Brando

by Marita A. Hansen

  “I’m not assuming anything.”

  “Good, because it’s none of your business, so leave.”

  Brando’s eyes moved to Camila again. “What did you do to him?”

  “Why does everyone assume I did something?” she said, looking close to tears. “I would never hurt Jagger.”

  “That’s not what it sounded like before, blue-eyed devil. Jagger told you to stop treating him like a fuck toy.”

  “I did not treat him like that. You don’t understand his situation. He has psychological problems due to what was done to him. He sees things that aren’t always there, constantly misreading situations.”

  “Bullshit! All you Donatelli are abusers who take what they want.”

  “Only a few are like that, and I’m not one of them.”

  “Are you talking back to me?”

  She grimaced. “No, I’m disagreeing with you, and don’t patronize me, I’m not a child.”

  “You obviously are, since you don’t understand the concept of what talking back is, so how about I put you over my lap and show you the consequences, little miss?”

  Her eyes widened. “I’m not little! I’m twenty-nine.”

  His eyes lowered down her body. “Sì, I was wrong about the little part, because you are a bit on the chubby side. My brother could do so much better than you.”

  Her eyes bulged out of her head. “How dare you?!” Her furious gaze shot to Jagger. “Aren’t you going to defend me?”

  “Leave my room, Brando,” Jagger said.

  “Only if you toss the puttana out yourself,” Brando said, “or hand her over to me and I’ll get rid of her fat culo.”

  Jagger’s face turned vicious. “Stop insulting her!”

  “Why? You obviously don’t love her, because if you did, you would’ve attacked me instead of asking me to leave. Why bother to keep the tramp when you could get much more attractive women than her?”

  “She is attractive; you’re just being an insulting prick because you don’t like her famiglia.”

  “I’m certainly a prick, but I still find her repulsive. Even if my balls were about to drop off, I still wouldn’t stick my cock into her enormous cunt.”

  Jagger’s face went red. “Apologize!”

  “Not until her fucking warped famiglia apologizes to all their victims.”

  “She had no part in what they did, so last warning: leave.”

  “Once I throw the trash out.” Brando went for Camila.

  A punch struck his face. Jagger went to hit him again. Brando blocked it and head-butted Jagger, knocking him to the floor. Camila screamed and flung herself at him, swiping at his face with her long fingernails. He shoved her back, the clumsy puttana tripping over her own feet. Brando bent over and grabbed her by the hair, yanking the screaming wench up. He wrapped an arm around her neck, watching as his brother struggled to stand, Jagger’s forehead red from the head-butt.

  Jagger’s beautiful face twisted with rage. “Let her go!”

  Brando tightened his grip on the woman. “I’d rather snap her neck.”

  “If you do, I’ll kill you.”

  Brando laughed. “I don’t think you’re capable, brother, and especially not against me. By the way, you have a weak punch.” He licked his lip. “Barely a graze.”

  “Your mother promised Camila safety. I was given her word.”

  “She’s your mother too, and her word means nothing. You should know that after she lied about being your auntie for all these years.”

  “Please ...” Jagger breathed out. “Just let Camila go. I need her.”

  “Why? Because you didn’t before.”

  Jagger appeared pained, looking like he didn’t know what to do.

  “Answer me why you need her, or she’s gone, Jagger.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You can if you want her to stay—unharmed.”

  Jagger breathed out, sounding like he was expelling his demons. “She’s the only one who stops me from killing myself.”

  Taken aback, Brando let go of Camila. The woman shot away from him and hid behind Jagger.

  “You’re suicidal?” Brando said, surprised by his brother’s confession.

  Jagger nodded.

  “Why?”

  Jagger dropped his gaze, shame crossing his face.

  Brando’s eyes moved to Camila, who was peering out from behind Jagger. “If you value your life, tell me what happened to him.”

  “One of my uncles abused him.”

  Chills ran up Brando’s arms. “Which uncle?”

  “The Padre.”

  As though he’d been hit, Brando took a step back, his shocked gaze moving back to Jagger. His brother was a younger version of himself, a replica of what he would’ve looked liked at twenty-four. He didn’t want Camila’s words to be true, but knew they were.

  Brando squeezed his eyes shut. Pain, anger, and fury shot through him, and most of all sorrow for Jagger. If he had told someone what Padre Michael had done to him, he could’ve saved Jagger from being abused.

  Willing himself under control, he breathed out and opened his eyes, finding Jagger staring at him with what looked like understanding. Without a doubt, Jagger had guessed what had happened to him, Brando’s reaction all the evidence his brother needed.

  “When did he hurt you?” Jagger asked softly.

  Brando shook his head.

  “When?”

  Brando looked over at Camila. Pale blue eyes again stared back at him—the same color that had put the sickness inside of him.

  “Brando,” Jagger said. “When did the Padre hurt you?”

  “A lifetime ago.” Brando spun around and left the room, unable to get out of there fast enough.

  ***

  Brando hid behind the giant sequoia tree, watching the priest talking to a few of his parishioners outside the church. He ran his hand over his gun, wishing he could shoot the sick freak. But he knew he couldn’t risk it, the consequences severe. The Padre had said that if anything happened to him, his twin brother would kill Brando’s mother in a heartbeat.

  Still, Brando raised the gun, imagining pulling the trigger. The priest would fall backwards with blood spurting from his forehead, while people screamed and ran. Of course, a few would try to help the priest, seeing if they could save him, but it wasn’t Padre Michael who needed saving—it was him.

  His parents were supposed to have protected him, but instead his mother had led him to the priest like a sacrificial lamb. He breathed out, knowing he couldn’t blame her, because she didn’t have a clue what Padre Michael was like. But it was because Brando feared for her safety that he’d returned the following weeks, allowing the priest to do whatever he wanted, even when it repulsed Brando beyond words.

  He hated the man.

  Absolutely despised him.

  But he hated himself more for allowing it to continue.

  Brando slipped the gun back into his jacket and turned around, knowing he would stop the priest from abusing him one way or another. He would make himself unappealing by ruining the man’s view.

  He frowned, not wanting to mark his face, his vanity stealing that possibility away. He would just have to think of something else to make the Padre not want him, something that would repulse the man so much that he wouldn’t touch Brando again. Because if he didn’t do something soon, he was going to plant a bullet in his own head and be done with it.

  17

  Ivy headed for the gym, needing to work off all her sexual frustrations. Brando was winding her up more and more, making her want to act on her desires. And she almost had—until he’d gotten rough. She didn’t mean to change her mind, but the way he’d trapped her ... making her feel helpless ... it was how the Black Russian had treated her. She hadn’t been able to win against that bastard either, the man always overpowering her. It was why she trained so hard. She wanted to be the best fighter there was, so when she saw the Black Russian again, she could finally destroy him. But Brando proved with
in seconds that she was nowhere near ready, her inability to win against him confirming that.

  Lost in thought, she entered the west wing passage, letting out a startled yell as Brando shot out of a room, knocking her backwards. She fell, crying out as her head hit the floor. For a second her vision blurred, making her feel dizzy and disorientated.

  “Ivy,” Brando’s worried voice said. “Are you all right?” When she didn’t reply, he picked her up. “Cesare!” he yelled. Before she knew what was happening, he was carrying her into the doctor’s room. He laid her down gently on the bed, his worried face coming into view. “Can you see me?”

  “Move, Brando,” a stern voice said. “Let me do my job.”

  Brando pulled back, the doctor appearing in his place. Cesare held up his hand. “How many fingers do you see?”

  Ivy blinked. “Four.”

  “Bene.” Cesare turned her head gently. “There’s no bleeding. Did you lose consciousness at any point?”

  “No, just dizzy.”

  “Bene, though it looks like you’ve acquired a lump to the back of your head.” He disappeared for a few seconds, returning with a glass of water and some pills. “Take these; it’ll help with the pain. They won’t affect your other condition, that’s if the test result—”

  “It came to nothing,” Ivy cut him off. She knew he was talking about the pregnancy test, something she didn’t want Brando to know about. She took the water and pills, swallowing everything down.

  “What test result?” Brando asked.

  “I had a cold,” Ivy said, her eyes going to the doctor, giving him a warning look. He frowned, but didn’t say a word.

  Brando focused on the doctor. “What about her head? Will she be okay?”

  “She’s fine,” the doctor replied, “just a little bruised and stunned.”

  Brando nodded, appearing happy with the answer. “Grazie.”

  Cesare nodded back. “I’ll take my leave now; I need to check on your father,” the man said, obviously unaware of Brando’s origins. He left the room, leaving Ivy alone with Brando.

  Brando sat down on the bed. “I’m sorry,” he said, staring at her intently. “It was entirely my fault; I should’ve looked where I was going.”

  Ivy blinked, surprised he was being polite to her.

  He brushed a strand of hair away from her face. His fingers lingered against her skin, heating it. She stared back at him, not knowing what to make of the situation.

  He continued, “I’m also sorry for being rude to you earlier, and for pushing you into the pool last night.”

  She blinked again, wondering whether she was dreaming, because there was no way these words were coming from Brando’s mouth.

  “And I’m sorry for not getting to know you,” he added, his expression sad.

  She pushed up into a sitting position. “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve lived in this house for almost two months now, yet I don’t know anything about you.”

  “I’m...” She went quiet. This was new territory. She didn’t know how to answer him without animosity or lust.

  “What’s your favorite color?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Your favorite color. Mine is green. I hate blue, so I hope you don’t say it. Also, what’s your favorite food? Mine’s chocolate. I used to be chubby when I little because I would eat too much of it. Chocolate mousse, chocolate cake, pure chocolate... Anything with chocolate in it, I would eat. They banned chocolate from the house because of me.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” she said, fascinated with what he was saying, but not understanding why he was saying it.

  “Because, if I want to learn something about you; I should tell you things about me.”

  “And why do you think I want to know anything about you?”

  He breathed out. “You do, but your pride holds you back. It was because I was rude and callous towards you, and probably still will be when the mood takes me.” He cocked his head to the side, his golden eyes serious. “So tell me something about yourself, because if I get to know you better, maybe I won’t treat you like a sexual object. If more people got to know one another they wouldn’t hurt them so much. They’d empathize with them, rather than seeing something they desire. So, what’s your favorite color?”

  She went to say blue, but stopped herself in time, mentioning her second favorite instead: “Green.”

  He smiled, making her smile too. His expression was almost ... sweet; a word she’d never expected to associate with Brando.

  “What’s your favorite food?” he asked.

  “Chocolate,” she said, not lying.

  “What’s your favorite way to eat it?”

  “Melted on top of ice cream.”

  His smile widened, although it looked wicked now. “I like it melted too, but on top of tits instead.”

  Her face went slack, a rush of heat hitting her cheeks.

  “You have a lovely blush,” he said, raising his hand. He brushed his fingers down her left cheek, looking like he wanted to kiss her.

  “What’s your favorite TV program?” she blurted out, needing to distract him.

  He removed his hand. “The Simpsons.”

  Her eyebrows quirked up. “Your favorite program is an American kids’ show?”

  “I started watching it because Giorgio likes it, plus the humor is more for adults.”

  “Who’s Giorgio?”

  “Luciano’s son. He’s my favorite nephew.”

  “You like children?”

  “Why? Didn’t you think I would?”

  “Not exactly, giving your harsh nature,” she said, now remembering Brando sitting in front of the TV with Luciano’s son. She just hadn’t thought anything of it at the time.

  “Well, children are a lot nicer than adults,” Brando replied. “Plus, Giorgio needs extra attention since his mother is dead.”

  “How’d she die?”

  “In a car crash five years ago.”

  “Oh, yeah, I think Alessandro mentioned that. He said she was lovely.”

  “No, she was incredible.” A sad smile passed his lips. “She was the only woman who would hit me if I pissed her off, well, minus you. Although she annoyed the hell out of me, I still loved her.”

  “You loved her?”

  “Like a sister. She wasn’t my taste in women—unlike you.” His eyes lowered down Ivy’s body, his expression telling her he wanted to lick every inch of it, and probably covered in melted chocolate.

  She cleared her throat. “It’s nice that you spend time with your nephew,” she said, wanting to get him back to talking. “I’m not sure if I would with Menna’s child. I’m not exactly the motherly type.”

  “Well, if you married me, you would be.”

  Her eyebrows shot up. “I’m not marrying you.”

  “I said if, and the woman I marry will bear me numerous children.”

  “And I suppose she would be barefoot and in the kitchen, you Neanderthal.”

  He grinned, “No, naked and in my bed.”

  “Then, good luck with finding your dream bimbo.”

  “I have.”

  “I’m not a bimbo!”

  “Well, you’re an airhead around me.”

  “And you’re an asshole around me.”

  He laughed.

  “Why are you laughing? I’m insulting you.”

  “That’s not an insult, it’s a fact,” he sniggered.

  “You’re weird.”

  “We’re both weird, which is why we’re perfectly matched.”

  “Not enough to marry you,” she snapped.

  “I didn’t propose, so I don’t know why you’re getting so uptight.”

  “Because you’re insinuating that you’re going to marry me.”

  He shrugged. “Is that so bad?”

  “I hardly know you and what I do know isn’t that good.”

  “You don’t have to know someone to marry them. Marriages are a good way of joining f
amilies together. It makes them stronger.”

  “That’s a marriage of convenience, not a love match.”

  “And what’s so wrong with that?”

  “I’m not marrying someone who doesn’t love me.”

  “Love can grow.” He cocked his head to the side. “And I think it would with you. Everything about you is fascinating.”

  “I don’t watch TV,” she blurted out, again feeling self-conscious, his stare too intense.

  His eyebrows pulled together. “What?”

  “You told me you like watching The Simpsons, so I’m telling you I don’t like TV.”

  He smiled. “You’re diverting from the topic. Why?”

  “You’re making me feel uncomfortable, so can we please talk about something else.”

  “Okay, I’ll bow down to you on this occasion.”

  “Why do you always have to make things a competition?”

  “What do you do for entertainment?”

  “Eh?”

  “You avoided my question, so I’m avoiding yours. Is that competitive enough for you?”

  “You’re a cheeky ass.”

  He placed his hand on his ass. “And a sexy one.”

  “Stop putting a sexual spin on everything.”

  “You brought up the topic of my ass, and by the way, if I married you, would you let me fuck your other hole? I like to sink my cock in both pink and brown.” He started thrusting his crotch.

  “BRANDO!”

  “You really are uptight. Is it your culture?”

  She scowled at him. “No, you have the vilest mouth, not even Dominic can compete with you. And to think I was enjoying talking to you before.”

  He smiled. “You were enjoying talking to me?”

  She went quiet.

  “Don’t look so annoyed,” he said. “I was enjoying it too. Actually, I enjoy talking to you most of the time. You’re fun.”

  “Not a lot of people think I’m fun. They think I’m a killjoy.”

  “Only when you say I can’t fuck you.”

  “You’re ruining things again.”

  “Okay, okay, I won’t talk about sex. So, what do you do for fun if you don’t watch TV or fuck?”

  “I exercise, do combat training—”

  “That’s work.”