Dante heard her before he saw her. Angry Russian muttered under her breath. He made a mental note to learn the language properly at some point. Maybe Rose would learn Italian, too. The thought pleased him.
She was crouched by the front door, a screwdriver in her hand and a determined look on her face. Smart girl. She’d realized she couldn’t hack the keypad and decided to take it off instead. It wouldn’t work. It’d been bolted into place when it was installed, so it’d require something heftier than a simple screwdriver to dismantle.
He slipped his hands into his pockets. “Why not just toss a chair through the window instead?”
“Don’t you think I tried?” She didn’t look up. He liked that she didn’t look up, that she acknowledged him but didn’t let his presence deter her from her goals. This woman really was something.
He glanced at the picture window and, sure enough, there was one of the dining room chairs laying on its side. “I’m surprised you could pick up the chair.”
“And I’m surprised that I didn’t anticipate you using reinforced glass.”
He shrugged. “Si, it’s something of a necessity in our lifestyle.”
She sighed and sat back on her heels. She looked good like this, though Rose seemed to look good in any given situation. Her hair had dried into a faint wave that he liked a lot. It made him want to sink his hands into the dark length and tug.
Not yet.
The shower was a step in the right direction, but he could be a patient hunter. He might have failed that test in the past, but he’d never had prey as vital as Rose Romanov in his sights.
Rose rubbed the back of her hand across her forehead. “What’s your play, Dante?”
He’d already told her, but obviously she didn’t believe him any more than her father did. That was fine. He’d prove it with time. “Even if you managed to get out of the cabin, you’d wander lost for days. We’re in the middle of nowhere.” Not strictly the truth, but close enough for his purposes.
“Don’t lie to me. This place is nice, but it’s obviously been stocked recently, and not even you are impractical enough to have the only way in be flying or hiking. There’s a car and a road.” She narrowed her eyes. “No door to a garage, but I bet there’s one tucked around here somewhere. You wouldn’t have left yourself without an escape route.”
She was right. There was a garage a few hundred yards from the cabin. The driveway created a loop on the side of the house opposite the living room with its windows overlooking the view. As much as he wanted space between the house and the vehicles, the thought of trekking that distance on foot when delivering stuff to the cabin was out of the question. He liked that she’d divined that so quickly, but it didn’t mean he’d feed her more information than strictly necessary. “It’s irrelevant.”
“It’s really not.” She pushed slowly to her feet, the screwdriver still held in one hand. “You want to marry me, baby? Let’s go to the chapel.”
Victory surged, but logic shouted it down. Hadn’t he just admired Rose’s resourcefulness? She knew if he took her out of this place, her chances of escaping increased dramatically. Dante was good, but she’d proven she was as well. “All in good time.”
“Bastard.”
“Si.” He gave her one last look and turned for the kitchen. “You should eat something. You’re practically weaving on your feet. It’s irritating.” If she was determined not to take proper care of herself, he’d do it for her.
“God forbid I irritate you.” But she followed him into the kitchen and sat at the island as he pulled a few things out of the fridge. It was late as fuck, so sandwiches would have to do. She narrowed her eyes as she watched him line out the items. “Don’t try to slip anything extra in there to ensure good behavior.”
“You wouldn’t know good behavior if it slapped you in the face.”
“It’s welcome to try,” she snapped.
Dante set out the bread first for several sandwiches and then proceeded to layer mayo, turkey, lettuce, tomato, and mustard on. Her favorite. “I don’t like using drugs. It makes people slow even if it doesn’t knock them out, and as soon as they sober up, you’re starting from scratch. Better to use intimidation or violence.”
“Fear is just as temporary as drugs.”
He raised his brows. “Not if you do it right.”
Rose shook her head slowly. “I suppose you’d know, wouldn’t you? You’re Lorenzo Verducci’s attack dog.”
“Rosa.” He enjoyed the way she glared harder every time he said her name like that. “Are you going to play the innocent? I know how your family works. People don’t follow you because they get warm cushy feelings when they think of you.”
She didn’t look away. “We do what we have to do. Our people are taken care of.”
“Si, and if they step out of line, you or another of your family makes an example of them. That is fear used effectively.” He put one sandwich on a plate and paused. “Rectangles or triangles?” He knew the answer from so many similar conversations in his kitchen, albeit about different topics. He simply wanted to see if she’d admit this, too, was truth.
“What am I, three?” When he just stared, she sighed and looked away. “Triangles, obviously. That hasn’t changed.”
He cut the sandwich in half diagonally and pushed the plate across the island to her. “Unless I’m wrong and the great Romanov family relies on drugs to ensure good behavior.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Rose picked up half the sandwich and took a bite. She chewed for several long moments while she appeared to consider his statement. “Papa prefers a lighter touch. He can do more in a single sentence than most people can do with a tank and battalion of soldiers.”
He knew. Anyone who had even the slightest connection with crime on the East Coast had heard of Dmitri Romanov. He’d spent most of his life ruling a huge chunk of NYC with an iron fist. When people crossed him these days, he didn’t make examples. They just…disappeared. “Big shoes to fill.”
“You could say that.” She frowned down at her plate. “Both my parents are larger than life and…” Rose tensed. “You know what? No. We’re not doing this. I’m eating, and then I’m going to bed on the couch, and maybe if you’re lucky, I won’t find a way to slit your throat in your sleep.”
“No, we won’t be doing that. You’ll be in my bed next to me.” He gave her a slow smile. “And if you attempt to attack me, I’ll take it as an invitation to touch you.”
“Touch me and…”
“Si, I know.” He waved it away. “You’ll come all over my hand again.”
Rose stared. She opened her mouth like she wanted to retort but eventually just picked up her sandwich. He resumed eating as well, and he couldn’t deny the satisfaction that rose in response to feeding this woman.
Oh, they’d shared meals before, and he’d thrown together pathetic little dinners from time to time in that shitty apartment, usually sandwiches like this meal or something equally within Jackson Smith’s budget. It didn’t count. Dante had cut off large swathes of himself during those months in order to cram himself into the framework that was Jackson Smith. To be easy and charming and make her feel safe enough that she never bothered to look into him past a surface background check. He’d let some of the truth filter in because he hadn’t been able to resist, but there was so much he left out. That wasn’t Dante, the real Dante.