Alessandra nods. “Okay. Let’s do this. We’ll arm up and—”
“You got guns?”
She gives out a short, half hysterical laugh as we start running toward the east, away from the square, toward a few sheds that stand abandoned where the road ends. “No. We’ll have to be inventive.” She smatters out a string of Italian and shoos everyone forward. “Hatchets,” she says, “pruners, shovels, and axes. That’s what we’ve got. Marcia is calling back the men, but honestly, I think it’s better if they don’t make it in time because they’re either too young or too old.”
“You need to hide! Arm up, sure, but this isn’t your fight.”
Alessandra pulls me into the semi-darkness of the dusty old building. “And what do you think you’re made of? You’re soft flesh and blood like the rest of us. If they have come here to do harm, you can’t stop them alone.”
“But I don’t want you to get hurt!” I hiss.
She scoffs. “They hurt you, then what’s going to stop them from coming for the rest of us? We’re all from the same famiglia, Chloe. Whatever Signore Salvatore has dragged to our doorstep, it’s our—” She pauses and listens. Everyone goes quiet. There’s a distinct sound of engines echoing between the buildings. My breath hitches in my throat. “It’s our fight too,” she concludes.
Suddenly it’s quiet. Nothing happens. I shift between my feet as I chew on the inside of my cheek. I need to do something!
Minutes tick by. We all flinch when the silence is brutally interrupted by a slam, and the sound of something breaking.
“Chloe Becker!”
The voice is rough, with a heavy accent that I recognize from the assailants and nausea shoots up in me. It’s a Russian. Luci sent me all the way here, but they found me anyway.
“We will burn this village to the fucking ground and everybody in it! I know you’re here. Show yourself, whore of Salvatore!”
He spits out the last words and they hit me to the core. My stomach plummets. These people are pissed. Did Luciano attack? Are they here for revenge?
A loud slam makes me jerk, glass breaks, then a roar, a sound unlike any I’ve ever heard before. A flickering, orange light shines in through the cracks between the wall boards.
“I gotta get out there!”
Alessandra grabs my arm and holds me in a surprisingly strong grip. “You’ll get yourself killed!”
“They’re burning the houses! I can’t let them!” I tear myself free and dart out through the door opening. “Stay!” I hiss. “Be ready!”
Pulling off my blouse, I toss it on the ground before I also pull off my skirt, letting it fall. Men are stupid and fucking easy to distract. My body is my only real weapon. In nothing but a tight, white top and lacy panties, I run toward the noise. “I’m here! I’m here, you fuckers!” Further down the alley, I come to an abrupt stop when two large, blond men in beige camo clothes come sauntering around the corner. They’ve got semi-automatics slung over their shoulders and guns on their hips. If they have even the slightest clue how I look, they know I’m the one they’re looking for. I stand out like a sore thumb with my blonde hair and fair skin in this country of black-haired people. My heart thumps hard as I walk toward them, one slow step at a time.
“What do you want?” I shout across the distance.
“We’ll make him suffer! We will kill you slowly, suka, cut you up, make new holes to fuck you in!”
Raw fear almost makes my knees fold and I stagger. I don’t know what they’re saying, but I have no doubt it’s an insult directed to a woman. “The hell you will!” I shout back.
They look me over, from top to toe as they approach. “Who’s gonna stop us?” they spit. “A woman?” They both laugh.
I swallow hard, then I turn and run, back toward the shed. Slipping in the mud, I fall face first. Crawling, twisting, and flailing, I push to my feet. With the two monsters hot on my heels I dart into the darkness. “Be ready!” I gasp. Grabbing an axe, I join the others who are hiding on either side of the door, and behind a box, crouching out of sight. When I hear their footsteps in the door opening, I step forward, putting the axe behind my back. “You can go fuck yourselves!” I spit on the floor before their feet, then I use my free hand to rip my top apart, showing off even more of my boobs, hidden only by a practical, white bra. “Come take me then!”
They shoot forward with a growl, their faces twisted in sickening, leery grimaces. I cut the women behind them a short glance, then I raise my axe and let it swing, hitting the closest man on his shoulder. I’m strong, but he’s tall and the axe is heavy. He yells and grabs for his gun, the other man throws himself back, right into the arms of six, primitively armed women, defending our rights not to be violated, not to have our homes burnt or our lives threatened. Axes arc through the air, shovels are swung, pruners stab. Everyone is screaming, growling, crying, and hooting. The cacophony is deafening, the sounds of slaughter sickening. Two shots are fired aimlessly, hitting no one. The final screams are loud and shrill, they are the screams of death, then the attackers go down.
No one stops. We could grab their weapons and finish them off, but the bloodlust we all share has changed us into a ravaging pack of vengeful beasts, the adrenaline chasing off all rationale.
Finally, one after the other, we go still, quiet down. Wiping sweat and blood off our faces, we stand in a circle around the two chopped up Russians. One of the women speaks and then spits on them.
“What’s she saying?” I pant.
“Not worthy to get a grave. We can feed them to the dogs,” says Alessandra.
One of the younger women staggers back, turns and then throws up violently. Two others care for her as the rest of us still study the mayhem.
“I hope that was all there were,” I say. “Oh my God! The fire!”
Alessandra jolts into action and gestures for us to come with her. We all run down the alley, toward the square, meeting the men who have finally arrived. One of the women falls to her knees and wails. A boy comes darting and crouches next to her, throwing his arms around her. I’m guessing it’s her house that is being engulfed in the blaze. It’s a horrifying, and deeply saddening, sight to watch someone’s home go down in flames. There’s nothing to save. The hate in me grows, multiplies, raising a rage that makes me want to scream. If we hadn’t killed them already, I’d do it again, and again.
A drop of rain hits my hand. Then another. The sky is overcast, black and heavy, fitting the somber mood. The drops turn to a drizzle, and then the sky opens. The boy helps the woman stand and leads her toward another building. The rest of us throw our hands over our heads and run for shelter.
“This is good,” shouts Alessandra. “It will kill the fire!”
“It will also set off more landslides!” I shout back.
She groans and then we’re inside, soaked and shuddering. “You have a terrible climate,” I mutter.
“You have terrible enemies,” says Alessandra. Her usual mirth is gone and my chest clenches with worry.
“Are you okay?”
She frowns. “That was… I don’t ever want to have to do that again. It was disgusting. At the same time it was like—I was like in a trance. I just swung that shovel. We were like animals.” Pulling off her skirt, a shudder runs through her.
“You’re strong women,” I say.
Alessandra strokes my cheek. “So are you. I can see why he cares for you.”
My instinct is to say that he doesn’t. That he only wants a pet. But I can see now that he’s really tried to protect me by sending me here. Would he really do that if I was a mere slave doll? He came when he was in pain, clung on to me as if his life depended on it. An ache builds inside me as shivers wrack my body. Right now, I’d need to cling to him. I think he would hold me. I think he would comfort me. I really think he would. I think that infamous mob boss Luciano Salvatore cares for me for real.
“I should call him.”
“I think so too,” says Alessandra and digs out her
phone from a pocket, handing it to me.
I tap the screen and she points out the number for me.
There’s no answer. I try to call him for hours. Again, and again. My insides scream. They got to me. Maybe they got to him too?
Chapter 29
Luciano
Ivan comes darting into the kitchen. I’m in the middle of a lunch meeting with the architect I’ve hired, but if Ivan has that look, then it’s important and I hold up a hand, silencing the other man.
“Boss. One of the pilots—” His eyes are wide. My badass enforcer looks fucking scared.
“What about him?” I gesture for the architect to leave. “We’ll finish this later. Ivan, sit.”
He remains standing. “He talked.”
I frown and shrug. “About what?”
“He’s here, in the club room, all roughed up.”
I stand. “Yes? Speak for fuck’s sake!” Pushing open the door, I move toward the club room. Already from afar I can discern upset voices. Ivan half-runs behind me.
“He was tortured. He spilled the location of Chloe!”
My heart almost stops before it begins to hammer furiously. My people don’t talk. They keep quiet even if it costs them arms and legs and their fucking lives. In the next moment I storm into the club room. A group of men stand around the couch. In it sits Emmett, one of my pilots. His bloodied face is barely recognizable beneath the bruises and swellings. He’s got both hands in bandages and his clothes are in rags. One of his pant legs is soaked in blood.
I sit on the table before him and cock my head, studying him. So we didn’t get everyone after all, the Russians. “How are you holding up?” I ask, making my voice soft, cajoling him into a feeling of safety. I gently put a hand on his upper arm. “Did someone give him something for the pain?”
“On it, Boss,” says one of the men next to me and dashes behind the bar. He returns with two white pills in his hand and a glass of water with a straw in it. I take it and look at Emmett’s hands that are completely useless.
“Open your mouth.”
Emmett obeys and I put the pills on his tongue, holding up the straw close to his lips. He drinks greedily and then swallows with a grimace.
“Percocet, Boss,” says the man who fetched the pills.
I cut him a glance. “Good boy.” Turning back to Emmett, I frown. “What happened? Tell me everything. It’s all right. Nothing’s going to happen to you. Whatever it is, it’s obvious you fought back.”
“I did, Boss,” he groans. He holds up his bandaged hands. “They cut off my fingers,” he whimpers.
I wince. Getting my fingers cut off comes only second to getting my cock severed on my list of shit that’s not gonna happen to me. “What did they want?”
“They wanted to know where the woman was.”
My insides grow cold. “They did, huh? When was this?”
“I fought, Boss!”
I pat his shoulder. “I know you did. Shh, it’s all right. What did you tell them? When?”
“I tried. I really tried!”
“You’re a good boy. Of course, you did. What did you tell them?”
“I—last night. I’ve been unconscious. I called as soon as I woke. They threatened my kid!” he moans. “They said they’d rape her to death, Boss. Please!”
Thinking about the men who attacked Chloe, disgust bordering on nausea rises in me. His kid is sixteen. Still, he knows he can’t talk. Last night. Fuck. They’ve had plenty of time to send people to Sicily. Especially if they already have people in place in Europe. The hair rises on my nape.
“Did you tell them where you took Chloe?” I ask silkily.
He slumps against the backrest and nods. “I’m so fucking sorry, Boss.”
“It’s okay,” I say as I reach inside my jacket, pull out my Beretta and shoot him twice between the eyes. Everyone jerks except Ivan who damn well knew what I needed to do. I can’t have snitches in my rank, I can’t overlook dissent.
“Make sure his family is safe,” I growl. “Provide for them.” I point at two of the men. “You and you, come with me. Ivan, call my other fucking pilot and tell him to get his ass to the airplane now.”
“Yes, sir! He’s gonna need a co-pilot.”
“I’ll fucking co-pilot this ride,” I snarl. “Get to it! And put people on finding whoever did this to Emmett and finish these people off!”
The feeling of urgency tears at me. In the car I phone the village, the two numbers I have, but there’s no answer. Panic climbs up and down my chest as the plane starts moving along the tarmac. They’ll slaughter her. They’ll make sure she suffers for the connection she has with me. They’ll burn the village to the ground along with every last member of my extended family.
I connect with the able-bodied men from Bietini and get them to drop what they’re doing and head home on the double. They’ll be there way ahead of me and whatever plays out, plays out. No matter what happens, it’ll be over when I get there, but I can’t sit on my ass in San Francisco either. I gotta go.
After three hours in the air, I get the message that it’s over. It’s been handled. Everyone is all right, including ‘the blonde Signorina’.
“Do we turn around, sir?” asks the pilot.
I think for a moment, then I shake my head. I need to see her with my own eyes. I need to put my hands on her. I need to know that she’ll cope. My fucking shit is damaging her and the fear that it’s beyond repair itches in me. There’s a reason I haven’t brought her home yet, even though I could have done that a couple of days ago.
It’s not the basement. It’s not the restoration of the house.
I simply don’t know what to do with this woman. I don’t know where to go from here. It’s pathetic. It’s not like me. Still, it’s the ugly truth.
It’s fucking far, flying to Sicily. I’ve done this journey plenty and I’m used to it. The little village has been my sole source of peace and quiet over the years. There’s good food, the pace is slow, and the nights are quiet. Today, though, it seems to take forever. The sun rises over Paris, with the Eiffel Tower as a dark silhouette. When we land, we’ve fast forwarded into the next day.
My phone finally reconnects and I have dozens of missed phone calls. Most of them from Chloe. A few from other numbers I don’t know. The text messages come popping, flickering over the screen. They calm me somewhat. The men are lingering in the village. A house has been burnt to the ground. No one is hurt. I’ll rebuild it of course. This is my shit that struck these people. I won’t let them suffer more than they already have. If there’s something I’ve come to appreciate, in a brutal crash course this last week, it’s having roots, somewhere to land where you don’t have to play a role.
There are people everywhere. I step out of the car in the middle of the square and wave for a man to come to me, asking for the blonde Signorina. At home, he says.
I walk. It’s not far. Tension rises in me. I could have called her back once my phone connected, but I didn’t want to hear her voice. I need to see her.
The old, chipped wooden door once painted blue, the color now faded by the harsh sun, is unlocked and I slam it open.
Chloe stands in the kitchen, wearing a flowery little dress that ends mid-thigh. Alessandra crouches before an open cupboard, her back to me. Both spin around when they hear me. Chloe’s mouth falls open and she widens her eyes. I gesture for the other girl to disappear.
“Out!”
She twitches and flees out the door without a word. Chloe stands as if glued to the spot. I kick the door shut and stalk toward her, then I grab her hips and lift her up on the counter, crashing my lips to hers as I mold her body to mine.
“Mine,” I growl.
Chloe
The sucking feeling in my stomach when Luciano Salvatore barges into the little cottage almost makes me double over. I jump when he growls for Alessandra to leave, gasp when he slams the door closed, and then it’s just us. I’m transfixed by his heated gaze as he strides to
ward me.
I’m still high on adrenaline from yesterday and haven’t slept even one minute. I took long walks in the dark. The lights were on in most houses and I counted many insomniacs last night. My insides itch and I’m filled with restless energy that has had no release.
Luciano doesn’t waste a second, he doesn’t hesitate, he doesn’t ask permission. Crushing me to him, wedging his body between my thighs, he claims my mouth as his hands grab my hips, slide to my ass and press me against him. His cock grows hard, making sparks of desperate need shoot through me.
“Mine,” he growls, almost like an animal. The back of my head hits the cupboard, but I barely feel it.
“Yes,” I gasp and tear at his shirt, pulling it up over his head, and oh my God, he’s beautiful. He’s strong, totally biteable, filled with danger and heat.
His hands slide up to my waist, grabbing the fabric of my dress and pulling at it. “Get out of this, or I’ll tear it.”
A whimper escapes me as heat rushes to the pit of my belly, to between my legs where his cock presses insistently against my pussy through the obstacle of too much fabric. I lift my butt slightly and clutch the hem of my dress, pulling it up over my head in one move, tossing it on the counter next to me. Goosebumps race across my thighs as he slides his hands along them, a deep rumble in his chest.
“Oh my God,” I gasp.
“Oh, you’re gonna pray, girl.” He takes a step back and in the next moment he’s pulled off my panties. I slam my thighs together on pure instinct. Luciano tsks and pushes them apart. I can only draw shallow breaths as his hands stroke the insides of my thighs, his touch soft, teasing, all the way up to my pussy. My stomach clenches when he caresses along my nether lips, parting them. “Oh, you’re wet, you bad girl.”
The only sound that escapes me is an incoherent mewl when he falls to his knees and puts his mouth to my already aching flesh. He licks along my slick seam, pushing his tongue inside, then replaces it with a finger as his tongue progresses up to my clit, flicking it, circling, rough, demanding, unrelenting.
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