q’s enemies.
“Come on in,” he offers.
“Thanks.”
As we step inside, he replies, “Don’t mention it. Lou told me to pick up a few things before you got here. They’re in the west wing.”
Queena’s mouth twitches, hinting at her beauty, but she keeps her eyes on her hands and continues to wring them like a dirty dishrag.
“Something funny?” I ask in a low voice that’s only meant for her.
With a subtle shake of her head, she keeps her lips shut.
Shocker.
I sigh. “Q, this is Matteo. He’s…a friend of the family. Matteo, this is Q.”
“Nice to meet you,” Matteo replies, though I can almost see the wheels turning in his head as he scans her up and down another time. I don’t know what Kingston said to convince him to help us. And I have no idea if he knows that Q helped bring Kingston’s plan to fruition during the poker tournament at Burlone’s estate. The plan that led to Matteo’s uncle’s arrest less than forty-eight hours ago.
It’s not like they were on good terms, but he’s still a Moretti.
I do know one thing, though. He’s not an idiot, and if Kingston trusts him, then so do I.
Matteo might insist that he keeps his hands clean, but the bastard knows everything and everyone in this business. He might even know Q’s true identity.
But I sure as hell don’t.
After another moment of silence, Matteo decides, “Let me show you to your rooms.” Turning on his heel, he leads us up a set of dark, wooden stairs to the second floor that splits into two sections, one to my left and one to my right. There are two long, winding hallways at the top. Both appear to be lined with doors on each side as he guides us down to the left section of rooms. When we reach the end of it, Matteo pushes open the last door.
“Here we are. There’s a bathroom and a walk-in closet through that door.” He points to the door hidden at the back of the bedroom. “I used to have my groceries delivered, along with take-out, when I didn’t feel like cooking. The number is on the kitchen table on the main floor. Any questions?”
Q remains quiet and doesn’t even bother to look around. Annoyed by her lack of gratitude, and desperate for a minute to breathe outside of her presence, I rock back on my heels and answer, “I think we’re good. Q, why don’t you take a shower or something. I’ll be back in a few.”
Matteo and I exit the room, then I close the door behind me, but a panicked Queena wrenches it open almost instantly. Her chest is heaving, and her eyes are open wide in fear as she begs, “Please let me keep it open. I promise I won’t go anywhere, and I’ll do what you tell me. I just…I can’t….” She doesn’t finish her sentence but lets her voice trail off as she continues to hyperventilate right before my eyes.
I think it’s because there are far too many ways that she could finish that statement. She can’t function. She can’t deal with the shit she’s been through. She can’t trust anyone, let alone the guy who’s trying to protect her. She can’t do a lot of shit.
But instead of pointing out the obvious, I raise my hands in surrender and take a cautious step back to give her some space.
“Sure thing. It’s your room.” Then I follow Matteo to his security room on the opposite side of the house. I can feel her watching me before I round the corner, but I don’t bother to turn around and call her out for it. Besides, it’s not a crime to be curious. Hell, it proves she’s still alive. And sometimes, I think she needs a reminder.
As soon as I enter the security room, Matteo crosses his arms and gets right to the point. “So…who is she?”
“She’s none of your concern.”
With a dry laugh, he shakes his head. “Sure, she isn’t. She wouldn’t have anything to do with my uncle’s incarceration, would she?”
I stay quiet, though I’m sure he can see the slight tic in my jaw. For someone trying to distance himself from family business, the bastard knows far too much.
Matteo smiles before changing the subject. “Lou didn’t mention how long you’d both be staying….”
“That’s because we don’t have a firm answer yet.”
“Well, I guess we’ll start with a few weeks then. You have my number. I also left the maid’s number and the grocery delivery service contact info in the kitchen.”
“Yeah, on the table. You mentioned that.”
“You’re lucky you’re not kicking me out of my house,” he quips, ignoring my asinine remark.
“Sorry for the short notice. But thank you for your help,” I add.
“I owed King. Now, we’re even.”
“Good to know. Do I need to know about anything in here?” Motioning to the room, I take in the monitors, keyboard, and desktop that looks like a regular office on steroids.
He waves me off. “Nah. It’s just your usual shit. Since this place is out in the middle of nowhere, the security cameras usually only go off when a cow is on our grounds, but I’ll hook up your phone to get notifications.”
“Thanks.”
“Sure thing,” he returns.
“How could you tell it was her?” I demand, unable to help myself.
Plopping down into an office chair, he confides, “She was the first face on Uncle Moretti’s email, and the only one he cared to see. He’d planned on purchasing her, but Burlone said he already had a buyer lined up. Good ol’ Uncle Moretti was sorely disappointed, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
“He’s not used to being told no.”
“No, he’s not. He planned on reaching out to a guy named…Johnson? He was going to offer him more money to keep her, but that obviously didn’t work out since he’s a little busy in prison. And he’s under the impression Kingston took care of her.”
Rolling my shoulders, I mutter, “Yeah…about that….”
“I don’t give a shit about good ol’ Uncle Moretti.” Matteo laughs, amused by my half-assed attempt to apologize before sobering with his next words. “And she doesn’t look like a Fed to me. But she’s too stunning for her own good, D. I suggest yo
u figure out how the hell to alter her appearance. Quickly. Word travels fast, and it’s only a matter of time before they come looking for her––the girl who got away.”
“What else have you heard?” I prod.
“That she isn’t who she appears to be.”
I cock my head to the side. “Do you know who she is?”
Pulling up a live feed of the hallway that leads to her bedroom, he studies it carefully. The door is wide open, but there isn’t any movement.
“Answer the question,” I demand.
With his gaze glued to the screen, he concludes, “She’s just a broken girl who doesn’t know how to put herself back together again.” Clearing his throat, he tears his attention away from the video feed and looks up at me. “Be gentle with her.”
“I won’t hurt her.”
“I meant emotionally,” he clarifies.
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
He nods. “Good. I left all the items Lou mentioned on your bed in the room across from hers. I don’t know if hair dye will be enough to hide her identity, but it’s worth a shot. And like I said, let me know if you need anything else. There’s a keypad on the door to this room. The code is 0-0-1-0-0.”
“Why so simple?”
“Because everyone expects a guy like me to have something complicated. I figured I’d just give them the bird and tell them to fuck off instead.”
I laugh as recognition dawns on me. The code signifies his knuckles. While the majority of numbers are low, the middle digit is high in the air. As if he’s literally giving them the bird. “Clever,” I compliment. “And thanks again, Matteo. Have you heard any unrest from the other families?”
“It’s a little early to tell. Lucca Russo is being a bit of a bitch about the transition, but he’s harmless. If you found someone in your ranks to marry his sister, Emilia, he’d probably shut right up. He just wants to keep his family’s status without having to lift a finger. I heard his father had been setting up a betrothal with one of Burlone’s soldiers, but it fell through when all hell broke loose less than forty-eight hours ago.”
I smirk. “That won’t be a problem. Stefan has wanted her for years. What about everyone else?”
He shrugs and leans back in his office chair. “Nothing too out of the ordinary. Now they’re just fighting with each other like a pack of wolves over a scrap of meat. Who’ll be crowned the next king of the underworld when their fearless leaders were all whisked away in handcuffs?”
“Dex,” I answer him.
Brow quirked, he repeats, “Dex?”
“He was being groomed for the position, anyway. Why not give them what they want?”
“And if they don’t back Dex?”
“Then they go in the ground. We’re going to extract anyone who wants to continue selling fruit to the highest bidder.”
Fruit.
What a twisted way to talk about human beings. Like they’re nothing but an object.
Matteo kicks his feet up onto the desk then laces his fingers behind his head as if he has all the time in the world. But it doesn’t hide his flash of surprise as he clarifies, “You plan on eradicating the entire human trafficking industry?”
“In this part of the country, yeah. We’ve seen what it does to women. Our women,” I clarify. “Regina. Ace.”
“And Q?” he challenges.
I hesitate. “Yeah. And Q.”
“Interesting,” he notes.
That same tic in my jaw returns with a vengeance as I grit out, “Kingston promised to protect her.”
“So, it has nothing to do with the way you look at her?” He scoffs. “Keep telling yourself that. But what makes you think the Romano family can pull it off? You’ve never been in the skin trade.”
“King’s dad didn’t want to make things messy for the family by sticking his nose where it didn’t belong. But Burlone crossed that line and left us no choice as soon as he tried to frame us by doing business on our docks.”
He scratches his jaw before resting his elbows on his knees. “I remember hearing about that. Obviously, thinking he could use Kingston was Burlone’s biggest mistake. But I think you’re smart to take control while everyone is left scrambling.”
“Me too. Kingston might be young, but he knows his shit.”
“Yeah, he seems to be fitting in as Boss quite nicely.” An amused Matteo studies me closely before muttering, “I’m just glad I’m on your side.”
I lift my chin in agreement. “Thanks again for letting us stay.”
“No problem. I’m heading out in a few.”
“Sounds good.”
Twisting the door handle, I head back down the hall toward our bedrooms. Q’s door is still wide open, but she hasn’t moved a muscle from where we left her ten minutes ago.
A sigh escapes me before I lean against the doorjamb and mutter, “Hey.”
She doesn’t acknowledge me.
“Do you want to shower or anything? Maybe get some sleep?”
And maybe not stare at the wall like a crazy person?
More silence.
Rubbing my hand over my face, I stalk closer to make sure I’m in her line of sight. “Q, I’m gonna need you to start talking to me.”
“I thought men liked their women silent.” There’s an edge in her voice that gives me hope she isn’t completely dead inside.
“Not this silent,” I joke before taking in her bruised complexion. The makeup that’d been caked on her face since the tournament has slowly rubbed away to reveal black and blue undertones that would make a UFC fighter cringe. “How’s your face feeling?”
Confused, she drops her gaze down to the ground but doesn’t say anything.
“Answer me,” I press, keeping my tone soft as if she’s a scared little creature.
Peeking up at me through her thick, dark upper lashes, she mumbles, “I-I don’t know what’s wrong with my face.”
“Have you looked in the mirror?”
Again. Silence.
I fight the urge to shake her and squeeze my hands into tight fists at my sides. “Answer me, Q.”
“I haven’t looked in the mirror since the night I was taken.”
My eyes widen before I cover my shock with indifference. What the hell did they do to her?
“You should probably take a look at the damage,” I return. “Matteo said the bathroom is over here.”
Making sure not to touch her, I guide her into the white marble master bathroom, then stop her in front of the mirror. Q’s attention is firmly on her feet, but her slender frame is quaking like a leaf. So bad that I’m afraid she might collapse onto the floor.
What. The. Hell.
“Hey,” I whisper. My palms itch to touch her, but I restrain myself. “What’s wrong?”
She shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. “I can’t look.”
“Why?”
Her lips turn white from the pressure of her teeth digging into them before a shallow breath slips past her lips. “Because it won’t be me in the mirror.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s not me,” she repeats. Her voice cracks before she sniffs softly. “I’m gone. And now, I’m terrified to see the girl looking back at me in my own reflection because she’ll be a stranger. And I can’t bear the thought of it. I can’t look at my long blonde hair without hearing his—” Her mouth snaps shut before her eyes widen in fear, and she looks over at me.
“Tell me,” I demand.
She shakes her head.
“Tell me,” I repeat with a bit more force.
Lower lip quivering, she whispers, “He loved my hair.” The blood drains from her face. “Loved how it was naturally blonde. Loved how long it was so that he could wrap it around his fist. Loved to pull on it until clumps would come out in his hand. Loved to drag me around the room with it if I ever disobeyed him. Loved to pet it when I’d been a good girl and did whatever he asked of me. He loved it.” She swallows before a bitterness overcomes her. One that�
��s so strong, I can almost taste it. Then her hatred-filled gaze meets mine, and she spits, “And now, I hate it.”
Shit.
“Wait right here,” I order.
I stride to my room and dig through the sacks on my bed that Matteo had mentioned. When I find a pair of scissors and a couple of boxes of hair dye, I return to her bathroom and carefully set them on the counter in front of her.
“Do you want to say goodbye to the girl you used to be before we get rid of her?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “No. I said goodbye to her the moment he touched me for the first time.”
My mouth floods with bile, but I swallow it back and slide off my Armani jacket, leaving me in a white button-up shirt that’s still stained with Burlone’s blood. Rolling up the sleeves, I grab the boxes of hair dye and start reading the directions on the back of them.
“What are you doing?” she whispers, cautiously watching me from the corner of her eye.
“Which one do you prefer?”
There are two options––a soft, silver blue, and a dark, almost black, navy color. I raise them for her to inspect, but she doesn’t bother to look at either of them.
“Whatever you want,” she replies in a monotone voice. The same glaze I’m growing accustomed to covers her eyes as she stares blankly at me.
“You’re allowed to make your own decisions, Q.”
She scoffs. “Bullshit.”
“I’m serious. Don’t think about what the old Q would want. Don’t think about what the girl in Burlone’s captivity would want. Think about the girl in front of me right now. What does she want?”
Squeezing her eyes closed, a single tear slips down her cheek. “She wants to disappear.”
The air whooshes out of my lungs as though I’ve been sucker-punched. This wasn’t part of the job description. How the hell am I supposed to fix this girl when she doesn’t want to be fixed?
Wrenching open the box in my left hand without giving a shit which color it is, I start mixing the ingredients together then section her hair the way the directions explain. We don’t say a word as I paint the blonde strands with blue ink while ignoring the patches of scabs that cling to her scalp.