“He’s a pervert,” Nadia told anyone who would listen. “He’s taking underwear out of lockers when we’re not looking.”

I used to think she was silly because he didn’t watch in a gross way, staring at our legs and breasts. His eyes followed the movement, the way you’re supposed to, and I felt bad for him because maybe he just liked ballet. Which proves what an idiot I am. I can still taste the barrel of the gun. See the bear-like shape of him above me, pumping it into my mouth. If someone takes my life in this house, it will be Adriano Rossi.

Unless it’s the last one.

Elliot Morelli.

Even as I lie trapped in the dark, my insides glow at the thought of him. Eli Morelli ordered Kurt’s death. He made Adriano put the gun in my mouth. He slapped me in the face. It shouldn’t matter that he’s handsome. I recall the feel of his shoe between my legs. The way he looked as he rubbed me. “Doesn’t that feel nice?”

A fever breaks across my body. I refuse to touch the place where he violated me, but I know if I did, I’d be soaking. What is wrong with me?

I know the Morelli name. Their family is as prominent in New York as the Whitehalls. But I haven’t heard of an ‘Eli’ or an ‘Elliot.’ That doesn’t mean much. Mom doesn’t like the Morellis. I think there’s bad blood between our families. But if Eli is a Morelli, why is he a criminal? I’m not naïve, I know when the law prevents my uncles from doing what they like, they go around it, but abducting me and killing my bodyguard isn’t bribing a city councilor to get a new skyscraper built.

“You are the property of Velvet House,” Eli said as he stroked his shoe against me. But what is Velvet House? A gang? A business? He introduced himself as Elliot Velluto Morelli. Velluto means ‘Velvet’ in Italian. Whatever Velvet House is, he named it after himself.

A yawn stretches my jaw painfully wide and my vision swims. I want to stay awake for whatever happens next, but I’m so, so tired. I push Zia’s medallion back into my bra and let my eyes close.

“Bella.”

Someone is shaking my shoulder. “Zia?”

“No, bella.”

I blink. My bedroom is cold. Strangely shaped. The truth rushes in like light under a door. Not my bedroom. Not my house. I’m kidnapped and a man is leaning over me, his smile like something out of a song.

“Mr. Morelli?”

“Yes.” He examines me and his dark eyes gleam like amber in the lamplight. God he’s pretty. I feel like I should apologize, though I have no idea what for. “Good morning…? Or good evening?”

He doesn’t smile. “How are you feeling, Miss Whitehall?”

I’m exhausted. My face is grubby with old makeup and I’m worried I smell. And even though I know it’s not true, it feels like at any moment, mom could come in and explode because I have a boy in my room. “I feel fine.”