Page 19
I’ve done my share of bloodletting and things that would make most other men faint. While I’m not proud of those actions, I’m also not foolish enough to not do what I need to do to survive.
Guards drag Sophia out behind me. She stumbles, her legs unsteady. Vito, puffed up with bruised pride, lunges forward and reaches for her, but his hand barely lifts before mine clamps down on his shoulder with a grip so brutal, he screeches as his bones grind beneath my palm. My voice drops to a whisper meant to terrify. “Touch her again, and I’ll cut your hands from your body.”
He freezes, sweat beading on his forehead as the threat settles in. He retreats instantly, muttering curses under his breath.
Sophia’s eyes find mine in a cry for help. Or maybe confusion at feeling safe in the shadow of a killer.
“Move,” I order. Soldiers scatter. She follows as if she considers the possible alternative much worse.
I catch her reflection in a grimy window. Despite her tangled hair and the blouse torn at the shoulder, she continues to keep her chin lifted. That defiance worsens an ache in my chest that I don’t want to name.
A faded brown couch that’s had better days sags in the center of the room. Exposed springs poke through torn cushions. Empty beer bottles litter the floor around it, and cigarette burns scar the armrests. Even so, it’s the only thing in here that resembles comfort. Three men lounge there. When my stare hits them, they rise without protest and skitter away.
I point to the couch. “Sit.”
She hesitates, parts her lips, then obeys. Warily, she perches on the edge.
“Gio.” I snap my fingers. The boy scrambles forward, still rubbing the knot swelling on his temple. “Food. Water. Now.” I turn. “And, Rocco,” I loom over him, “find her some warm clothes and shoes.”
His jaw tightens, and he puffs his chest with new rank. “Padrino gave me recognition. My duty isn’t…”
The glare I shoot him shuts him down. Words shrivel on his tongue. “If you think a stripe saves you from me, think again. Do as I say.”
My hand barely shifts to my belt, but his eyes still track the motion. He pales before hastening toward the exit.
Our esteemed guest curls deeper into the cushions, hugging herself. She clearly doesn’t belong in this world, but she doesn’t shrink. Instead, her eyes scan the room, and her fists clench.
Once food arrives, she eats the stale bread and cold pasta cautiously. Between bites, her eyes flick to me.
Finally, a quip slips free from her lips, sharp as glass. “Everything I’ve heard about Enzo Ricci seems true.” The words hang in the air, a shield cloaked in sarcasm.
I tilt my head. “And what have you heard?”
She swallows and sets the bread down with shaky fingers. “That you’re deadly.”
Not an insult. A statement. Her eyes linger longer than they should.
“Deadly keeps you alive in this world,” I say.
Her lips press thin, but she doesn’t look away.
Power coils between us. Not just mine. Hers too. Stubborn and reckless. The air thickens with it, heavy as smoke.
The girl from the highway is long gone. A woman sits across from me now. Grown, fierce, trembling yet unbroken. And she has no idea how dangerous that makes her.
The warehouse hums with faint drips from rusted pipes. Overhead, the single bulb swings on its wire, throwing shadows.
Gabi’s orders demand that I ask questions. I start calm, steady as a blade held just shy of the throat. “I want information on Vincent’s accounts. His slush fund. Whereabouts. Where is he?”
Her lips part. “The last time he appeared was…years ago. He mentioned deposit boxes once. Somewhere uptown. I don’t know anything more.” Her voice shakes but doesn’t collapse.
Truth coats some of the response. I recognize sincerity in her tone, but gaps riddle her story like moth holes in silk. She knows fragments. Knows whatever lies Vincent fed her. The bastard encased her in them like a cocoon.
As she speaks, her gestures betray her. She smooths her hair compulsively and tugs at her sleeves while her skirt shifts beneath anxious palms. A defense mechanism. To anyone else, she appears completely fragile on the surface. But beneath that fragility lies a surprising steel that refuses to bend.
I don’t take my eyes off her, noting every flinch when Vincent’s name passes my lips, every twitch of her hands. She’s both victim and survivor. Every word confirms what I already suspected. She’s a pawn in someone else’s game.
Still, distraction tugs at me where it shouldn’t. Her classroom, those lips, and the forbidden thoughts that resurface now that she sits close enough for me to touch.
