Chapter 3

• This was the second time he had refused her plea for help.
• She pointed down the street. "The estate's security won't let me out if I approach them alone, looking like this. Everyone on this street answers to him. I'm not asking for your assistance because I want to involve you in my problems; I'm asking because I'm terrified, and Jayson is going to kill me when he wakes up! I just need a ride. Drop me off under a bridge or anywhere—I just need to escape this place!" Tears filled her eyes, spilling down her cheeks as she hoped to sway his decision.
• But he regarded her as if she were a nuisance. "Fine." The doors unlocked, and she slipped into the backseat out of long-standing habit.
• As she shut the door with a definitive slam, he muttered under his breath and cast her an irritated glance before pulling away from the curb.
• ...
• Sandro watched as Anastasia slept in the backseat, wrapped in his coat. So much for his desire to escape her presence. There she was, softly snoring, her nightdress offering little cover as she shifted, attempting to find comfort among his luggage.
• "Sir, if I may—"
• He raised a weary hand to stop the new chauffeur. "Leave it. Prepare the first room in the guest wing." The thought of her in his sheets, in his bed, in his house without any clothes made him groan. "Actually, the last room should suffice. Make sure it's freezing cold. Disconnect the heater."
• The middle-aged man raised his brow at Sandro's instructions but didn't question him as he hurried across the yard, past the front doors.
• With a heavy sigh, Sandro exited the car and opened her door. "Mrs. Harake?" he called softly. Her lips remained slightly parted, and her expression was serene.
• Purple bruises marred her cheekbones, with cuts visible on her neck and arms. Curled into a ball, arms clasped around her torso, she seemed so small, vulnerable, and helpless.
• He swallowed hard, clenching his fists. This was risky territory. He shouldn't have brought her to his estate, but he had driven here with a single thought in mind: Protect.
• Leaning over her, he inhaled for the first time, and her scent enveloped him. She smelled like summer—no fragrances, just the gentle aroma of soap in her hair mixed with sweat and the metallic scent of dried blood. It was unexpectedly enticing. Not the blood, though—never mind.
• He hesitated, unsure if lifting her into his arms might convey the wrong message, when her eyes suddenly flew open. The light gray of her irises was glazed, and when they centered on him, she screamed, swinging her fists wildly and aimlessly.
• Quickly jerking back to avoid her flailing punches, he stood up straight, slipping his hands into his pockets. "You're ruining the leather."
• She paused, squinting at him in confusion as her gaze drifted around his home. "This isn't the bridge."
• "It isn't," he scoffed. "This is Aqua. My estate."
• She wrapped his coat tighter around herself and stepped out barefoot, her eyes widening as she absorbed the grandeur of the villa, the statues, the pool house, and the fountains framed by cultivated oak trees concealing the racetracks. "Who did you kill to get a place like this?"
• Sandro shrugged. "A few." Meeting her piercing gray gaze, he added, "Not that it matters. I've been informed that Jayson is alive and well—he's at the hospital, but he has a concussion at the very least."
• It had taken some calls and leveraging a few connections to acquire that information, but she didn't need to know that he had eyes everywhere.
• Anastasia's eyes flickered with a hint of fear. "You won't tell him—"
• "Not unless you want me to," Sandro replied, pursing his lips. "Is there someone I can take you to? A family member, perhaps? You must understand that you can't stay here. While I'd prefer you gone by morning, I'd feel less guilty knowing you're in safe hands."
• She hugged his coat tighter around herself, her gaze becoming evasive. "You don't need to worry about me. I'll be gone by morning, sir."
• "Sandro," he corrected, a strong urge to hear her say his name washing over him.
• The woman blinked, scrunching her button nose. "Sandro..." she murmured, and he felt a rush of heat at the way she spoke his name, as if it were a fond caress. Her eyes darted from the ground to his, and she bit her bottom lip absentmindedly. "Why bring me here if you can't wait to be rid of me?"
• He swallowed hard, shifting his hips to mask the growing bulge, struggling to maintain an expression of indifference. "Would you prefer I take you back to the bridge, Mrs. Harake? Honestly, I don't care where you sleep tonight. I've been criticized for being a heartless brute, and for once, I wanted to be something different. I'm not against correcting that mistake right now."
• In a blink, she transformed from a timid woman with wide, frightened eyes to a fierce dragon, breathing fire into his face as she retorted, "Don't call me a mistake. I appreciate your hospitality; there's no need to be a jerk about it."
• Leaning in slightly, he took in her scent, and she met his intense gaze without flinching—just the kind of stare that made men squirm. "Good to see there's more fight in you than you let on."
• "Sir?"
• He rocked back on his heels, turning his head toward the chauffeur and wondering how long he had been standing there. He usually was more aware of his surroundings. This was precisely why he needed her gone by morning—he couldn't afford such distractions.
• "The guestroom is ready for use, and you have a call from Vincenzo."
• All humor vanished, leaving Sandro with a heavy feeling of dread in his stomach. He nodded once and headed inside without sparing her another glance. "Show her to her room. If she needs anything else, take care of it."
• Moving with deliberate calm, he approached his study. A call from a Vincenzo signaled trouble; a call from his step-grandmother meant something was wrong back in Milan. She never reached out unless things had spiraled out of control, and he was eager to find out what was going on.
• Once at his desk, he grabbed the landline and pressed it to his ear. "Grandmother."
• "Your brother was shot on his honeymoon."
• His grip on the phone tightened as he inhaled deeply, anger surging within him. "Is he dead?"