"Why did you call me in?" I finally ask after several minutes of uncomfortable silence envelops the room in cloying tension. "Anything I can do for you?"
My father swirls the drink methodically in his glass, the ice cubes clicking against the side. He still hasn't looked at me, not once since I walked through his fucking door. I hate him for it, and at the same time, I'm so desperate for his approval; it's really quite sad.
"You went to see her," he says point blank. I stare at him, knowing exactly what he's talking about, but unwilling to acknowledge his accusation.
"She's going to die," he continues. "There is nothing you can do to stop it or change my mind."
"Why?" It’s a simple question. And I'm fucking desperate to hear the reason.
We've been carrying out this revenge against the Da Costas for the better part of two decades, and I just don't understand it. Yes, there is the normal rivalry that exists between two mafia families, but I don't understand why my father doesn't try to make a deal, negotiate a truce. I know the Da Costas have been desperate to do just that for years now. It's not like they started it —my father is the one who keeps provoking their capo, the one who keeps poking the wasps' nest.
"None of your goddamned business," my father hisses, setting his glass down with a heavy thud. The glass lands so hard that I almost think it's going to shatter. "Why the fuck are you getting involved in this?" my father demands, his eyes glowering at me, wanting to know why I didn’t obey his orders not to see her. I always follow orders.
I raise my eyebrows menacingly, feeling pissed as fuck. "You involved me," I seethe. "You told me to take her."
"Yes," he says. "Take her. Hurt her. Kill her. Not touch her. Not talk to her. Not try to fuck her."
"I...."
"Shut the fuck up!" he cuts me off angrily. "You're already breaking rules for her. It won't fucking do. She's gonna’ die one way or the other."
My fingers are twitching with the need to strike my father. I restrain myself, but barely. I'm so fucking desperate to see a black eye bloom on his face, I can barely hold back. Fucking prick.
"Why did you call me here?" I ask flatly.
He gets up from his chair and I'm already expecting another lecture, telling me I've overstepped and I need to watch myself. Instead, my father surprises me by changing the topic completely.
"There's another hit I need you to make," he says simply.
I nod. "Fine. Who is it?"
Talking about human lives in such a manner doesn't even seem wrong. If he wants me to kill, I will fucking kill. It's what I was trained to do. I don't even think twice about taking a life anymore. It's become second nature to me.
My father opens the drawer in his desk and gives me a big envelope. "Open it."
I take a letter knife from his desk and slice through the envelope’s seal. Several pictures fall out and I stare at them in dismay as my father continues to speak.
"I've made a discovery recently, one I think no one knows about just yet. You will not speak of this to anyone. You will make the kill, and you will keep it a secret," he tells me. There is no point arguing with him. I can already tell it would achieve nothing.
"Da Costa has another heir," my father continues. "I have reason to believe even he doesn't know the boy exists."
I'm staring at the pictures in my lap. A boy, probably nine or so years old. He has a mop of dark hair and dark eyes. He looks like Bianca. The resemblance is uncanny.
"He lives with his mother on a farm. I don't think she over told Da Costa he gave her a son," my father continues.
"Another illegitimate child?" I raise my eyes to look at my father, and he nods simply. His indifference makes the blood boil in my veins. Why the fuck is he so nonchalant about this? Da Costa treats every child of his like his goddamned family, and here I am, trying to fight for the chance to call this man my father. Fuck this shit.
"Why do you want him dead?" I ask, shifting my glance back to the pictures of the boy.
He shuffles some papers on his desk, not bothering to look up at me. It's making me furious. I don't understand how he can treat me like this...like I mean absolutely nothing to him. Like I'm worth less than a piece of trash.
"You will make sure he does not see another day," my father continues, as if I'd never spoken up. "I've already arranged for your travel and accommodations. You leave tonight. I expect you to be back first thing tomorrow morning."
"With innocent blood on my hands?" I ask pointedly. He gives me a confused look, and I jump up from my seat, causing the pictures to scatter to the floor around my feet. "Fuck this shit! I'm not doing it."
"Matteo." My father's stern tone carries a warning. "Don't object. It's what has to be done."
"I'm not killing a child." We stare at each other, testing one another. I've done a lot of nasty shit in my life, but I'm not going to let my father convince me a young child deserves to die. I don't care about the sins of his father. This child is innocent. And I'll take no part in this cold-blooded murder.
"I'm leaving," I tell my father. I turn to stalk away, changing my mind at the last second. I look at him over my shoulder, my eyes full of hate. "And if you think I'm staying away from Bianca, you're fucking wrong."
"You dare defy me?" His voice is a powerful roar and the veins bulge out in his neck. A man with any sense would be quaking in his boots, but I merely stare my father down defiantly. "You will not see her. If you do, you will both be punished."
Thoughts of Bianca being beaten consume me, making a fire rage in my insides. Before I can really understand what I'm doing, I've hurdled my body at my father like a wild animal.
I have him pinned against the wall, his face becoming redder by the second. "Don't fucking mess with me," I growl at him. "And don't mess with her, either."
Instead of being intimidated, my father merely laughs at me. He chokes on his words, trying to speak. "You don't establish the rules," he spits at me. "You merely follow them."
I let him go and he topples to the ground, landing on his knees and trying to catch his breath. I don't wait for his response, knowing he'll only spew out more threats. Instead, I turn my back to him and walk out.
I know exactly where I'm going. I need to see her again, especially after last night ended so abruptly. Need to feel her skin. Need to convince myself it's okay to touch her...fuck her. By now I know I won't be able to resist her.
I walk to the wooded area behind my father's house, not stopping until I've reached the clearing. The bunker appears to be unguarded, so I climb down the ladder into the abyss. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I hear voices, immediately realizing Bianca is not alone. Rage fuels me, anger boiling inside me and reaching a dangerous new high.
I storm inside the holding cell.
Three large bodies mask my view. I recognize them instantly — I've done enough shit with each of them to know those brutal expressions, the hardened fists, the scarred faces. They're Antonio, Pietro, and Francesco. Our killer team of three brothers who always have one another’s backs. Except right now they don't seem too interested in protecting themselves, but instead are blocking my view from our pretty little captive.
"Move!" I bark, and they startle at the sound of my voice. They're wearing masks, but I'm past the point of caring — Bianca's seen me already. I push Pietro to the side and walk up to her. She's curled up on the floor in a fetal position.
"What the fuck did you do?" I growl at the brothers. Bianca is not moving. My heart is pounding and feels as if it’s going to launch itself out of my chest. My fists clench readying themselves to kill. "Did you hurt her? Did you motherfuckers lay your hands on my goddamned girl?"
I grab Antonio by the collar of his black shirt, since he's the one standing closest to me. I want to rip his throat out, and I'm about to do just that when his brothers pull me off.
"Calm the fuck down, Matteo!" Antonio hisses at me, rubbing his throat. "She's goddamn sedated, not dead."
Another glimpse at Bianca
reveals she's breathing. Low, shallow breaths are evident as her chest rises and falls, but only slightly. Easy to miss. But she is breathing.
"Why?" I rage at the three men.
"Abbate's orders," Francesco explains. "We need to transport her."
"Where?"
Pietro looks nervous. "We're not supposed to tell you."
"Oh, and you're going to start playing this by the book now?" I snarl at them. I could rip all their fucking tongues out if I had to. I can't believe they were alone with my girl. "Anyone touch her?"
Silence.
I stalk from one to the other, ripping off their masks one by one. They look scared as fuck, but it's obvious they haven't laid their filthy hands on my Bianca yet. Not that they didn't intend to — I probably just caught them at the wrong time.
"This one's mine," I tell the three of them. "Hands. Fucking. Off."
"Whatever."
"Fuck you, Matteo."
"Eat a bag of dicks."
"Get lost," I tell them. "I'm taking over."
Pietro looks like he's about to object, but I glare at him until he shrugs. They're technically all supposed to follow my orders, unless they get some from a higher superior — meaning my father. I assume seeing the uncontrollable blood red rage my eyes convinced them change their minds.
I usher them out of the cell and wait until they climb the ladder to the outside. Then, I return to the cell. Bianca's still unconscious. At least there's some food scattered around here, sandwiches and soda, crap like that. So that means they fed her before drugging her.... Probably put the sedatives in her food and she just ate it like a good little pet. So fucking naive.
She looks vulnerable as fuck lying here on the floor, and for some reason, it makes me feel like shit. I've never particularly cared about the prisoners we've had down here, but she's different. She makes me pulse with the need to protect her.
I try to talk myself out of it, but in the end, it's too late. I dress her in the dirty dress she was wearing last night, her limbs limp like a rag doll. I throw her lifeless body over my shoulder. She weighs fucking nothing, so damned light she almost feels nonexistent in my arms.
I don't hesitate because I know it will only make me change my mind. It may be spurred by the fight with my father, or it might be the guys trying to take advantage of her. If I'm perfectly honest though, it's the sight of her tanned thighs...the soft skin of her throat moving with every breath. The way her dark brown wavy hair brushes over her tits, almost exposed in that thin scrap of fabric she calls a bra.
I climb the ladder with Bianca in my arms. I make sure no one's fucking watching, and then I carry her lifeless body the whole damn way to my car. At this point, I don't even give a crap if my father sees us. Let him. She's still a prisoner. But I'll be damned if I'll let her be treated like an animal.
Laying Bianca down across my backseat, I cover her up with a blanket I keep in my car. Simultaneously, I try to forget why the blanket is actually there.
Once she's safely tucked away in my car, I caress her pretty blushed cheeks. She stirs in her slumber, leaning into my hand. Pulling away is the hardest thing I've ever had to do.
I get in the driver's seat and start the piece of crap car. My apartment it is.
7
Bianca
My head is pounding. I wake up, slowly gaining consciousness, and at once I know something's different. My eyes are so hard to open, and I moan as I struggle to come to.
"Good morning."
That voice is familiar. Dangerous and kind at the same time. The scent of strong black coffee greets me as I sit up on a soft surface. A quick look around reveals I'm in someone's apartment. It's messy. But at least I'm not chained down anywhere, and there's no immediate threat here.... Except for the voice.
I turn in the direction of its owner, my eyes connecting with Matteo's. I startle and nearly spill the warm liquid he's offering me in a chipped mug.
"Coffee," he says. With trembling fingers, I reach for the cup of the drink I've been craving for the past two days since being taken captive. His fingers wrap around mine for a second, and I feel a deep longing in a place where I don't usually feel...much.
I accept the mug from him and take a tentative sip. It's not my kind of coffee at all — I prefer it sugary and creamy — but it still feels good running down my throat. It's the first warm thing I've put in my belly in two days.
"W-where are we?" My voice is hoarse, my lips dry and cracked. I'm having trouble speaking, and my head still feels weird. "Why do I feel so...strange?"
"You've been drugged," Matteo tells me matter-of-factly. He's sitting on an armchair next to me and delivers the blow carelessly, like it's something normal to say.
"What? W-why would you drug me?" I ask.
"Wasn't me."
I sip the coffee and keep inspecting the apartment. It almost feels more like a hotel room, with generic furniture and nothing to signal this place actually belongs to someone. There are still moving boxes scattered around the room. Not a single personal touch in sight.
"Do you live here?" I ask, because I have to know. He simply nods in response. "Why did you bring me here?"
"Because they were going to hurt you." He gets up from his chair when the microwave starts beeping, startling me from my dream-like state. "Are you hungry?"
My tummy rumbles in response, and I nod eagerly. "How long was I out?"
"Fifteen hours. It's evening now."
He comes back with a plate of food. It's just a microwave meal, nothing fancy, but my stomach rumbles again at the sight of the steam rising from the food. I reach for it eagerly, and for the next few minutes, we're enveloped in silence as I gulp down the meal. I'm so hungry.
He watches me eat silently, and once I'm done, reaches for the plate. At least that's what I think, until he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. I wince, but I still lean into his touch.
"Are you gonna’ try to run again?" he wants to know.
I stare at him, at those deep eyes that are so dark they're almost black. "I don't know," I say softly. "Are you going to hurt me?"
"Yes, if you try to leave," he answers. At least he's honest. His hand is still lingering on my cheek, gently stroking the sensitive skin there. "I need you to stay here with me. For your own safety."
"Why do you care about that?"
"I don't know." His hand leaves my skin and I feel its absence like a sharp, stabbing pain. I need him. For reasons unknown to me, I need his touch. Even a second without his skin on mine is hurting me.
I don't think. Instead, I just move off the couch and sit at his feet in front of the armchair. I lean against his legs and his hand comes down to stroke my hair. It feels good. Natural. Like we were made to play the roles we've been forced into. For once, I'm a willing captive.
We sit like that for a while, and I let him stroke my hair with my arms wrapped around his knees. Finally, I look up at him. I have so many questions, yet they all feel unimportant as our eyes meet. For some reason, whenever I'm with Matteo, nothing else matters. There's just my beating heart and his dark eyes boring into mine. His touch and my heavy breathing. His slow exhale and my lashes fluttering, cheeks reddening when he looks at me.
"Get onto my lap," he says. I get up, crawling into his arms just like he wants me to. I should be fighting this. Every instinct in my body should be telling me to run from this predator. But instead, I want more. Closer. Deeper.
"Straddle me." His hands find my hips and I do as he tells me. I'm wearing the dress from the day before, all dirtied up. It slides up as I straddle his lap, and I feel something hard pressing against my center.
"What are you doing to me?" I ask him softly. "Why won't you let me go?"
"We both know that's not an option." He tugs on the ends of my hair, dangerously close to my breasts. I inhale sharply, not knowing whether I'm desperate for him to stop or keep playing.
"Why? Because of your father?" I need to know. I want to hear his reasons for keeping
me. He's already defied his dad by taking me from the cell, I assume. I should be dead by now if everything had gone according to their plan. But for some reason, Matteo can't do it. He can't hurt me, can't raise a hand to me. I need to know why.
"Because...." His fingers trail along my collarbone, playing with the frayed collar of my dress. My breathing speeds up as he slides them under the hem, stroking my throat. I throw my head back, needing him to reach under my dress. Lower.
"I need you," he continues.
One hand on my hips, his other tangling in my hair and pulling me down. My eyes are still closed. I'm too afraid to open them and see the intensity of his gaze again. Our faces are inches apart and my lips part in anticipation.
"Need me to what?" I ask.
"Open your eyes."
I shake my head no.
"Now."
I'm hesitating, but then finally, slowly, I let my lashes flutter open. I was right. He's staring at me with those black eyes, right into my soul.
"Kiss me," he orders me.
I hesitate, and he tugs on my hair again in warning. Slowly, I place my hands on his chest and lean down. I'm an inch away when he raises his knee, making me slide forward. And then our lips are touching.
It's searing hot. Dangerous. So wickedly delicious. He tastes like strong coffee and determination. Deep. Dark. Taboo.
I open my mouth, welcoming his tongue. He kisses me, his tongue exploring with a force that will claim me forever. I'm already his, yet he's barely touched me. I already know I'll follow him wherever he goes. Fuck running. Fuck everything. I need him. I need his darkness, and he needs my light.
His hands wander slowly but deliberately down my back, finding the row of buttons on my spine. I imagine him putting the dress back on me while I was out of it, doing the buttons up one by one. I remember how scared I was when the three masked men came into the room again, offering me food. I wanted it to be him instead.
Matteo bites down on my bottom lip and I moan against his mouth, arching my back. He pulls down my dress roughly, until it's piled in a heap in my lap. With one motion, my bra falls open, and it falls on my dress. My tits are exposed now, my breathing heavy.
Dark Blood: A Mafia Hitman Romance Page 6