27. Stella
27
STELLA
E yes wide, I stare at the fistful of long, dark brown hair my fingers are wrapped around. Cool air brushes across my neck, now exposed from the sudden change in length. The blunt, uneven ends are picked up by a light breeze drifting down from the vent in the ceiling, some spilling past my shoulders, some not quite reaching my collarbone.
I think I might be dead.
My left arm is extended behind my head, cushioning it. Each finger throbs, and I wonder if any bones are broken from the impact. The length of my spine screams in horrific agony as I lift a leg, trying to assess the damage to my body.
Frankie’s form is now entirely slumped onto his side, his head bleeding from where it collided with the elevator floor.
His lips are still blue.
I don’t know if he’s alive.
Blinking, I attempt to orient myself, replaying the events that led up to my supine position on the ground. One second, Leo was telling me to cut my hair out of the closed doors and that he’d meet me at the bottom, and the next, we were free-falling and crash-landing.
I moved to my back instantly, using the rail on the wall to push myself into the position. Everything after is kind of a blur.
Most elevators have several safety features that kick in if one mechanism fails, but this one malfunctioning seems pretty on track with the decrepit state of the tower in general. I just didn’t imagine every feature would stall and lump me in with the statistic I gave Leo last night.
Longing stirs in my stomach. Leo. Slowly, I turn my head toward the elevator doors, which split wide open upon crashing. He isn’t standing outside of them or shoving his way in, however, so that tells me something very, very bad has happened.
Either I am dead or…
I glance at Frankie again, forcing a swallow despite the dryness in my mouth. A metallic tang works its way down my throat, and it takes me a moment to realize I must have bitten my tongue during the fall.
If Frankie was poisoned, does that mean someone’s after him? After Leo?
What if that’s why the elevator collapsed?
Dread swirls in my chest, aching worse than the physical pain in my bones. Breathing deeply, I start to peel myself off the floor, wincing when a stinging sensation rips through my shoulder, shimmying down my elbow to my hand.
My mouth falls open in a silent scream as I manage to force myself up the wall, getting back to my feet. With trembling fingers, I undo my heels and kick them off, ignoring how my ankle spasms in protest.
Opening my hand, I let the severed strands of hair drift to the ground. It’s the first time I’ve cut it in years, and there’s a twinge of sadness as I watch the hair fall, but there’s no time to soak in it.
I don’t know where Leo is, and I don’t know how much time Frankie has. Or if he has any left at all. I can’t allow myself to linger here.
Dizziness floods my body, throwing me off-kilter as I move toward the doors. Twisted, puckered metal creates a massive gap in the seam and an exit for me.
Slowly, I haul my body up, hissing when I try to use my right arm as leverage. Moving it at all is a massive feat that makes me break out into a cold sweat. I glance down, one leg out of the shaft, and note the sagging and swelling of my shoulder.
“Fuck,” I whisper, clenching my jaw. Dislocated.
I guess I should be grateful to be standing at all right now.
Somewhere down the hall, what sounds like a gunshot rings out into the damp wasteland that is the bottom of this tower, and I shake myself out of the idea to put my shoulder back into its socket. That will have to wait.
Bruised and battered, and likely unaware of more injuries due to shock, I climb out of the broken car. Each staggered breath I pull in feels like inhaling a bag of thumbtacks, but I push through anyway, worry striking my heart.
I don’t know what to do, really. Textbooks and lab work haven’t prepared me for any kind of altercations, and if it’s someone Leo knows, the odds of me coming out of this unscathed are low. My only weapon is the short utility knife I used to saw through my hair with, which I fish out from where I stuffed it into my bra.
Curling my hand around the folded object, I start down the hall as the noise cracks out a second time. The alcove where the entrance is opens into a slightly wider area, curving so that the front doors to the tower are obscured once you go a certain distance.
When I spot a set of wooden stairs, I stop in my tracks. My stomach hollows out, fear racing through my veins.
Less than a hundred feet away, Leo crouches on the bottom steps before a tall man in a brown suit who’s using a baseball bat as a prop. Leo’s handsome face, which I was riding less than two hours ago, is coated in bright red blood. His dark hair is matted to his forehead, which is split open in multiple places.
He’s holding a gun, pointing it directly at the man in front of him, but his eyes aren’t even open. My body tenses. When he pulls the trigger, an odd clicking sound puffs out of the device, but nothing else happens.
The stranger, who has slicked-back gray hair and a dimpled chin, yanks the gun from him and whips it across Leo’s jaw; his head juts back suddenly, his neck hitting a terrible angle, and then he slumps silently onto the ground.
Without looking, the other man discards the gun by tossing it behind him. It slides across the floor, skidding to a halt a few feet from me.
I take a step in its direction, my pulse roaring between my ears.
I’ve never held a gun in my entire life. Never had the desire to. It felt like all Papà and his men were good at was wielding weapons to intimidate or eliminate one another, and I wanted something more than that.
Standing here now, staring at the weapon, my moral argument feels like bullshit.
Sometimes, a gun is all you’ve got.
Quickly, I dive for it and aim with my uninjured arm, not caring about anything other than getting that man away from Leo.
I don’t think about the auction outside or how I could have probably gone out and found help if I’d been thinking straight. I don’t consider the trouble this will likely get us into or even that I should focus and devise some sort of actual game plan.
Instead, my body launches into action, impulse weighing heavier than my usual desire for rational thought—just like it did seven years ago with that razor blade and then when I let Leo go down on me the first time in his kitchen.
Because when it comes to my husband, I’ve never had to put much thought into anything. It’s all been gut feelings and internal knowledge pushing me, driving me into his arms and life. Even the seven years we spent apart, I spent so much of my time keeping busy to avoid thinking about him and running back to where I knew he’d take care of me.
He came for me. After all this time, after waiting seven years for me to figure out my life, he came. And he was willing to step back and continue letting me live, so despite all his selfishness and ridiculous antics, I can’t help focusing on the growth. The effort.
I don’t know if it’s wrong or if it even matters. Maybe love is less of a concrete consideration and more of a sensation—one you feel in your toes first and your heart second.
But it doesn’t matter , because I feel it regardless.
I’m unsteady on my feet as I wave the gun at the stranger’s back. “Get away from him.”
The man freezes, spinning around and raising the metal bat. He rakes his gaze over me, shock etching into his aged face, and then his mouth spreads into a sinister smile. “So, you survived that fall, huh?”
I lift a brow. That was him? “You sound disappointed.”
He scoffs, lifting the bat with one arm. “Not at all, little girl. In fact, I’m glad your husband will get to witness what the De Tores do to you.”
In the next second, he swings downward, the blunt end of the bat landing directly on Leo’s uncovered hand. Crying out, Leo lurches forward, kicking the man in his kneecap with the heel of his shoe.
Something cracks, and the older man buckles with a grunt, bringing his weapon down onto Leo’s hand once more. The sickening snap of bone breaking bounces off the walls, and I cringe, my finger pulling the trigger before I have a second to think it through.
It clicks, popping without releasing anything, and fear snakes its way up my throat, constricting airflow. I pull again and then another time, and still, nothing happens.
The man laughs, tipping his head back as he turns fully toward me. “A Ricci strapped with an empty chamber. How fucking embarrassing. Your father is probably rolling in his grave.”
A hand clamps down over my mouth, and the gun falls from my fingers. I see a black shoe move forward and kick the weapon away, back toward Leo and the stranger. My body jerks in protest as I’m partially restrained, and pain explodes in my shoulder as my assailant grabs it.
I scream, shredding my throat from the anguish.
Leo, bloodied and sightless, starts crawling toward the sound. “ Fuck , stellina ?—”
The stranger steps on what I suspect are already-fractured fingers, halting Leo’s movements. “Please, Leopoldo. Did you honestly think this was going to end happily for you? Don’t forget that this is all your doing. If you hadn’t married this bitch in the first place or killed half the fucking family, there would’ve been no reason for any of it. You’d be don with no resistance, and Stella Ricci would probably be dead in a mass grave somewhere with the rest of her family.”
Leo spits, watery blood dribbling past his lips. His breathing is labored, his eyes unopened as he tilts his head up. “ Fuck you.”
The man laughs again, and whoever is holding me laughs, too. The sound is chilling, wrapping its billowy arms around me.
I think I might pass out, my vision softening at the corners.
“Okay, enough, Ranolfo,” the person—man?—behind me snaps, shaking me a little. “We’ve got the fucking whore, so let’s just get out of here before security comes. This is what we wanted anyway.”
With that, I start thrashing, thrusting my head backward to try and catch the captor’s chin or face. My shoulder aches so much that I’m close to passing out, but I keep on, digging my heel into the man’s toes and pushing down the mounting panic rising within my chest.
I can hardly fucking breathe, but there’s no way in hell I’m leaving here with them.
“Jesus Christ, stop fighting. We don’t want to fuck a broken doll, and you’re already in rough shape.”
The other man snickers. “Whose idea was it to tamper with the elevator?”
“Speaking of, we should probably send someone to check on Frankie. Make sure he’s dead and all.” The man behind me starts pulling, dragging me backward. “We don’t want to be chasing him down in a few years like this. No fucking repeats, capisce ?”
Rage flares in my soul, sparking like an untamed wildfire. I grit my teeth against the agony tearing up my body and steel myself in place as a small plan formulates in my head. It’s not much, but it will hopefully at least buy me enough time to dart outside and find help.
My hand curls around the utility knife in my free arm, unlatching it from where I’ve been cradling it in my dress.
“Do you have it?” I ask quietly.
The man by Leo narrows his eyes at me. “Have what, puttana ?”
I work my jaw from side to side, resisting the urge to spit at him. “The Orchidée Sans Nom . Frankie was bringing it to us, and since you clearly intervened with that, I’m asking if you took it.”
“So what if we did?” the man behind me quips.
“I want it.”
They exchange a contemplative glance, and then the focus is back on me. I slide a finger against the blade, testing its sharp edge, and feel a drop of blood bead along the path.
“I don’t give a shit about Leo, or your family, or the party outside. I just want to know if you have the flower.”
Silence. They don’t answer at first.
Then the man restraining me chuckles low and deep, his arm slipping to give him access to my breast. He squeezes, pinching my nipple between two fingers, and sighs. “No, we don’t fucking have it. Would’ve pawned it already if we did, but some bitch took off with it before we had a chance. So we just used Frankie as the gopher to get you both into compromising positions here.”
Nodding, I move the knife down, gripping the handle tightly in my fist. “Okay then. That’s all I needed to know.”
The pervert’s too busy pawing at me to notice when I knock free from his hold. I spin quickly, using the momentum from my fear and shock and my hope for the future, swinging the knife up and lodging the blade as deep into the side of his neck as I can get it.
Right in his carotid artery.
Blood spurts from the wound immediately, splattering across my face. I blink and yank the knife out, before driving it into the same spot, harder this time.
Surprise knots his features, and it stuns me how much he looks like Leo—the same sculpted cheekbones and hair the color of the night sky. Even their eyes are similar, though this man’s gaze appears to lack any sort of passion or excitement. The dark irises are just empty as he reaches up, gasping as he tries to withdraw the knife.
A cramp forms in my stomach when I realize this must be a relative. But when he falls to his knees, paling within seconds, I turn and look at my husband, and the pain stops.
Relative or not, he deserves what he got.
“What the—” The remaining assailant, fuming, darts in my direction, wielding that baseball bat over his head.
I scramble backward, tripping over the corpse-to-be, and land on my shoulder. Excruciating agony splits me in half, and I let out a little sob, curling onto my side as I mentally prepare for a blow.
It doesn’t come.
Instead, a third and final gunshot whips against the otherwise silent air, and the stranger crumples right before my eyes. I have no clue where it came from, as the world around me grows fuzzy.
I roll onto my back as Leo drags himself to me, his face still smeared with blood and only one eye swollen. He’s dry heaving as he reaches for me with one of those beautiful hands.
“Fuck me, Stella. Baby, I am so sorry. This is all my fault. I never should’ve come here.”
I shake my head, and he wipes my face with several noticeably broken fingers. “You’re hurt?—”
“So are you.” His words have a bite to them, and I wonder if it’s from the pain or from everything else. “Christ, I thought I was gonna fucking lose you.”
My eyes drift closed. “I saved your ass.”
“That you did.” A pause, and my head feels like it’s floating. Leo’s voice gets farther away. “Stella, baby, you’ve got to stay with me. You’re likely concussed.”
“I’ll stay with you.” I hear myself speaking, but my mouth isn’t moving. My eyes aren’t opening.
He squeezes my hip. “Holding you to that.”
And then darkness overtakes me.