Chapter 5

 

Lena's POV

The elevator ascended silently to the sixty-second floor. Through the polished steel doors, I caught glimpses of my pale reflection.

Salvatore Venturi was the most feared man in the Venturi family empire, a reputation earned through blood and brutality. Thirteen years ago, when he was twenty-two, the family had suffered a catastrophic betrayal. His youngest brother Vincenzo had been killed in an FBI raid.

From that moment, Salvatore had transformed into something else entirely. Cold. Calculating. Merciless.

And famously, dangerously sexual.

The stories about his appetite for women were legendary among New York's underground circles. There was the socialite from the Upper East Side who'd tried to seduce information from him about a rival family's operations. She'd emerged from his penthouse three days later with cigarette burns on her thighs and rope marks around her wrists, her spirit so thoroughly broken that she'd checked herself into a psychiatric facility and never spoken of what happened.

Then there was the Russian mob boss's daughter who'd attempted to negotiate a territory dispute in his bedroom. The paramedics had found her unconscious, covered in welts from what appeared to be a riding crop, with frostbite on her fingers from ice that had been held against her skin for hours. She'd spent two weeks in intensive care and immediately fled the country upon recovery.

Most recently, there had been the federal prosecutor who'd gotten too close to the family's shipping operations. She'd thought she could honey-trap Salvatore into revealing incriminating evidence. Instead, she'd been discovered wandering Times Square at dawn, naked except for a fur coat, with intricate burn patterns across her back that looked almost artistic in their precision. She'd resigned from the DA's office the next day and moved to Oregon, where she now taught elementary school and never spoke about her time in New York.

The pattern was always the same: women who thought they could use their sexuality to manipulate Salvatore ended up as cautionary tales.

If Nico had any other brothers, I would never have considered this path.

But desperation makes monsters of us all.

The elevator doors opened to reveal Salvatore's domain: the entire top floor of a Manhattan financial district skyscraper. The reception area was all black marble and chrome, as cold and unwelcoming as its owner.

Marco, his head of security, looked up from a mahogany desk that probably cost more than most people's cars. "Mr. Venturi is expecting you, but he's currently in a meeting. Please, make yourself comfortable."

He gestured toward a seating area furnished with leather chairs that looked more like thrones. I settled into one, my hands folded carefully in my lap to hide their trembling.

The wait stretched for nearly an hour. Through the thick walls, I occasionally heard muffled sounds.

A woman's voice, sometimes pleading, sometimes crying out.

The staff moved through the office with practiced efficiency, their faces carefully blank. This was clearly routine.

At precisely eight-thirty, the massive oak doors to Salvatore's private office swung open.

Marco emerged first, carrying what appeared to be a bundle wrapped in a cashmere blanket. As he passed closer to my seating area, I caught a glimpse of what he carried and my blood turned to ice.

It was a woman, unconscious, her dark hair matted with sweat. Her arm hung limply from the blanket, revealing angry red welts that looked like whip marks. Her bare foot was visible at the bottom of the bundle, and I could see burn marks on the sole.

Marco's expression never changed as he carried his burden toward a private elevator that I hadn't noticed before. The woman never stirred.

I sat frozen, my mind reeling. This was Salvatore's "meeting."

For ten minutes, I remained motionless, staring at the doors to his office. Every rational part of my mind screamed at me to leave, to run, to find another way to save Nico. But what other way was there?

This was the only path that led to a child quickly enough to matter.

I closed my eyes and thought of Nico's face when I'd shown him the ultrasound image. The hope that had flickered there, the first light I'd seen in his eyes since the attack.

I could endure whatever Salvatore demanded. I had to.

The office doors opened again, and this time Salvatore himself appeared in the doorway.

He stood silhouetted against the warm light of his office, tall and imposing in an immaculately tailored charcoal suit.

"Lena," he said, his voice low and smooth. "How unexpected."

"Salvatore."

"You said you needed to see me about Nico."

"Yes. And I assume this conversation requires privacy."