Even with only a few bucks in my pocket, Italy was a beautiful place.

The most gorgeous place I’d ever seen.

The small towns were surrounded by vineyards, flowers, and marketplaces full of fresh produce along with homemade cheeses. Wine was more plentiful than water, and strangers had no problem sharing with someone they didn’t even know. Not having money to pay for food wasn’t an issue because everyone was so generous.

If I were in America, I’d look like a beggar on the street.

I took the bus to the neighboring towns around Milan and explored them. It was easy to be a tourist when the most beautiful sights were all free. I slept under the stars because it was warm, and I showered in public restrooms. It wasn’t my finest hour, but it certainly wasn’t the worst either.

It was still better than being a slave.

At first, I looked over my shoulder every other minute, expecting to see that horrific man watching me. But three days had come and gone, and he obviously knew I was no longer in New York City. After a quick search, he would find the manifest of the plane I was on. There was no doubt in my mind he’d tracked me to Italy. But since I was only using cash and not checking in to hotels, there was no way to trace me.

It was like I didn’t exist.

Being homeless was a freeing experience.

The feds would keep searching for me since I owed so much on my mortgage, and they wouldn’t stop until they put me in prison or took all of my wages from whatever job I managed to pick up. I would work forty hours a week just to be piss-poor for the rest of my life. I couldn’t even afford to resume my education.

Starting over in a foreign country sounded like my only option.

I just hoped no one caught me.

I didn’t have a false sense of my appearance. I understood I was pretty, but I certainly wasn’t model material. But if I could ask for a job doing something else, like sewing or being an assistant, I could make some money to get by. And I would also work for a very powerful man. It might make it difficult for Knuckles to touch me. That was also the last thing anyone would expect me to do, get a job working for a famous person. People would assume Conway Barsetti would turn me in, but judging by the empty expression in his eyes, he wouldn’t give a damn who I was running from. He had more important things to do—like count his money and his women.

I returned to Milan later that night with a bag full of bread, cheese, grapes, and crackers. The villagers I met had pushed more food into my arms than I could carry. I ate most of it when it was fresh and saved the rest for dinner. I slept in a hostel that night and had a bed and a real shower after a few days without that kind of luxury.

Tomorrow, I would head to the audition and hope for the best. I didn’t have nice clothes, but my clothes shouldn’t matter because I wasn’t looking to be a model.

I’d even be a janitor—if it paid enough.

---

I had to check in like everyone else and was given a number to stick against my clothes. All the women there were already in heels and lingerie, dressed up for the part. Beautiful, skinny, and with enormous hair, they were all qualified to be the next model for Conway Barsetti.

I was the only one fully dressed—and that made me feel naked.

Most of the women raised their eyebrows when they looked at me then whispered something to their friends in Italian. Some even laughed at me, like I was an idiot for showing up dressed in jeans and a t-shirt. My makeup and hair were done, and I dressed nicely for a walk through the park, but in the context of the audition, I looked like the biggest freak on the planet.

Numbers were called, and women worked the stage like it was the real deal. They strutted, pivoted, flipped their hair, and threw smoldering gazes at the men sitting behind the table.

Conway Barsetti wasn’t there.

He must have more important things to do than pick out his next model. Or maybe he was watching—but he couldn’t be seen. I was a bit crestfallen when he was nowhere in sight. A beautiful man like that was fun to stare at.

They finally called my number, 228.

I walked up the stairs and passed the woman who just hit the runway. She didn’t contain her laugh as she passed me, wearing a silver bra and panties and heels that were so tall she was practically walking on her toes.

I ignored her and walked up to the table where the three men sat. All dressed in suits, they moved their eyes over my body, taking in every feature with experienced gazes. It wasn’t the look I received from men when I went downtown in a short dress. It was pragmatic, completely observational.

The one in the middle spun his finger. “Turn and walk.”

“I’m not here to audition to be a model.” I kept my hands by my sides and didn’t bother with a fake smile. I wasn’t there to impress them with my appearance, but my mannerisms. “I have a lot of other skills I think will be useful to the Barsetti lingerie line. I can sew, clean, cook, organize…anything. I’m looking for work, and I’m willing to fill any position you may have.”

The man in the middle had dark hair and eyes. A pen was held in his fingertips, and he absentmindedly rotated it within his fingers. His eyes were dark like coffee, with just a splash of cream. “Modeling is the position we’re trying to fill. You want it or not?”

I immediately wanted to challenge him until he caved and directed me to someone who could hire me in a different field, but judging by the hostility in his eyes, he was already fed up with me. It was unlikely anyone spoke to these men that way, not when they could make dreams come true. “Do I look like the modeling type to you?” I’d shown up in jeans and a t-shirt with flat sandals on my feet. I wasn’t photogenic like the rest of them. I didn’t smile with perkiness or smolder with my sensuality. I was plain and boring. I knew it—and they knew it.

“I don’t know,” he said. “You haven’t walked the runway yet.”

“I don’t think my ability to walk is the deciding factor here.” I crossed my arms over my chest. “Look, I’m desperate for work. I just moved here, and I’ve got twenty euros in my pocket. I can do anything.”

“Then walk the runway.” He flicked his wrist and indicated to the stage with his pen. “Or leave.” He challenged me with his dark look, telling me his patience had been officially drained. The other two men watched me in silence, hardly blinking.

I swallowed my pride and did as they asked. I’d seen two hundred and twenty-seven women walk that runway all afternoon, so I knew exactly what to do. I knew how to hold my shoulders, how to shake my hips, and how to pivot. I felt like an idiot for doing it dressed that way, but I was desperate.

And desperate people did desperate things.

I walked to one point on the stage and then turned back, walking with a straight back and tense posture. I didn’t smile or wear a smoldering expression. That was where I drew the line.

The man in the middle set his pen on his clipboard. “Scars?”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have scars?”

“No.”

“Lift up your shirt.”

My eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

“I need to see your skin,” he said. “Blemishes, acne, etc.”

“Just take my word for it.”

He made notes on a piece of paper then snapped his fingers at me.

I placed my hands on my hips, regarding him with an ice-cold expression. Something told me that snap was specifically for me—and I didn’t care for it. “Do I look like a dog to you?”

“Woof.” An asshole smile spread on his lips. “Get your ass over here and take this. It has your instructions.”

“My instructions?” I slowly inched forward, my eyes on the small piece of paper he held in his hand. “What does that mean?”

“It means you’re going to the next stage.” He placed the paper in my hand. “Show this to the men at the door. Otherwise, you won’t get in.”

“Whoa, hold on.” My eyes scanned the information written down. It had an address as well as a time. “You’re seriously considering me?”

“Yes, sweetheart.” He still wore that asshole smile.

“Don’t call me that.” Anytime I heard that name, I felt the terror constrict my throat. Knuckles was the only man to ever call me that, so I’d developed a deep aversion to the horrific nickname. No man would ever call me that for the rest of my life. “And are you insane? Do you see all the gorgeous women out there?”

“You don’t think you’re gorgeous?” He cocked an eyebrow. “It doesn’t matter what you wear. Real beauty can’t be hidden. Now get off the stage. We have a lot of women to see.”

I stared at the paper again, unable to believe what had just happened. I didn’t know how much models got paid, but it was definitely enough to get an apartment and have a hot shower every day. It could be enough for me to start over. “When I said I wanted a different position, I wasn’t lying. Is there really nothing else?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re the dumbest woman who’s ever graced this stage. You just won the lottery, but you’re too stupid to realize it. You’d rather sew in a factory than be a Barsetti model? No, you’re the one who’s insane.” He leaned forward and stared up at me, his eyes burning like a raging forest fire. “Are you gonna take it or not? We’re supposed to hand out ten invitations. If you don’t want it, I’ll give it someone who actually gives a damn.” He reached his hand out to snatch it from my grip.

My hand immediately formed a fist around the paper, concealing it within my palm.

He leaned back and smiled. “Good…maybe you aren’t that stupid.”

“You’re only choosing ten women?”

“Yes.”

“And I’m one of the ten?” There were thousands of women lined up in the street, all dressed in their best. They were exotic, beautiful, and eager. I’d shown up hoping for a job mopping the floor or sewing buttons and lace, but I was given something they’d all kill for.

“Yes.” He nodded to the stairs. “Now go before I change my mind.”

I kept the invitation tucked into my palm, feeling my pulse pound around my grip. It was a sunny day in Milan, and the sun was beating on the back of my neck. I felt the sweat collect underneath my breasts in my top. But those physical nuisances paled in comparison to the choice I had before me.

The last thing I ever wanted to be was a model. I didn’t judge women who took off their clothes to make a living, but I’d never been interested in the lifestyle. I didn’t have the right attitude, and I was far too stubborn to follow directions. Knuckles threatened to torture me worse if I ran, but I did it anyway. Anyone would have told me it was the dumbest mistake of my life, but I didn’t care.

I’d rather run than surrender.

Modeling for Conway Barsetti wasn’t ideal, but it would give me something I couldn’t find anywhere else.

Protection.

I’d be surrounded by people all the time, living in the shadow of one of the greatest designers of our generation. A man worth billions had serious power. He wouldn’t care about protecting me, but he would certainly care about his brand.

Maybe this was a blessing in disguise. “I’ll be there.”