Chapter Nine #3
I bend down, getting so close to his face that he has to press his head back against the wall.
“That’s not the fucking point here,” I snarl. My hand is itching to grab him around his neck, but the loud scream coming from outside the door reminds me where we are.
“What’s that?” He frowns as I straighten up.
“The shitbags.” I guess it’s time. “Put your clothes on.” I point at the garments on the side of the bed. Doc had to remove his jacket, sweater, and skirt to check on him. The stockings he was wearing were torn, and his boots ruined.
He quickly finishes the burger, enjoying a couple of fries, and then slowly sits and grabs the kilt-like, thick, yellow-and-pink skirt.
The mesh shirt he’s wearing does nothing to hide his piercings, and that skirt is barely covering him.
It would be all too easy to hike above his waist. He’s super picky about what he wears, and it takes him forever to get ready—and then that’s what he chooses?
“I have seventy-five pairs of shoes at my place, four at yours,” he announces for some reason, pulling on the black sweater. “And here I have none!” He stares with a scrunched-up nose at the plastic slides near the bed.
“Go barefoot then, but move,” I deadpan.
He glares at me and stands up, swaying so hard I have to wrap an arm around his waist to stop him from falling.
“Be fucking careful,” I rumble before letting him go.
Silently, he wears the slides and that hideous fringed jacket before following me out of the room.
We walk down the corridor, Vince nods at me when we reach the main room where the two Coretti guys are hanging from the ceiling, shirtless.
Blood covers part of their face and torso.
Carlo is punching one of them in the gut, the thick metal chains around the man’s wrists rattle every time he takes a hit.
I stop ten feet away from them with Art next to me.
He’s looking at them with an empty gaze, lacking any emotions.
I expected anger, fear, disgust, but he doesn’t show any of that.
“This view is one I’ve seen a few times,” he says. “My old man is not the only one who likes to command with an iron fist.”
Is he comparing me to his piece of shit of a father? He should be more careful. The beast inside me is ready to play.
“That iron fist will come down soon.” I pause. “The third one escaped. He was an Enzino soldier.”
Art
My head still feels a little foggy, better than when I woke up, but my tongue can’t relay any thoughts. Am I saying this out loud? My eyes dart around. No. I’m good.
I’m in a warehouse, probably near the port; the smell of ocean and fish is strong.
There are some wooden crates and large plastic trays piled up on one side of the large room, and a few closed metal doors on the right.
Two men I’ve never seen are sitting around a table; they stood up when Luca and I entered, so I assume they are soldiers.
The place feels cold and creepy. The two beaten men dangling from the ceiling add to the eeriness—Coppola is hanging by his feet, short guy from his hands.
I’m not really used to this scenario, but I don’t seem to feel anything right now.
They must have given me something very strong; I’ve always been very sensitive to painkillers, though.
They sort of numb not only my body but my brain as well.
But I’m slowly getting its functions back.
I remember my phone, but when I stealthily slid my hand into my panties before, it wasn't there. Did Luca find it? He would have gotten rid of me already if that was the case. Did I drop it, then? Did craggy face take it when he ran away? And what is my father going to do when he gets his hands on me? Right now, though, the question that needs an urgent answer is: what’s up with Luca?
From the outside looking in, his ice-cold demeanor seems intact, but I can see the cracks forming on the facade, and the layers and layers of assholeness wrapped around him.
It scares me. Something is off. When I woke up, seeing his bunched-up eyebrows aimed at me created such warmth inside my chest. His subtle hints of attentiveness, peeking from beneath that cold anger that he wears like a second skin with his rough, unpolished ways, almost made me giggle with happiness.
Happiness. Warmth. Is this a side effect of the painkiller?
Being taken by those men this morning—whether they were Coretti’s or Enzino’s—it would have meant never seeing Luca again. The thought almost guts me. Oh crap, am I into him? Not only his dick. Him. The vindictive wacko. The ruthless gangster. The bleeding man.
When he asked if Mario was the sick, sick fuck who hurt me, the urge to simply tell him everything, every bit of it, washed over me like an unexpectedly large wave on a calm shore. But I didn’t, not wanting to add more fuel to the blazing flames.
Oh crap, I am into him! I’m truly fucked. Fear and denial spread quickly inside my chest. My heart is racing, my mouth feels dry and it’s kind of hard to breathe. I must’ve made some betraying sound, or some unconscious motion, because Luca suddenly turns his attention to me.
“Have you ever seen them before?” he asks, his gaze firmly on Carlo working the two men.
“No.” I swallow down the ball stuck inside my throat. The air around us has suddenly turned thick.
“Why were they getting heavy with you?”
“I didn’t follow them when they ordered me to.” My voice sounds weak.
He makes a noncommittal sound while scratching his stubble. “The people I bring here always seem to think they can keep things from me. But they never do.”
Because he tortures them?
A wave of his hand, and Vince touches the end of the cattle prod he’s holding to the side of the guy who groped me.
His body starts to convulse and twist as he screams so loud his voice bounces off the walls.
My eyes fall on the bloody stump where his hand should be, while the smell of burned flesh spreads in the room.
I don’t feel bad for him. He hurt me and almost violated me.
But that doesn’t mean I’m enjoying this.
“Please, please. I told you everything. Everything!” He’s sobbing.
“Shut up!” Vince slaps him.
“You talk too much,” Luca states. “Cut his tongue,” he orders Vince.
“Noooooo! No. Pl—”
I try really hard to tune out the sounds and focus my eyes on Luca. He has taken off his jacket and is now rolling his sleeves with slow, controlled moves. His gaze is on the gurgling thug.
Fuck! This level of ruthlessness, I only now realize how much he restrained himself with me. I almost regret all the times I challenged him. He could have hurt me really badly. Still can. He can find ways to do it and still keep Fly in the dark, so why doesn’t he?
He turns toward me, holding a knife. I take a step back at the sight of it. His burning, piercing gaze makes me want to look away, but the intensity in his eyes is ordering me not to. Why do I suddenly feel like I’m part of this interrogation?
“You don’t like blades,” he states, before spinning around and tossing it at short guy’s leg. I can almost feel it piercing through his thigh, slicing and parting the skin before hitting bone. His moan of pain shakes me.
Luca turns back to me after grabbing another knife from the table. He’s waiting for me to talk.
“N-no. I don’t like knives.” I feel cold sweat covering my back and arms. I have to force myself to remember this is not Mario. It’s Luca. God, I’m so fucking damaged. “And I’ll never hurt someone the same way I’ve been hurt,” I manage to get out as I look at the scars on his face.
That’s just me. Everybody copes in different ways. Who am I to decide the right one? Especially when in front of an armed man?
The smirk that slowly appears on his face makes me shiver. It’s like I’m dealing with the mobster from the first day we met. The disgust in his eyes is back. Is he really that angry at me for buying donuts? He starts circling me, like a lion playing with a rabbit.
“You should ask them. How did they know where I was?” I say, trying to veer his attention to the two men again.
He tsks. “One of them saw us.” He stops next to me, flexes his arm, making his bicep pop, and tosses another knife. I jump as it spears short guy’s shoulder. “Him. He followed us from the club.”
Luca takes another knife from the table and then resumes his circling.
“Why did you stay?” He stops behind me. I can hear his voice loud and clear above the crying noises, but I still don’t understand.
“What?” Did he forget he kidnapped me?
“I showed you what I do to people that annoy me.”
The tongue cutting? My hands move automatically to my mouth to cover it.
“Spying on me for your father?” he hisses low in my ear. “For Mario? Are you a coward or a puppet for them?”
His words are destroying me bit by bit, forming space for the anger to rise. A steel arm wraps around my waist from behind, and his dick presses against my lower back. He’s not hard. I’m not either. Sex is the last thing on my mind. Anger is filling every nook and cranny.
“I told you—” I bark, but his growl cuts me off.
“Using your dog’s name as a password is not very smart, Enzino.”
He lifts his hand, and my phone is in his palm. Oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck.
“So, Mario was in Boston.” If his voice was as sharp as his knife, I’d be at his feet in bloody pieces by now.
I keep looking ahead, at the tongue-less guy, hanging upside down from the ceiling, face covered in blood. Am I going to end up the same way? I bite my lower lip in fear. He leaves my back to stand in front of me, exuding malicious, destructive vibes. Fury and viciousness.
“You knew where he was.” His accusing glare almost pulls at my guilt. “Stop scratching your neck! And answer me,” he suddenly yells, pushing the tip of the knife under my chin to make me look at him.