His: Tony: The Sabatini Family by Fiona Murphy (mystery books to read .TXT) 📗

I dig through my duffle bag and find a bobby pin. Thank god for the lessons learned from Danny. It takes four tries for me to get the cuffs off. I toss them across the room.

Looking at my suitcases, it’s clear someone went through them, they aren’t zipped up completely. I know it’s a waste of time, but I search anyway. The gun I packed is missing. I’m so fucking screwed.

As I go to zip up a suitcase, I shrug. I’m not one for sitting around in a dress. I snag a pair of yoga pants and a long, plain white T-shirt and change. I can’t give a reason for keeping my bra and panties on other than I loved the way they felt against my skin. And if I’m going to be killed, I’d like to die with them on. For the first time ever, I don’t even think of someone seeing my fat ass as I change. It doesn’t feel like it matters much anymore.

I pace around the room, wondering what the hell I’m even doing still breathing. If he knows I wanted to kill him, why not have one of the men in the Escalade kill me? I get it. If you try and kill a member of the Outfit, you’re dead the moment the idea entered your mind. It makes sense. Why leave someone alive to give them another chance?

At the same time, no matter what, I can't kill him. Closing my eyes, I fight back stupid tears. I can’t kill Tony Sabatini, not even to save myself. I’m not sure what happened or why. The why doesn’t matter. I just can’t do it.

Only I’m completely and utterly screwed because Tony won’t believe me. He’ll think I’m trying to save myself. I couldn’t begin trying to explain it to him if I couldn’t figure it out myself.

The door opens abruptly. Tony fills the doorframe. He’s so freaking big, is all I can think.

Those blue eyes are cold as they flick over me. “Come on, time for dinner.”

Before I open my mouth to respond, he’s gone. For two seconds, I consider not following him. Fear drives me out after him. I’m behind him before he makes it to the stairs. My eyes cling to him. The suit jacket is gone and he’s unbuttoned his shirt to the third button down and rolled back his sleeves above his forearms.

For a man as large as he is, he moves fluidly, muscle and sinew in perfect beautiful harmony. The wicked knife around his left forearm doesn’t even register until the brighter lights of the kitchen glint off it.

Following him into the kitchen, I can’t hold in a sigh at the room. There is a large center island with a sink and white marble surface. The countertops running along the walls are worn, golden brown butcher block that complements the deep rich red of the upper and lower cabinets. A dark blue stove with six burners, gold knobs, and two ovens gleams, yet it’s obviously used often.

The kitchen is massive, with an eat-in area featuring a long, rustic kitchen table with seating for eight. An elegant hutch is along one wall with china so beautiful I can’t imagine eating off it.

He nods toward the table. “Sit. Stuffed shells okay?”

I spot his silk suit jacket over the back of a chair already. I take the chair across the table from it—which also gives me a view of the kitchen. “Sounds good to me.” Like I was going to argue and ask for something else. I’m not a picky eater and I love Italian food.

His attention is on the inside of the open refrigerator. I’m supposed to be looking for a means of escape, but I cannot take my eyes off him. The word magnetic flashes as I study him. Seriously, none of those pictures did him justice. I understand now why so few people have met him. If he was intent on keeping a low profile, he would be hard to forget.

He takes out a glass dish from the stainless steel double refrigerator and sets it into a toaster oven. I eye the microwave in the corner, it’s the only thing that doesn’t appear used in the large kitchen. As he opens a door, I see it’s a pantry, and for two minutes he goes so deep inside I lose sight of him. When he comes out, he’s carrying a bottle of red wine. He opens it with casual finesse.

Carrying the bottle and two wine glasses, he pulls out the chair across from me and sits down. He pours the wine and sets a glass down in front of me. I’m not much of a wine drinker. I was always afraid of becoming an alcoholic like my mother. I also don’t like the taste of wood that always seemed strong in most wine. Running my fingers around the base of the stem, I study him as he pours his own glass then sips on it.

It’s only now in the quiet that I recognize the music has changed from the classical when I first came into the house to blues music. I recognize Stevie Ray Vaughan’s guitar. The words are out before I think, “What’s with the music?”

A lazy shrug as he sips again. “I like music.”

Okay...I decide to bluff my way out of this; it’s the only move I have. “I thought you said I can walk away if I wanted to. I want to leave.”

An exhale comes from him, like a laugh but not quite. “It's too late for that. It was too late the moment you walked into the room.”

“Then why did you say it?” I push. He hasn’t looked at me, not really, since he opened the bedroom door. It’s becoming unnerving.

“I was lying to keep you there while I figured out what to do with you.”

My stomach drops. “What do you mean, while you figured out