The Italian's Final Redemption - Jackie Ashenden Page 0,7

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.’

De Santi’s eyes narrowed, an obsidian blade getting sharper. So sharp it might cut. ‘Why would I wait a week? In ten minutes I can make you tell me anything I want to know.’

The icy flood of fear inside her rose higher. His ruthlessness was legendary, as was his single-minded determination. He’d betrayed his own parents to the authorities, it was rumoured, which meant he would have no qualms about torturing her into giving him whatever he wanted.

Lucy gripped on to her courage, held it tight, and didn’t look away. ‘You can torture me all you like, Mr de Santi, but I’m not going to give you a thing.’

If being accused of potential torture bothered him, he didn’t show it. ‘And what makes you think you can hold out against torture, Miss Armstrong?’

Well, that was the problem. She didn’t think she could. Then again, she’d doubted she’d ever be able to escape her father and yet she had, so anything was possible.

‘I have a very high pain threshold,’ she said, because that was true. Certainly her father wouldn’t let her have painkillers, so she’d had to deal with severe period pain and migraines by herself. ‘You can put glass under my nails or break my fingers, but I won’t tell you a single thing.’

De Santi blinked once. ‘Glass,’ he murmured. ‘Break your fingers... Hmm. Both good options that yield results, certainly. But I could just take that laptop you’re