“They didn’t take your shoes.”

I glanced at my red Jimmy Choos.

“They’re real nice,” she said, picking at her nail polish.

My gaze fell to her bare feet, and I sighed, dropping to sit on the bench adjacent from her.

They hadn’t taken my shoes because I wouldn’t remain here for long. I was sure I had only minutes until a head honcho in an ill-fitting suit escorted me to somewhere with a couch and coffee—somewhere comfortable, so I would feel more open to gush all the Cosa Nostra’s secrets.

Disgrace.

Worthless.

Unlovable.

I sawed my bottom lip between my teeth as anxiety brewed in my chest.

“How much did they cost?” my cellmate asked, at the same time a door down the corridor opened and shut. The echo raised the hair on my arms.

I heard him before I saw him.

And instantly knew he was the fed they’d sent for me.

His voice was professional and disinterested, though an elusive timbre intertwined each word: an abrasive edge, like a deep, dark sin one kept locked in the pits of their soul.

His next word—Gianna—touched the back of my neck, a brush of steel wings against sensitive skin. I wiped the feeling away with a hand, pulling my hair over one shoulder.

“Probably too much,” I finally responded, oddly breathless.

The prostitute nodded like she completely understood.

She was beautiful—behind the makeup, the drug abuse dulling the sheen in her eyes, and the years of servicing New York’s finest men, I was sure.

A kindred soul if I ever saw one.

The fed’s voice drifted to my ears once more, this time closer as he spoke to Martinez. I couldn’t hear what was being said over the commotion in the other cells, but I could tell her voice had softened and her Hispanic roots were coming to the front, her words rolling in a sensual way.

I rolled my eyes. A workplace romance.

Cute.

However, I didn’t believe he was taking the bait. I could feel his disinterest against my skin, hear the cold tenor in his voice.

A shiver ghosted through me.

For the love of God, he was only a fed. I’d dealt with Made Men since birth.

I leaned back with an indifference I didn’t feel and twirled a long strand of dark hair around my finger.

The room grew smaller, the walls closing in like they had too many times before.

I inhaled slowly. Released it.

Turning my head, I looked out of the cell.

Martinez stood in the hall, staring at the fed’s back as he came in my direction, a look of pure unrequited adoration in her gaze.

I guessed there was something kindred in us all.

Steel bars trailed his image as he passed each cell, his eyes averted. His stride was effortless. The set of his shoulders, the relaxed carriage of his arms at his sides—the stance oozed confidence and devastation, as though brick and mortar and female hearts could turn to ash at his single command.

His gaze flicked up and caught mine, heavy and emotionless, as if he was looking straight through me.

My heart turned cold in my chest.

Our exchange lasted only a second, but the glance stretched into slow-motion, stealing a breath of air from my lungs. I crossed one leg over the other, baring a generous amount of thigh. Like a warm blanket, a sense of security wrapped around me. As long as they were looking at my body, they’d never see what was behind my eyes.

Nevertheless, the first place he looked as he reached my cell was straight into my eyes. Heartless. Invasive. Blue. His gaze burned, as if I was standing in front of an open freezer on a summer day, hot and cold air meeting like tendrils of vapor around me.

As he stood in front of the barred door, with a dangerous presence that touched my skin from several feet away, I was sure he was the one locked up. It simply didn’t make sense the other way around.

A dim light in the hall flickered above his head.

His dark hair was shaved short on the sides, faded with an expert hand. Broad shoulders and crisp black lines, his suit molded his toned body. Control. Precision. He exuded it, like the colorful stripes on a venomous snake.

But his face was what grabbed one’s attention first. Symmetrical, and flawlessly proportioned, not even his cold expression cut from stone could mar it. The second look showed the type of body women groaned over, and the third revealed intellect in every move he made, as though everyone else was a chess piece, and he was musing over how to play each one of us.

My heart leapt as the cell lock unbolted, and I pulled my attention from him to the concrete wall in front of me.

“Russo.”

Nope.

No way.

If I went with him, I’d end up sold into a human trafficking ring and never be heard from again. Fed or not, with those eyes and presence, this man had seen and done things a normal Made Man hadn’t envisioned.

I remained silent.

I was going to sit here and wait for the fed in the ill-fitting suit.

His gaze flicked to the prostitute.

“Name’s Cherry,” she supplied with a smile. “But you can call me anything you’d like.”

Some women didn’t know what was good for them.

He ran his thumb around his watch, once, twice, three times. “I’ll keep that in mind,” was his dry response.

My skin flared as I received the full weight of his stare. His eyes coasted down my body, leaving a trail of ice and fire in their wake before they narrowed with disapproval. And just like that, the apprehension from the way he’d looked into my eyes like I was a human being, not a body, drifted away, and he was now only a man.

One who judged me, wanted something from me—

“Stand up.”

—told me what to do.

Frustration flickered, lazy and hesitant, in my chest.

I wanted to wait a full three seconds before I complied, but after the first two, I had the sudden and distinct feeling I wouldn’t make it to three.

Complying, I got to my feet and stopped in front of the unlocked door. I stood in his shadow, and even that felt cold to the touch.

I hated tall men, how they were always looking down on me, always looming over me like a cloud blocking out the sun. Large men had ruled since the beginning of time, and at that moment, as I grasped steel bars and looked up into blue eyes, I’d never felt a stronger truth.

Impatience stared back at me. “Don’t know your name, or just forget it?” His refined and slightly rough voice blazed a path down my spine.

I lifted a shoulder and, as if it made any sense, said, “You’re not wearing an ill-fitting suit.”

“Can’t say the same for you,” he drawled.

Oh, he did not.

My eyes narrowed. “This dress is McQueen, and it fits perfectly.”

His expression told me he couldn’t be paid enough to care as he opened the door, sending a cold draft of air to my bare skin.

“Walk,” he ordered.

The one-word demand grated on my nerves, but I’d made my bed and now I had to sit on it. My heart drummed in my ears as I stepped out of the cell, beneath his hold on the door, and headed down the corridor.

Catcalls came from all directions.

My skin felt soft to the touch, but twenty-one years had hardened it beneath the surface. Their words, jeers, and whistles bounced off into the abyss, where bruises went to die.

Adrenaline poured into my bloodstream. Harsh lights. Stale oxygen. The squeak of an officer’s shoes.