Twisted Together

Franco had been taken somewhere else.

I paced around the small space like a caged animal. My brain wouldn’t stop whizzing. My heart wouldn’t stop clanging. Claustrophobia clawed at my throat as the walls frosted over with icicles, crowding closer and closer and closer. Burying me alive in an icy tomb where Q would never find me.

I’m alone.

Curling my hands, I shoved the self-pity away. I refused to bow to such useless emotions. I would get out of this. I would find Q. I would find him alive, and I would marry him the second I fell into his arms.

The heavy door clanked open.

Sergio Ponzio entered looking like a stuck-up peacock with way too much power. I hated the uncaring glint in his eyes. The unforgiving jaded look that said he’d heard every story, listened to every lie. He was finished having people make a fool of him.

Which was fine. I understood that. But when he was so blind he couldn’t see the truth—putting another’s life in jeopardy, then I couldn’t understand that. I couldn’t control the lava of frustration and hatred flowing in my veins. I didn’t know how long I’d be able to stop myself from ripping his heart out—because he obviously didn’t have one.

“Please. Sit,” he said, pointing at the metal chairs.

I moved stiffly, sitting with my hands balled tightly in my lap. I had enough infractions to battle through, without adding battery and assault to a police chief.

“Water?” His bushy eyebrow rose.

I shook my head, looking into the top right corner of the room.

Enemy. Saboteur. Betrayer.

The clock.

Tick…

Tock…

It was four a.m. Q had been taken almost five hours ago. Six life-altering, terror-filled hours.

The sob that built like a thunderstorm inside threatened to break free. It took all my strength to force it back down.

“Name?”

I glared from beneath my brow. I wanted to spit and tell him to shove his damn questions. But I had to cooperate. I had to be as polite and demure as possible if I had any chance of talking my way out of this.

Don’t get angry. Stay calm.

“Tess Snow.”

“Nationality.”

“Australian.”

He looked up, a smile tugging his lips. “Long way from home. It’s not the first time I’ve had to get tough with a drunken countryman of yours, or slap a citation for disorderly conduct.”

I ignored that. I didn’t want to interact at all—let alone reminisce about his other trophies. He viewed me as a troublemaker. I meant to come across as the opposite.

I’m rich. I’m powerful. I’m Q’s.

Besides, I no longer felt Australian. In fact, after spending so much time with Q, I’d even begun to think in French, trading English as my favoured language, blending the two.

I’m no longer Tess Snow.

My eyes flared. “I gave you the wrong name.”

Sergio scowled. “You’re lying again? You do realize every lie makes your case worse.” He shook his head, tutting under his breath, “You seem to like breaking the rules.” His eyes fell to my jumper-covered br**sts. “I admit, I would’ve liked to see the show you put on and not just write the reports.”

You f**king pervert.

My spine stiffened. “I’m not lying. I am Tess Snow. But I’m also about to become Tess Mercer. My fiancé has already given me ownership of his fortune and I wield the power of the Mercer name.”

His dark eyes tightened; face twitched. “Mercer?”

I sensed a crack. Please let it be a crack. “Yes of Moineau Holdings. Franco told you that. If you know of the company and the CEO, you’d be wise to release me and my employee.”

Sergio chuckled, scraping his chair back as he popped the buttons of his uniform jacket. “You sure about that, Miss Snow? You’re not lying again, are you?”

I ground my teeth. “How do you explain me staying in one of the most expensive hotels in Rome?” I rolled my eyes. “Did you even look at the check-in registry? Quincy Mercer—my fiancé—will be on the registration.”

Sergio placed his wrists on the table, linking his fingers together in a threatening display. “See, that’s where your little story falls apart. A man named Joseph Roy checked in with no extra guest into the suite earlier this evening.”

The breath in my lungs clogged, but then cleared in a rush. Of course Q wouldn’t travel under his real name. Not now. Not with men hunting him.

I winced as a spike to the heart caught me by surprise. It didn’t matter what precautions he’d taken—he’d still be stolen.

Stay alive. Please stay alive.

I placed my elbows on the table, pressing my forehead against my palms. The world had become too much. I never thought I would want to be in captivity again but at least being the one stolen lent a certain luxury to my fate. I either survived or died. I wasn’t responsible for someone else. I didn’t feel the weight of an entire galaxy pressing down upon me with every passing second of failure.

Tick…

Tock…

Sergio kicked back his chair, standing over me. “Do you wish to change any of the details you’ve given? Last chance to stop lying before I go run your records.”

I looked up. I didn’t have any effort to speak. I shook my head.

Without a word, he disappeared.

Tick…

Tock…

The clock taunted me with every passing second. One minute passed, then ten, then twenty.

My body vibrated with the need to run. I couldn’t sit there for too much longer without going certifiably insane. I felt so useless.

Finally the door opened. Sergio returned with a stack of paper and a blank face.

Grabbing the chair, he shuffled closer to the table, placing everything in front of him. He dragged out the suspense, spreading the papers, fanning them into some sort of order, driving me mad.

“Do you know what I found when I called up your file?” he asked, almost softly. He’d lost some of the arrogant tone. He still wasn’t friendly, but he seemed…what? Open to listening. Less likely to laugh and throw me in a cell and swallow the key?

I sat straighter, feeding off his change of mood. Hope trilled through me, fast and sweet. “I don’t know.” Glancing at the upside down copies, I couldn’t read them—all in Italian.

I’d never contemplated if I had a file. Briefly, when I returned home to Australia after Q sent me back, I wondered why the police hadn’t come knocking. I’d been reported as missing after all—but no one came to question, no one asked a thing.