If I have to eat another slice of pizza, I’d stab someone.

Seeing as Damon has done nothing to hurt me, I don’t want to do that to him.

Oh, and also . . . he’s quite a lot bigger and stronger than me, so even if I manage to stab him once, he’ll overpower me anyway, and I’ll probably just end up having less freedom. It’s not like I’ve had much practice bringing a man down with just one stab of the knife.

Damon is practically inhaling the scrambled eggs I just made. It’s really not that good. I didn’t have much to work with. No fresh ingredients like onions or bell peppers, for example. Maybe he’s as sick of pizza as I am?

“That was delicious,” he says as he sets the plate down on the coffee table.

“Thanks,” I answer without thinking twice.

“You’re talking to me now?” Damon raises a questioning eyebrow.

Oh, that’s right. I hadn’t spoken for a while.

I’ve been too lost in my own thoughts to make small talk.

Besides, he’s already told me he doesn’t plan to let me go no matter what I say. He also said he doesn’t plan on hurting me, so that’s pretty much all I need to know.

I’ve used my time carefully evaluating my circumstances and considering my options.

After staring at every door and window in this one-bedroom apartment, I still can’t find an escape route. We’re also on the third floor, and I’m not desperate enough to risk breaking my bones.

I know that Damon literally won’t touch me if I don’t want him to, so that’s a big relief. I’ve seen the hunger in his eyes when he looks at me, and I expected him to simply take what he wants just because I won’t be able to stop him.

But he’s more honorable than I thought. A criminal’s honor, sure—but it’s still honor nonetheless.

I also know what items to use as a weapon in every room of this apartment.

There are knives in the kitchen, of course. If I’m in the living room, the best thing to do would be to run as fast as I can to the kitchen.

In the bathroom, I’ve started to loosen the screws on the towel rack so I can pull out the metal stick and clock someone with it. I can also use the toilet tank lid, although that’s heavier and harder to swing around.

In the bedroom, there’s a mirror I can break with one of Damon’s wooden coat hangers. The shards will come in handy if I ever have to stab someone.

I’ve found some cleaning fluid in the hallway closet that I can throw onto someone’s face, too.

“Would you prefer I keep my mouth shut?” I ask Damon.

“No,” he answers quickly. “God, no.”

I carry our dirty plates and utensils to the kitchen and wash them in the stainless steel sink.

“Do you like cooking?” Damon grabs a wet, clean plate off my hands and places it on the dish rack.

Does he even know how kidnapping works? He didn’t even steal me away, and now he’s helping me with the dishes? I’m having doubts in my dad’s recruiting methods.

“I don’t mind it,” I say, passing another clean plate to Damon.

“Do you want to cook again tomorrow? Would it help take your mind off things?” he asks.

I scrub the frying pan with a brush, covering it with white bubbles. “Have you ever taken a hostage before, Damon?”

He frowns. “Yeah. Why do you ask?”

“No reason. Do you treat all your hostages like this?”

After a second of silence, Damon bursts into laughter. “No, princess. You’re special.”

“Good to know.”

Damon takes the rest of the wet dishes off my hands and deals with them as I step away from the kitchen. “Where are you going?” he asks.

“I’m taking a shower,” I announce as I walk down the hallway. After cooking, I always feel like I’m covered in oil.

Besides, I need to loosen the screws on that towel rack a little bit more. A warm shower will also help me sleep—and I need my rest so I can take the opportunity to escape when it presents itself.

Sure, Damon isn’t a bad man. But I sneaked out from under my dad’s supervision to gain my freedom—not to have another man take it away from me.

* * *

After my shower, I walk into the bedroom to find Damon already lying in bed.

I’ve never shared a bed with anyone before, so I don’t know how it usually works. But I find it funny how after the first night, I can’t bring myself to sleep on “his side of the bed.” It just feels wrong.

I have no idea if Damon normally sleeps on the right-hand side, but he’s there again tonight, just like he was the previous nights.

I smile to myself as I turn off the lights.

“What’s so funny?” he asks.

Would he find it insulting if I told him he seems like a harmless giant who’s sweet and kind despite his appearance?

“Nothing.” I join him in bed.

“I’m glad you’re talking again.”

“Did the silence bother you?” I turn on my side to face Damon and study his handsome face. It seems strange that something as simple as the lack of words from a girl like me could affect someone like Damon.

Damon hesitates. “I was just worried about you. Won’t look very good to Enzo if he picks up his daughter, and she’s become a mute.”

A smile plays on my lips. He’s making a joke now. Is that because he’s lying and deep down he was intensely bothered by my silence?

Damon has become more reserved now that he’s all grown up. He’s twenty-eight—almost thirty now. Perhaps that milestone comes with certain demands on a man like him.

But I remember he used to be a lot more chatty when we were younger. Before Matteo left the city to go to college, Damon used to tell stories—stories about his family, about his school teachers, about his friends.

His stories always sounded foreign to me. Once, he told us a story about how his dad’s car had broken down. I remember asking him why his dad bought a lemon when any one of the cars at the showroom where my dad had bought his car would be a better choice.

I was young, of course. But I still cringe about that one when I lie in bed at night sometimes.

“Talk to me, Elena,” he says. “What are you thinking about?”

“For some reason . . . your dad’s car. You used to tell us funny stories about it.”

“That’s . . . I didn’t expect that.” Damon smiles, his eyes twinkling in the dark. “Yeah, that truck was a piece of junk. Even the latch of the hood didn’t work properly, and we had to drive like old people.

“One time, I hit sixty-five on the highway and the hood flipped up. The whole heavy piece of metal, just slamming into the windshield and shattering the glass.” Damon grins, reminding me of the boy I used to know as his hands gesture excitedly in the dark. “Pieces of glass poured into the car. Even the hood bowed inside.”

I smile as I listen to his story. Somehow, it makes me happy and sad at the same time—happy that I get to hear another one of his stories again and sad that this conversation is happening under these strange circumstances.

Damon shakes his head. “I can still hear the scream of the girl sitting beside me. The date was over at the point, even though I did the best a sixteen-year-old kid could do in the moment and calmly pulled the car to the side of the road.”

At the mention of a girl and a date, I feel a sting in my chest. Damon used to tell us about his girls, and I never liked it.

Realistically, if he was sixteen then I would’ve been eleven—way too young to date. But it still fills me with jealousy to hear about it, even if Damon doesn’t mention her name and probably doesn’t remember it too.

He’s lying in bed with me now—not that girl—and that should be all that counts, I tell myself. Even if I’m only here because of who my father is.

Damon reaches out his hand and places it on my cheek—heavy, warm, soothing. “Why were you thinking about my dad’s old truck? Don’t you have more important questions to ask me, princess?”

“Like what?”

Like if you still talk to that girl? If you lost your virginity to her? If you went on any more dates with her after that?

“Don’t you want to know why you’re here?” he asks.

Of course I’m curious about why he’d go to these lengths in the first place. Keeping me hostage would no doubt make my dad a very angry man. But knowing the answer isn’t going to help me get my freedom back.

It’s more useful to look for escape routes and weapons. As much as I try to fool myself otherwise, I know I’m not a normal girl. Even if I look harmless, my dad has taught me skills to survive in case something like this were to happen.

“Of course. Why?” I ask. It’s probably not a good idea to let my kidnapper know about my weapons, no matter how hot he is.

“You remember when my parents died?” Damon answers my question with a question of his own.

Damon was seventeen or eighteen at the time. His mom died first—suicide. Then, his dad died a few months later due to an accident on the job.

Of course working for my dad is dangerous, but I’ve always thought he would’ve been more careful had he known he had a wife waiting for him at home.

“Yeah.” I hesitate before asking, “Do you blame my dad for that?”

“It was his fault.”

I want to tell Damon his dad should’ve known the risks of working for Enzo Guerriero—out of familial loyalty, perhaps. But I bite my tongue.

I get the feeling it would be as ignorant as asking him why his dad didn’t just buy a Porsche like mine did.

“You know what he did, princess?” Damon asks, his voice calm with a wild undercurrent of rage. “Do you know what an evil motherfucker your dad can be?”

I remain silent.

“Of course you don’t.” Damon shakes his head. “Of course you don’t. Why would he tell his own precious daughter what a disgusting monster he really is?”

“Tell me, then,” I say quietly.

I thought this was about business. Damon mentioned something about Dad owing him, and I assumed he was talking about money.

I’ve been raised to look the other way when it comes to “men’s business,” which in my family stands in for all the criminal activities my dad’s involved in.

So it comes naturally to me, paying little attention to a debt my dad owes Damon. My dad will simply pay Damon what he wants and that’ll be the end of it, as far as I’m concerned. It’s my dad’s business, which means it’s none of my business.

But if this is about Damon’s family . . . then it’s a completely different story. Work is work. But family is everything.

I don’t like the idea that my dad could be responsible for the deaths of Damon’s parents and it’s not just because those people were his family.

I’m not an idiot. I know my dad has his enemies’ blood on his hands. But Damon’s parents, who were loyal to him? Why would he betray their trust like that? It goes against everything he has taught me.

“Damon, please tell me,” I ask again.

“It started when my dad . . .” Damon shuts his eyes and lets out a deep sigh. When he opens them again, even in the dark, I see his pain flash for a split second.

Whatever he’s about to say, it’s the truth. I know it in my heart.

“My dad, he wanted to quit,” Damon says. He looks around like he’s seeing everything happen again in this dark bedroom. “He wanted to stop working for Enzo. Enzo said, ’Sure.’ But he wasn’t actually going to let that happen.

“My dad was an asset—a dangerous one. He had gotten in too deep. He knew too much information, and if he wanted to, he could sell that information to the cops—or worse, one of Enzo’s enemies.”

My chest clenches as I listen. Obviously, this is not one of Damon’s stories that would end well. I sense the pain in his voice, and it shames me that my dad is the cause of that pain.

“Enzo wanted to keep my dad working for him. So what he did was . . . Behind my dad’s back, he gave my mom drugs. Got her hooked on something only Enzo could provide.” Damon turns to lie on his back. As he stares at the ceiling, he continues, “He knew my dad couldn’t have quit and still afford my mom’s habit. So my dad kept working. Forgot about quitting because we barely had enough to get by. My mom kept finding his stash of cash and using it to buy more shit.”

A chill runs down my spine as I realize my dad’s fully capable of doing something like that. Sure, he may not have pulled the trigger and killed Damon’s parents. But he put them in an impossibly desperate situation.

My dad’s lessons come back to me. All those times he told me the importance of being in control, of creating leverage.

“My mom wasn’t high twenty-four/seven,” Damon says. “She’d have these little moments of clarity when she’d realize how far gone she was and how she was dragging her family down with her.” Damon takes another deep breath. “But I guess she felt too weak to fight her addiction, and she chose to take her own life instead.”

I swallow. What can I say? Are there any words I can offer him to give him some measure of solace, considering who I am?

“You know the rest of the story. My dad, in his grief, got careless during a job and an accident happened,” Damon says. “He was already planning to quit again. Didn’t want me to follow his footsteps. He was just trying to repay his debts to Enzo.”

“Do you think . . .?” I let my voice hang in the air even though the question is banging against my skull, demanding to be spoken. I can’t quite bring myself to say it.

“Yes,” Damon confirms my suspicion. “I know for sure Enzo deliberately gave him a dangerous assignment. He didn’t want my dad to quit, and he had lost his leverage. So there was only one way out.”

Leverage.

There’s that word.

One of my dad’s favorite words.

Most kids grow up listening to lectures about honesty, dignity, hard work, or maybe religion. But my dad is all about control.

I don’t doubt Damon’s story. Not one bit.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.

Damon frowns. “You didn’t do anything.”

“No, but I . . . He’s my father.”

Damon remains on his back but he turns his head to look at me. His hair tumbles forward and falls on his forehead. “You didn’t do anything,” he repeats

“Maybe he wouldn’t have been so ambitious if it weren’t for his family. He works hard, and I get to enjoy it.” I sound ridiculous even to myself. Logically, I know I was never involved in my dad’s business dealings—he made sure of that.

Yet, I’m finding it hard to breathe. Guilt wraps around my chest and tightens its grip as I learn the truth.

“Princess, it wasn’t your fault.” Damon reaches out and tucks my hair behind my ear. “I’m the one who should apologize. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved.”

I look into Damon’s eyes. Does that mean he’s going to let me go?

“I have no choice,” Damon says. “This is the only way I can make sure I don’t end up like my parents.”

“I’m your leverage,” I blurt out. That’s all I am. A thing to bargain with.

“Yes.” Damon strokes my cheek with his thumb.