Page 83 of Freed
My fingers curl into my palms.
I hate that he keeps backing me into corners. I hate that Dante’s name in his mouth sounds like a challenge. And I hate that every road in front of me feels like a trap. But most of all, Ihate that beneath the fear, one thought keeps screaming louder than all the rest:
If Lorenzo asks the wrong question, everything is over.
He waits, watching me with that hard, unreadable stare.
I force my legs to move.
“Fine,” I whisper.
His jaw tics once, but he says nothing. Just turns and starts walking again, certain I’ll follow. And because I know he’ll make good on the alternative, I do. Each step down that hallway feels like I’m walking toward an execution.
He leads me into the office like I’m a prisoner being marched to an interrogation. The room is all dark wood and leather and quiet masculine control, every surface polished, every line expensive, every inch of it stamped with Lorenzo. He goes behind the desk, opens a drawer, and pulls out his phone.
Then he looks at me.
“Sit.”
I stay where I am. “I can stand.”
His mouth flattens, but he says nothing. Just unlocks the phone and dials from memory.
My pulse starts pounding so hard I can feel it in my throat.
He puts the call on speaker. It rings once. Then Dante answers so fast it’s like he’s been waiting with the phone in his hand.
“Bring her back, Conti!”
The sound of his voice hits me like a blow. Relief crashes through me so violently my eyes sting.
“Dante—” I cry out. “It’s me.”
“Are you hurt?” he cuts in, voice rough and urgent. “Tell me right now. Are you hurt?”
“No,” I whisper. “I’m okay. Is Teresa okay?”
A sharp exhale comes through the line, half relief, half fury. “Thank God. Yes, she’s fine. Shaken, but fine.”
Lorenzo leans one hip against the desk, arms folded, watching me with the kind of stillness that is more threatening than pacing would have been. I close my eyes for one second and pray.
Dante speaks again, lower now, but no less intense. “Where are you?”
I open my mouth, but Lorenzo beats me to it.
“With me,” he says.
The silence on the other end goes dead.
Then Dante says, very softly, “Conti.”
“Russo.”
The temperature in the room drops ten degrees and I wrap my arms around myself.
Dante’s voice turns to steel. “Put her back on.”
Lorenzo doesn’t move his gaze from me. “In a moment.”
