Luciano fired bullets, and shattered through my window next to my head.
Glass exploded inward. I was on the ground before I could think about it, Papa's lessons kicking in. The world had become the sound of gunfire and screams, the choking stink of cordite.
Tristan's guards returned fire immediately. The entrance hall strobed with vulgar muzzle-fire like some dire lightning storm.
"Get her inside!" Tristan was already blasting away, weapon in hand and firing as if he knew where everything was without looking.
Screw that.
Turning toward the nearest body, one of Luciano's men, Adam's apple blown wide, and snatched his Glock from his dead hand. Heavier than I was used to, but it would do.
"Iris, what the hell are you." Tristan began.
I didn't wait, I aimed at the man entering the room.
He dropped.
Shooting at a range was one thing. And then there were the instances when the sight of a man's head snapping back, blood spraying that was different. But I didn't have time to think about it. He had only gone over to the next target.
The firefight was over in the span of perhaps 30 seconds.Yet it felt like hours.
By the time it was over, Luciano's three men were sprawled dead at my feet. Seven others planted around the entrance, courtesy of Tristan's guards. Luciano himself had fled, carted off in an SUV to tear out of there while his men died for him.
The silence after was deafening. I was crouching, gun up, steady steel hands despite the adrenaline screeching through my blood. The white dress I'd worn to dinner seven hours earlier at 6 p.m. was bloody.
"Iris." Tristan's voice. Buttoned up, but with a weird undercurrent I couldn't put my finger on. I looked up.
He was standing over me, his suit blacbut somehow still looking unwrinkled despite the disarray. Only these cold, calculating eyes seemed surprised at all; they might even have been called surprised.
"You can fight," he said.
"Papa didn't raise an idiot." I stood, keeping the gun. "I'm a Russo. What, did you think I spent my life arranging flowers?"
"I thought." He stopped. His jaw worked. Then his hand shot out and he took my wrist. Not painful, but firm. Possessive. "You could've been killed. Luciano was aiming for you."
"And I took out 3 of his guys before you released your fourth. We're even."
"We're not even." His grip tightened. "Because you're mine now. Which is why it's my responsibility to keep you alive. Not yours."
"Funny, I don't recall signing up to be a damsel in distress."
Something dark crossed his face. "Being mine means being protected. There's a difference."
He let go of me and shouted to his men. "Sweep the perimeter. Triple security. And learn how Luciano knew she would be here. Someone leaked."
Great. A traitor. Just what this night needed.
"Inside," Tristan ordered.
I wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him he hadn't bought me yet. But I was in a pile of bodies in a blood-soaked dress, so with great reluctance I took his hand and entered the mansion.
His office was exactly what I imagined Tristan Aresco's office would be like.
Cold. Sterile. Modern. Ceiling-high windows look out onto beautifully maintained grounds. Furniture that could well have cost more than a car. An entire desk the size of my bedroom.
Everything about it screamed control.
"Sit," he said, going around behind the desk.
"I'll stand."
"Sit, Iris. You're bleeding on my Italian marble."
I looked down. He was right. My arm was bleeding, glass from the window leaking blood down onto his polished white floor.
Fine. I sat.
Tristan pulled out a folder. Slide it across the desk.
"Your contract."
I gazed at it as if it were going to bite. "You already had this prepared."
"I'm thorough."
"You were so sure I was going to say yes."
"I was sure you didn't have any." He leaned back, that inscrutable gaze on me. "Read it."
With trembling hands I took the sheets of paper. From anger, not fear.
MISTRESS AGREEMENT
I was slightly queasy over the title alone.
I forced myself to keep reading:
OWNER: Tristan Aresco PROPERTY: Iris Russo
Property. He'd actually written property.
It only went downhill from there:
Physical Access: Property will share Owner's bed at the discretion of the Owner, and perform all physical acts that Owner may require without hesitation or refusal.
Appearance: Property will appear at all appointments as Owner directs, upholding the standards of Owner.
Obedience: REJECTED Property will obey its owner's reasonable commands. Insubordination shall be at Owner's discretion.
Title: Title to the Premises is solely in Owner. No other sexual or romantic activity with anyone else.
Term: This agreement shall run until terminated by Owner. Property has no option to cancel.
"This is slavery," I murmured.
"This is survival." He didn't even blink. "Sign it."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then you walk out that door. It takes less than an hour for Luciano to track you down. You will be dead at sunrise, most likely being fished out of the East River." He said it as if he were talking about the weather. "Your choice, little mouse. Sign and live as I do, or die as a Russo."
Little mouse. That goddamn nickname.
"Don't call me that."
"Why?" He rose, prowling the desk with predator's grace. "Does it get your heart racing?"
He was close now. Too close.
"Does it remind you how small and helpless you are and that I own you?" His voice was soft. Dangerous.
"I'm not trapped. I just killed three men."
"And now you're shaking." He placed his hand on my shoulder. Heavy. Warm. A fire is crawling through the shredded remains of my clothing
"Sign the contract, Iris."
"This is barbaric."
"This is business." His hand slid across my arm, feeling the closing of his fingers around my wrist.
"Sign."
He shoved a pen into my hand. Covered my fingers with his. Guide them to the Signature line.
He was right next to me, I could feel his body heat. Inhale him, whiff of cologne something like dark and expensive, but my treacherous body had taken a liking to it.
I tried to pull away. "I need to read."
"You've read enough." His grip tightened. "Sign it."
The pen touched paper. My hand moved beneath his.
"I hate you," I said in a low voice as my name filled the line.
"I know." His breathing was warm in my ear. "But you'll sign anyway. Because you're not that stupid, and because death is worse than a few hours in my bed."
The signature completed. Iris Russo from my own shaky hand.
"Good girl," he said, letting go of my hand but without taking a step back. "Now you're mine, little mouse. Legally. Completely."
"Stop calling me that."
"Why?" His hand moved to my waist and he pulled me up out of the chair, turning me to face him. I stumbled and fell on the desk. He stepped closer, trapping me with his hands on either side of my waist.
"Does it bother you?" I mean his face was planted where mine ends.
"Make your pulse jump?" My heart was hammering. I felt the heat of him, the barely leashed savagery in his body. All I had was that meager evidence that would have held up in any court of law.
"I hate you," I repeated,
"Your body says otherwise." His thumb followed my hipbone under the thin material. "You're shaking. Pupils dilated. Breathing hard." His lips came closer.
"Tell me, Iris." "If you're hating on me just as bad, then why aren't you hating on me and pushing me off?"
My body had cheated me. Because some idiot wistful part of me still remembered being 17 and in love with him. And he was remembered by a kiss that caused the world to disappear. But that boy was dead. This was a stranger. A terrifyingly beautiful stranger who now had power over me.
"I'm goi–" I don't know what else I was about to say because the words were sucked out before they even had a chance, by his lips that brushed across my mouth just the slightest amount. Barely a kiss. Just a whisper of contact. Then he pulled away. Stepped back three feet and straightened his tie as if nothing had ever happened.
"Not yet," he said, maddeningly calm as I tried to catch my breath against his desk. "I want you to beg for it first, little mouse. So desperate you start forgetting that you're supposed to hate me."
The bastard smiled. Actually smiled.
"Your room is upstairs. Third door on the right. Get cleaned up. We have a busy day tomorrow." He scooped the signed contract up as if it were routine paperwork. "Welcome home, Iris."
Home. This Cold Palace could hardly be home.
I forced my legs to work. Made my way to the door with as much grace I could muster. I was still shaking with anger, with adrenaline, with the heat he'd not quite yet kissed into me.
I hated him.
But sweet Jesus, a sliver of me had wanted him to do it.
I felt like I was right at the door and she knocked.
"Come in," Tristan called.
A guard entered, face pale. "Boss. Something at the door. You need to see this."
The way he said it felt like a thud in my stomach.
The front doors stood open. In the silver light of early dawn, I could see what was on the steps.
A body.
Not just anybody, it was Marco.
Papa's head of security. The man who had brought me here, tonight. My uncle the man I'd always known.
He lay stretched across the white marble, his throat cut from ear to ear and blood puddled in the snow around him.
Pinned to his chest was a note.
Tristan read it and his face went blank, that awful void that meant somebody was going to die.
"What does it say?" I asked, although I knew it had to be bad.
He looked at me. For a brief moment, there was semblance of worry in his eyes.
"'The girl dies next,'" he read. "'Coming for what's mine. Cardinal."
Cardinal. The name meant nothing to me.
But the danger was evident.
Someone who wouldn't mind killing Marco, and dropping him on Tristan Aresco's doorstep.
And I had, maybe, six hours before the sun came up.
"Go inside." My back felt the gentle push of Tristan's hand, guiding me from Marco's body. "Now."