Chapter 4

• "No," she replied tersely, her tone as empty and cold as ever. "But he might as well be. He's in a coma, and even though we have the best doctors caring for him, there's no guarantee he will wake up anytime soon. You must return home."
• "Nina, I do not—"
• A sharp hiss of disapproval cut him off. "Sandro Vincenzo De Hesus." He felt his jaw tense, recognizing the immense power she wielded with that single sentence. "I have lived. I have loved. I have buried my husband and children. I have grieved, and I completely understand your aversion to this world we have created. But you cannot run forever from yourself. You are a Vincenzo, the heir to the De Hesus. Do not tarnish our name with your cowardice and hide behind a mask of sorrow!"
• "You will not speak to me that way!" he snapped, breathing heavily.
• She fell silent, and he struggled to suppress the anger, frustration, grief, and the overwhelming pain that surged within him every time he thought of Priscilla, trapped in that damned box where all his emotions lay hidden. He failed miserably. Gripping the edge of the table, he cursed the agony in his chest—both physical and emotional. "Grandma," he muttered against the burning sensation, sinking back into his chair and loosening his tie.
• "My boy," she said more softly. "I am far too old for all of this, don't you think? Your flight has been booked for tomorrow. Do not let me down. If you do not wish to lead, you know what you must do." With that, the call disconnected, and he hurled the phone against the wall, shattering it along with every bit of control he had left.
• With Erwin in his current condition and no other males in the family to take charge, the responsibility fell on him once more. If he refused, his family would be left vulnerable to the ruthless politics and power struggles of the world into which he was born—a world that learned to fear his very name. A world that had become part of him, whether he wanted it to or not. The blood and Deo, the wealth—all his for the taking, if he desired it.
• But now, it was no longer a matter of wants, desires, or choices.
• The next morning, Sandro forced himself up the stairs to his guest's room, half-expecting to find her in his bed. However, as he twisted the doorknob and peered inside, he discovered that she had kept her promise—she was gone.
• ......
• Meanwhile, Anastasia wrapped her arms around herself as the car jolted and came to a halt. She fiddled with the hem of the pajamas Sandro had provided her the previous night; it was all she had left to wear after her bravado display and the futile escape plan she had concocted that morning.
• A door slammed somewhere in the distance, and she closed her eyes, praying to any gods that may exist, though she doubted they had ever listened to her.
• She stiffened as she heard the lock click and the trunk lid slowly lift. Thus, Sandro discovered her hidden in the back of his car.
• Leave? Where was she supposed to go without money or even shoes? Her attempts to charm him into providing help had fallen flat when he had stayed locked away in his study all night. Stealing from him hadn't worked either; after hours of sneaking around his house trying to find his bedroom, she'd found it locked tight.
• Early that morning, as his chauffeur prepared the car for his use, she realized her best chance to escape without asking the obnoxious man for assistance was to hitch a ride without his permission. There was no way he would have lent her some money—if he couldn't even spare her a blanket to sleep with, he certainly wouldn't give her cash. Hence, her decision to climb into his trunk.
• Now, his icy glare pinned her in place, quickly replacing his initial shock. "Get out of my trunk right now, Mrs. Harake. What are you, a child playing hide and seek? What on earth were you thinking, following me out here?"
• "I—hey!" He abruptly yanked her and his luggage out of the car, slamming the trunk shut. "Let me go." Each word punctuated her futile struggle, and onlookers cast them strange looks as he shoved her roughly toward the chauffeur.
• "Is this some kind of joke? You told me she was gone." The tension in his touch and voice held an undercurrent of violence that caused the chauffeur to take a step back, nervously adjusting his white suit. Anastasia almost felt sympathy for him.
• With his head lowered, sweat trickled down his cheek. "I—I checked, and she—"
• "Clearly, you didn't." Sandro released her so suddenly it was as if she had burned him, his lips twisting into a sneer. He started to speak but abruptly glanced down at her bare feet. She instinctively curled her toes, feeling embarrassed, and attempted to hide them by crossing one foot over the other as she backed away.
• Anastasia wanted to convey that it wasn't the chauffeur's fault, but her words caught in her throat as she realized for the first time that... they were at an airport?
• Her head whipped back to Sandro, hope sparking in her heart. Maybe—just maybe—she could truly escape Jayson this time. Perhaps she could flee to a place where he would never find her, where no one knew who she was or the monster she had tied herself to.
• "You're leaving? Where?" She couldn't keep the excitement from her voice.
• Sandro looked furious as he pulled his phone from his black pants. "No. This is where I draw the line. Absolutely not."
• "Take me with you."
• "No."
• "You can drop me—"
• "Off under another bridge?" Sandro interjects, sarcasm dripping from each word. The wind tugs at the bun of his black hair, releasing strands that brush against his tanned cheeks.
• "I never should have helped you." He presses his phone to his ear, swearing intensely in a language that sounds somewhat familiar, before lowering his hand and fixing a sharp glare on Anastasia.
• Sandro makes no effort to conceal his dislike for her, and oddly, it's why she feels safe around him. Every other man she's encountered has only seen her as a mere object for their gratification.
• She's become accustomed to the sleazy attention—the lip-licking, the callous hands that smacked her when she was just thirteen, the desperate cries she stifled when her stepmother locked her in a room with men determined to take her virginity.
• Though she is just Twenty-two, her life has shown her more than enough hardship.