Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 57307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 57307 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 287(@200wpm)___ 229(@250wpm)___ 191(@300wpm)
Enough. Stop fixating on him. It’s not real. You should worry about your real loved ones, not about a man you’ve known for less than two weeks.
“How did you keep my family from learning that I was missing?” Jordan said, his gut clenching as he realized how bad it would have been if they found out about it. After what happened to Aiden, his parents might not have recovered from a second blow like that. “I was supposed to return home a week ago.”
Ferrara’s brows furrowed. “I’m aware of what happened to your brother, so I was hesitant about contacting your parents and upsetting them prematurely. I told Nate to message your mother and tell her you loved Italy so much that you decided to extend your stay. Maybe we should have told them the truth, but I was reasonably sure you would be ransomed—”
“No, I’m glad you didn’t tell them. My parents would have just worried needlessly.”
Silence fell.
“Do you know what he did to Gustavo?” Ferrara said.
Jordan froze. “What do you mean?” he said, without looking at him.
“Gustavo disappeared. He isn’t answering calls and his people have no idea where he is. It can’t be a coincidence that Damiano returned just as Gustavo disappeared.”
Jordan stared at his phone’s screen unseeingly. “What makes you think I would know anything?”
He could feel Ferrara’s heavy gaze on him. “You’re right. Forget it.”
Guilt churned in his gut.
The worst part was, he felt guilty only about not telling Ferrara the truth—he had been brought to Italy to help him, after all. But he didn’t feel much of anything about the cold-blooded murder he’d witnessed. Gustavo was a two-faced asshole who had betrayed and tortured Damiano for days. He was hardly an innocent bystander. Still. Shouldn’t he feel more disturbed by what he’d seen? He definitely shouldn’t have been worrying about the murderer.
Jordan cleared his throat a little. “It wasn’t Damiano behind the attacks on you and Nate.”
Ferrara bored his eyes into him. “And how do you know that?”
“He told me.”
“He told you.” Ferrara couldn’t have sounded more skeptical and pitying if he tried.
Jordan glared at his food. “I know what you’re thinking. But that’s why you brought me here: to observe and help you find the traitor. So you’ll have to trust my observational skills, sir. He wasn’t lying when he told me that. It wasn’t him.”
Ferrara said nothing, but Jordan could feel his assessing, curious gaze on him for the rest of the evening.
Whatever. He’d kept his part of the deal. If Ferrara didn’t believe him, it was his problem.
“I will sleep on the couch,” Ferrara informed him, insufferably bossy, as always.
Jordan shrugged and got into the bed.
He closed his eyes as he listened to the sounds of another person preparing for sleep.
Then the lights were turned off and the room went dark.
Jordan breathed deeply, trying to turn his brain off and fall asleep. He counted sheep. He tried to empty his mind and think of nothing. He used every tactic he knew of.
It didn’t work.
Ferrara’s breathing soon evened out, but Jordan couldn’t say the same about his own. Little by little, his panic increased. The bed was so soft. So big. The room was too warm. He felt so alone. Unprotected. Unsafe.
Snap out of it, he told himself, irritated. The bed was fine. The room was fine. He wasn’t alone. He was fine.
He wasn’t fine.
He was trembling. He knew rationally that he was safe, that he wasn’t in that cellar anymore, but his heart was beating too fast, his palms sweaty.
He wanted Damiano.
He wanted to sleep with Damiano. Wanted to smell him, to hear his voice. To have him on top of him, feel the reassuring weight of his muscular body crushing him, making him feel safe. Everything in him ached for it, for his closeness.
Jordan had no idea how much time passed before he finally lost the battle with himself.
He got out of the bed and left the room, his bare feet padding on the cold marble floor.
The corridor was dark. And narrow. Was it always so narrow or was he imagining it? Fuck, he hated this. Hated how shaky and unsure he felt. This wasn’t him. He was a grown, competent, self-assured man, not this mess.
But all the self-hatred and mortification in his gut weren’t enough to make him return to his room.
He had only a vague idea about the location of Damiano’s room, but the villa wasn’t enormous or anything: there were probably just ten bedrooms on this floor and apparently most of the family had already left.
He found the right bedroom on his fourth attempt. He knew it was the right one from the moment he stepped into it. It smelled right. Not that it had a strong smell or anything—not at all. But something about the combination of man and expensive cologne reminded him of how Damiano smelled the first day of their captivity, before the waterboarding.