The question, a shard of accusation, ignited the fire in her chest.
“Why are you here, Rocco? Why did you defy me and barge into Newfort alone? Don’t you know I was half mad with worry when I couldn’t reach you?”
Rocco lowered his eyes. “I… I overestimated myself.” His voice trembled a bit. “I thought I could find something and help you. I did, but then… then I was taken, dragged onto this ship. I don’t know who…” His voice trailed off, swallowed by a shuddering breath.
“I thought I’d never see you again. Then someone paid my ransom, booked this room, told me to wait for news.”
Hannah, her anger melting away like frost in the sun, held him close.
“Don’t worry,” she murmured, her voice a balm. “When this ship touches land, you’ll be off it, and we’ll go home.”
Winston’s voice, a grim counterpoint to her promise, cut through the air. “Miss Moore, remember what you promised my boss.”
Hannah shot him a glacial glare. “Don’t worry,” she clipped. “Memory serves me just fine.”
But beside her, Rocco’s fingers tightened around hers, his pale face etched with concern. “What did you promise them?” he rasped, his voice thin. “Is he a bad man?”
His gaze flew to Winston, a snarl twisting his lips. “Don’t you dare use me,” he spat, the tremor in his voice betraying his steely facade. “Don’t hurt Hannah. I spare you if you do.”
Winston, arms crossed, eyed Rocco from his superior height, a sneer twisting his lips. “Spare us? If it weren’t for us, you’d be chum in the belly of a shark, friend.
“Enough!” Hannah cried, rising between the two simmering men. “We’ve barely been introduced, and already you’re at each other’s throats?”
The air crackled with tension, thick enough to slice with a knife.
The room itself reeked of neglect, a stark contrast to his opulent past. These were clearly quarters reserved for the subordinates and servants.
With a sigh, Hannah stepped behind Rocco, guiding his wheelchair.
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“Come,” she murmured, “I’ll take you to the third floor. My apartment’s a duplex, you can have the downstairs space. We’ll manage.”
The words barely left her lips when a commotion echoed from the corridor.
Winston whirled around, his gaze sharp as flint, locking onto the approaching footsteps. He positioned himself protectively at the entrance of the room, a silent sentinel.
After a while, the sound of the footsteps drew nearer and soon stopped at the door of their room.
“What are you doing?” Winston’s voice, laced with ice, sliced through the silence.
They were a gaggle of burly men with faces like slabs of granite.
Their leader, a bruiser with a cauliflower ear, barked, “Room inspection. Everyone out!”
Winston met his gaze, his own eyes hard and unforgiving. “Not a chance,” he drawled, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl.
The men exchanged glances before charging forward.