“Does it hurt?” His face told me he knew it was a stupid question.

“What do you think?”

He studied me, his forehead furrowing. He at least had the decency to look away for a moment.

“If it means anything, I didn’t want to punish you on my father’s order.”

“But you did.”

“I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry.”

“Sometimes sorry isn’t enough, Salvatore.”

He stood there a moment, his eyes on mine. “Get packed. We’ll leave as soon as we can.”

He walked out the door and left me standing there in my towel.

His absence filled the space as soon as the door closed, and I hugged my arms around my belly, feeling more alone now than ever. But I forced myself to move. To get dressed. And as much as I hated it, to go down the stairs and face Franco Benedetti head-on.

I couldn’t hide, I wouldn’t. If I did, it showed that he’d won. That he’d shamed me, and I was hiding from him, afraid of him. Well, the latter was true, but I’d be damned if I’d let that fear get the better of me.

I dressed, packed my things, and pulled my wet hair into a bun before dabbing concealer under my eyes. I picked up my purse and walking out into the hallway. I paused, finding a staircase at either end. I looked over the banister, but all was quiet down below. I chose the stairs to my right and headed down, heard a door open and Salvatore’s voice coming from it. I followed his voice, steeling my spine as my heart raced and my belly flipped.

I would not let Franco Benedetti win. I would not.

I reached the door and would have turned the knob but Franco’s raised voice made me pull my hand away.

“You know what I expected of you!”

“I would not parade her through that room full of pariahs! She was humiliated enough! This is done. She’s mine. I choose!”

Something pounded. I imagined a fist and a table. Was it Salvatore’s? Was he defending me?

Then came Franco’s laughter. Quiet at first, menacing, slowly growing louder, almost manic. Someone clapped his hands.

“My son, he finally grows some balls.”

I fisted my hands, inhaling tightly.

“Fine, Salvatore. She’s your whore. But remember, I gave her to you. I can as easily take her back. Take care of Luke DeMarco before there are any more supporters. One week, or Dominic will do it. I’m finished with him.”

What? What did he mean, take care of Luke?

But then I heard footsteps, heavy and moving fast, and I charged toward the stairs. I bolted up then and ducked down behind the banister. Franco Benedetti stalked out of the room, his face tight with anger, his hands fisted at his sides.