Except later had now come. And Vincenzo de Santi calmly stating that she was complicit in her father’s crimes wasn’t something she could deny.
But she’d told de Santi the truth. She hadn’t been given a choice. It was either she did what her father asked, or there were consequences. Survive, that was what her mother had told her and so that was what she’d done, any way she could.
Maybe one day there would be time to address her crimes, but she would see her father taken down first if it was the last thing she did.
Yet it wasn’t her guilt or otherwise which scared her. It was something else. Something about Vincenzo de Santi himself that she couldn’t put her finger on.
She wasn’t used to men. Her father kept her secluded in Cornwall, her every move watched by the guards he employed twenty-four-seven. She had a few online friends, but she made sure any identities she used online were heavily cloaked. She didn’t really see anyone but the guards in real life, and she kept away from them, because they made her uncomfortable. It would have been a lonely existence if she’d let herself think about it, but she didn’t ever let herself think about it. Never let herself see the bars of the cage she was locked in. Never contemplated the tightrope she walked between being useful enough for her father so he’d keep her alive, and refusing to do certain things that would anger him and make him deal out the same punishment he’d given her mother.
Her attention must always be on what was directly in front of her, never looking right or left, or anywhere else. Otherwise she would lose her balance and fall to her death.
She stared hard at Vincenzo de Santi, not letting her focus waver, not paying any attention to the new fear that lived inside her, just under her skin. An electric, prickling kind of fear that made her heart beat fast.
‘Of course, you will give me everything you have on your father,’ de Santi said easily, as if that had always been a foregone conclusion. ‘Immediately, if you please.’
Lucy eyed him warily. ‘And you will then hand me over to the police?’
He lifted one powerful shoulder and she found herself watching the way the fabric of his suit jacket pulled in response to the movement. She didn’t know why. She already knew he was strong; she didn’t need to watch him in order to confirm that.
‘Naturally.’ He put one hand on the arm of his chair, one long finger tapping out a soundless, slow, meditative rhythm. ‘I should imagine the police would be very happy to get their hands on you.’
They probably would. But she didn’t want to go. She hadn’t survived for years waiting for her chance to escape, only to be put back in yet another cage. That wasn’t what her mother had wanted for her.
But you have committed crimes. You deserve prison.
It was true. And to a certain extent she’d protected herself from the knowledge of what she’d done by not enquiring too deeply about where all her father’s money had come from. Because she knew, if she did, she’d discover things that would make her life even more untenable than it was already. So she hadn’t enquired. She’d only done what she was told. She’d made some money disappear into offshore accounts, pouring the rest into other investments, making her father’s bank balances grow.
It had been survival, pure and simple.
But did survival really deserve a jail cell?
Because Vincenzo de Santi would hand her over to the police, that was obvious. She could see it in his mesmerising, compelling face. He was her judge, jury and executioner, and she couldn’t look away.
Her hands tightened on her handbag and the laptop hidden in it. The laptop that contained all the information he required. But not the passwords he would need. Those were all in her head.
‘When you say you will hand me over to the police, when will that happen?’ It was very difficult, but she held his gaze. Because she had to know. His handing her over to the authorities had always been a possibility, but she’d held out a tiny sliver of hope that perhaps he wouldn’t. That he’d help her disappear into obscurity somewhere in the US, far away from her father. Where she could make sure her mother’s death hadn’t been in vain.
He tilted his head and she had the impression that he could see every single part of her. From her guilty conscience to the fear she lived with every day. Every aspect of her small, narrow, confined existence.
‘You give me the information I want,’ he said in that easy, casual voice, ‘and then I will notify the authorities. This afternoon probably. The quicker you do it, the quicker I can take your father off the streets for good.’
Perhaps he’d meant that to be encouraging, or maybe an incentive for her. But it wasn’t.
And her expression must have given her away, which was a shock in itself, since no one ever noticed her emotions, because he said, ‘This does not please you?’ His mouth curved slightly and she found herself watching that too, as if she was compelled. ‘But Miss Armstrong, if you’d done your research you would know that I do not care for criminals. And, as I’ve already told you, if it’s mercy you’re looking for, you’ll find I have none.’
She’d underestimated him. She’d thought that perhaps she would be unimportant to him. That her father would be his ultimate goal and he’d let her slip away to pursue her own redemption far away from the constant fear.
But she’d been so fixated on her immediate plan she’d miscalculated.
That’s always been your greatest failing.
Yes, that was true.
She shifted her hold on her laptop, her fingers nervously gathering up the fabric of her dress and pleating it.
Okay, she told herself, so don’t think about what he was going to do, don’t think about police cells and having to survive for years in a prison with fear your only companion yet again. Don’t think about your mother dying in a pool of blood, begging you not to end up like she did.
Only think about how to change his mind.
She steeled herself, met his black gaze head-on. ‘It’ll take some time to give you this information, since I don’t have all the data yet. Probably, say, a week.’ Was a week long enough to change his mind? She didn’t think she could push for more. And the reality was that she’d have to work with whatever he gave her.
If he even gave her anything at all.
One black brow rose. ‘A week?’ he echoed, as if it was the most preposterous thing he’d ever heard. ‘Forgive me, Miss Armstrong, but I’ve heard all the rumours about you. I know what you’re capable of. You could get me that information in ten seconds if you wanted to.’
‘But I don’t want to,’ she said flatly, before she could stop herself. ‘A week, Mr de Santi. A week and I’ll give you all you need to not only take my father down, but his entire empire along with him.’