Chapter Nine #2
Wrong answer, I think, squeezing my eyes and hands, while dropping my head on my bent knees just before a scream leaves the thug’s mouth. Then I hear noises I can’t easily translate, like someone who’s been forced to stay still. Another cry. And another. Wailing sobs follow and screams.
I don’t know how much time passes, but my head feels like floating, and my body is weak.
I think a hand runs delicately through my hair just before I’m lifted up in the air.
My head lolls on the side, and I get a glimpse of a large red stain covering the ground near Coppola’s hand, or where there used to be a hand.
My face is pushed into a wide chest, and it covers everything else around me.
Those big pecs make me feel inexplicably protected.
The warmth of the sun is on his clothes—mmm—and the smell coming off him of tobacco and lavender are a dark temptation mixed with safety.
He’s dangerous to me in a new, completely different way now. A much more lethal one.
“Luca,” I call out to him just before everything turns black.
Luca
Doc closes his bag. “Put this on your knuckles as well,” he tells me before leaving, placing the ointment on the foot of the bed near the Band-Aids.
I look at Art sleeping. I’m so fucking mad at him. There are two trashed men in the other room that can vouch for that—the third one escaped while I was busy slicing fingers.
My hand slides into my jacket pocket, curling around my broken necklace.
Doc found it in Art’s hand; he had tightened his fist around it, even unconscious.
I didn’t even realize I lost it until I saw it on his little palm.
I had it while I took a shower this morning so it must have fallen while I was fighting with those fuckers.
I could have lost it. Why did he take it?
Finding it safely lying in his hand made me feel unsettled.
Enzinos taint everything they touch, then why do I feel grateful to him? So damn confusing and infuriating.
I move closer to the bed. A blond, unruly lock of hair fell on his forehead. I brush it away, staring at the large bruise and cuts. He has more on his torso, but nothing is broken—even though it looks like he took a pretty vicious hit in the ribs. Coretti fuckers.
Why I am so disturbed by all this is beyond my comprehension.
I hate when people disobey me, especially when things get out of hand.
Because of his cute and soft appearance, I keep forgetting how snarky and sharp he is.
I told him to stay, but he left, and this is what happens for disobeying me once again.
So why did I turn murderous when I saw that asshole with his hand up his skirt?
And when I realized he was all beaten up, lying on the ground, all I could think about was mutilating and pulverizing.
Where is this uncontrollable fury coming from?
This protectiveness? I feel overwhelmed by it.
Ten days ago, I was the one slapping him around, and now?
I still want to spank the hell out of him, but only because I know he wants it. Only me.
Porca puttana.
These feelings are just wrong. After what I discovered today, I know they are.
So, why do I have them? I never wonder about the reasons behind my emotions, my actions.
I’m not into inner-searching and all that psychoanalysis bullshit.
But I have to ask myself: why him? Perché?
What does he have that is different from others?
“Are you trying to get a personal best on your Fitbit, babydoll?”
His raspy voice makes me halt my pacing.
I quickly close the distance between us, ready to open him a new one.
But as I bend down he misunderstands and stretches his arms to hug me.
It’s an intimate gesture, too intimate for us.
Doc said he gave him something for the pain that would muddle his head a little, maybe even loosen his tongue.
I shouldn’t hug him back, but my arms close around him anyway.
He feels so dainty against me, smelling of blood and apples.
I find I’m sniffing his soft hair and closing my eyes while I’m at it.
When I hear him sigh contentedly, I abruptly let go.
“Where the fuck were you going, eh?” I hiss in his face, trying to get a hold of myself.
“To buy donuts.” He grabs my cheeks and kisses the scar on my nose, looking not even a smidge afraid of me.
What the hell is he doing? “Donuts?” I pull away, fisting my hands.
“If there’s no rest for the wicked, why do I keep passing out?” he muses next, looking around the room.
What the fuck is he saying now? Did that medicine sloth-brain him? Or is he simply fucking with me?
“You got hit on the head, but there’s no sign of concussion,” I explain between gritted teeth.
“Where am I?”
“Nowhere,” I clip, grabbing the ointment jar.
“That explains the decor.” He points at the chair with the bowl of bloody water on top—which Doc used to clean a couple of Art’s cuts—the barely standing table, and the old single bed where he’s lying down.
We are in a warehouse that the Leones use for torturing and interrogating. This room is here in case of a long night or longer day.
“You know the drill.” I show him the jar.
“Can you do it?” he asks softly.
No, I can’t. Because this is not something I fucking do. This…I don’t trust myself right now. Not after what happened today. I stare at his face. His left eyebrow is swollen, almost twice its normal size, but the eye looks fine…bruised. It’s going to turn black.
I shake my head and pass him the jar. He huffs and tries to open it. At the third try I yank it off his hands and twist the lid off.
“Close your eyes,” I hear myself say.
“Talk to me…so I know you’re here,” he says with a hint of vulnerability.
I grunt, not at all inclined to comply with his wishes after what he pulled.
He doesn’t flinch when I start to apply the cream, and I wonder about his pain tolerance and how strong the painkiller Doc injected is.
The skin on his temple is mottled with dark red and black near his hairline.
I use the damp cloth from the bowl to clean it a little better.
“You don’t have to be so gentle. I’m used to pain.”
His statement enrages me, and I toss the cloth in the bowl once again, not caring about the water splashing.
Arturo Enzino was supposed to be an entitled, snobbish, selfish Mafia prince.
Who is he then? The sneaky liar, careless, arrogant, pathetic, and reckless?
Or the vulnerable, selfless, feisty, unbreakable, and sassy minx?
Fuck!
I force myself to focus on his face again. The cut on his lip is not so bad, but he has another one on his cheek, which looks sore as hell. I inspect it. Doc said it didn’t need stitches. I quickly stick a butterfly clip there and on the eyebrow, and I’m done.
“I like this, being taken care of.” His clear gaze stares right into mine as he voices his thoughts, which seem unfiltered.
This situation the painkillers produced, it might be the only time he’s actually honest with me.
“Someone who takes care of you, is that why you agreed to marry Aurora Coretti?”
His sigh sounds as heavy as the whole roof of the warehouse.
“Aurora is great, while my father is a piece of shit, as you well know.” He pauses. “If I didn’t agree, he’d have taken it out on me and destroyed my life.” He bites his lower lip. “The truth is that I’m a coward when it comes to him.”
Hearing him say that is surprising, since he’s been anything but a coward since I kidnapped him. Fighting at every fucking turn, lying, seducing, even hiding things. Like a second phone. My fists ball up at my sides again. I have so many fucking questions for him.
“Do you feel lightheaded?” I ask, wanting to give him a false sense of security. The truth is, a storm is raging inside of me.
“No. I’m mostly hungry.”
I grab the paper bag from the table and toss it to him. He parts the brown paper sides and fills his lungs with the smell of greasy burger and fries. His face-splitting grin almost makes me huff. I hand him the paper cup next.
“What did you get?”
“Apple juice,” I reply.
“Yay! You know me so well.”
Do I? Which side is he talking about? The manipulating or the lying one?
He takes a sip from the straw and winces when it touches the cut on his lip. But then tucks into the burger, moaning with every bite and seemingly forgetting about his lip.
“Were you going to see your brother?” My tone sounds cold, while the beast inside me is spitting fire.
He freezes. Swallows hard. Then his eyes find mine. “Fuck no! I left you a note.”
There was no fucking note. “Acting smart after you tried to escape isn’t…” I don’t finish as he starts to mutter, “I hope he chokes to death on a bag of dicks, the psycho son of a bitch.” Is he talking about Mario? Or me?
“Talk!” I’m fucking fed up with his defiant act.
He drops the half-eaten burger in the bag and cleans his mouth. “Since I can remember, my brother’s presence has always given me the chills. His dead eyes following me around, his creepy smiles, kn…” A shiver shakes him. “Nothing made him a sick psycho; he was born like that.”
He turns his face toward the window, hands fisting the blanket.
“Was he the one who hurt you?” My balled-up hands shake at the memory of the multiple scars I saw on his back.
He nods. His fingers go to his bruised temple. A light touch, and he drops them back on the blanket. “When something bad happens,” he suddenly says with a flat tone. “I need to distract myself.”
“Punishing you is on my agenda,” I let him know. And it will happen soon.
“Hold your testicles there. I have been kicked and punched by three shitbags, that is punishment enough. Plus, you know I wasn’t trying to escape, I left a note!
I stuck it to Nacho’s collar since he was, as always, sitting outside the bathroom door while you were taking a shower.
And do you really think I’d ever leave my dog with you? ”