16. Chapter Sixteen—Carlotta
Chapter Sixteen—Carlotta
Darkness clouds my vision at the first touch of the blindfold.
Standing behind me, his chest grazing my back, Rome ties it at the back of my skull with less care than he did at Nameless.
I inhale shakily, tasting his cologne thick and bitter at the back of my throat. What the fuck is happening?
Shivering involuntarily at his sudden close proximity, I feel his breath hit the side of my neck, his lips caressing the shell of my ear. He pauses and I hold my breath in my lungs as I wait for him to say something, anything.
A large hand brushes the hair from my back, laying it over my shoulder. I know it’s him.
And then Rome steps back, leaving my back exposed and my stomach flipping.
This isn’t the same connection we share within the walls of Nameless.
No, this is something more sinister. Something dangerous. Something I’m deathly fucking afraid of.
I go to part my lips, to demand what is happening, when somebody slaps a cold square of tape over my mouth, effectively silencing me.
The strong male scent of unwashed hands and weed tickle my nostrils as the man in front of me roughly rubs his thumbs over the edges of the duct tape, making sure it’s stuck to my cheeks.
Shoes scuff against the concrete ground and somebody else makes a grab for my hands, deftly twining them behind my back, wrists bound together before he too wraps a hefty amount of super strength tape around my delicate flesh.
My senses kick into overdrive, adrenaline beginning to flow through me. On instinct, I arch my back, desperately trying to get away and when that doesn’t work, I kick out at my captors, hoping to make contact between his legs, only to almost topple over.
I’m unstable on my feet with my hands tied behind my back and my sight taken from me.
My stomach jolts as I fall forward, squeezing my eyes tight as I wait to meet the ground with a hard thump.
Strong arms band around my torso, pulling me into his broad chest and preventing me from falling.
The familiar clove scent wafting from him gives away who it is before he even speaks, and I feel myself relax a little in his hold, knowing it’s Cassiel’s arms I’m surrounded by.
Still, fear skitters through me, piercing my skin like sharp needles, leaving me shaking, my breathing so shallow I feel lightheaded, like I might faint at any given second.
Soft lips brush my warm temple, quietly mouthing something against my skin. “I’m sorry, Carlotta.”
I want to ask what he’s sorry for—for bringing me here in the first place?—but I can’t with my mouth taped shut.
Bucking in Cassiel’s grip, I scream at the top of my lungs, my throat searing with the sheer force of my high-pitched yell, but the noise sounds muted even to my own ears.
I hear a few low chuckles sound around me, but I don’t know the men well enough yet to know which laugh belongs to who.
Cassiel isn’t laughing though; I can’t feel his stomach shaking with glee. All I can feel is the fast thump of his heartbeat, seeping through his clothes and echoing across my back.
That makes me even more afraid.
If his heart is racing, then whatever I’m about to face must be fucking terrifying.
I yell again, knowing it will do no good. I can’t stop myself; fear snaking up my spine, ripping out my innards until I’m a shell of myself.
“Please, don’t hate me,” Cassiel utters again and then his hands peel from my ribcage, ghosting upwards.
What the fuck is he doing?
I get my answer not a second later when a paper bag is placed over my entire head, blocking my nose with the strong smell of musty brown paper.
My rapid heartrate sounds loudly in my ears as I’m pushed forward roughly, tripping over my own feet with a muted curse.
Somebody laughs again.
A bead of sweat drips down my spine.
My legs tremble beneath me, threatening to give way.
I swallow back a mouthful of sour bile simply because I have no choice; the tape over my cracked lips sealing my mouth shut.
My inhales are jagged and shallow, permeated with pure fear.
Where the fuck are they taking me?
Either side of my arms are gripped with brute force, dragging me along and up a flight of stairs. On all sides of me, heavy footsteps sound on the concrete ground, blocking me in, surrounding me and making it impossible to tell which men are where.
With over half of my senses cut off, all I’m forced to rely on my sense of hearing—because, really, what the fuck is using my nose going to help me with?
—except that’s easier said than done, when all I can hear is the metronome noise of multiple sets of feet and the loud roar of my blood coasting through my veins.
Somebody shoves a door open, the rusty hinges squeaking in protest and a gust of freezing cold air bursts over my exposed body. The idiots didn’t even let me slip back into my coat before they bundled me away, leaving me shivering.
If my teeth could chatter, I know they’d be gnashing against each other right about now.
When we come to a stop, I flare my nostrils and whip my head side to side like a spooked horse.
Words are spoken, but not in any language I recognize. I was made to religiously attend my weekly lessons with my tutor, ensuring I knew my letters and numbers, but it was the three weekly lessons with the housekeeper that took precedent over anything else.
Mother always said it was unladylike for a woman of my status to learn the language of men. Italian, she told me, was only ever spoken when violence was brewing or if they were talking about something they didn’t want the women to know.
So, I was never taught.
While Cristiano diligently practiced his Italian alongside our father, I was stuck within the confines of the dining room, watching the maid fold the napkins into ornate shapes for the umpteenth time.
It’s pointless straining my ears to try and piece together a language I don’t understand, so instead I squeeze my eyes tight and wait, praying for something, anything to—
“Boss,” the goon on my left starts, his hold on my upper arm slackening as he turns.
“Yes?” Rome drawls.
Another stream of rapid Italian begins, but I don’t care. Let them talk all they want; because with each word that falls from the mouth of the man holding my left arm captive, the more and more relaxed his hold on me becomes.
The dumbass obviously can’t multitask—not that I’m surprised.
Willing my body to relax so as to not alert anybody of my next move, I force myself to be patient.
One.
Two.
Three.
“It’s colder than a penguin’s ass out here tonight. Where the fuck is—”
Rome snaps, silencing his man mid-sentence. “Shut your mouth before I make Cassiel shut it for you.”
Four.
Five.
Six.
Behind me, I hear the dulcet tones of Cassiel’s voice as he utters something. Rome answers back with a snarl, but Cassiel doesn’t sound like he’s backing down.
Seven.
Eight.
Nine.
Instead, I hear Cassiel raise his voice even louder, Italian flying from his mouth at such a rapid rate it hardly sounds like a language at all. I wonder what’s got him all riled up, but I don’t allow myself to fixate on it. I need to focus on my own problems.
Ten.
Holding my breath, I slip my arm from the left man’s slack grasp with ease, turning on my heel and jamming my knee up and into the groin of the goon standing on my right. I hear him yell in pain, dropping a hold of my arm as expected to cup his tiny crown jewels.
With my hands still tied around my back, my lips taped shut, a blindfold and a bag over my head stealing my vision, I don’t even know what my next move is going to be.
But it doesn’t matter, not when a hand reaches out to grab me, landing on my hip, fingers digging into the soft flesh there in an almost painfully familiar way.
I know who it is instantly—the smell of his cologne and the sound of his voice—giving him away.
“You weren’t thinking of running away from me, were you, Red?”
I swivel my head to face him head on, for the first time, glad, of the blindfold I wear which dries the tears overflowing from my waterline before they can cascade over my cheeks.
Why is he doing this?
I want to ask him, to scream it at him, but I can’t.
“Hm?” Rome coasts his fingers up and down the curve of my hip, settling my nerve endings on fire. “Did you ever hear the nursery rhyme about the bunny that tried to run, Red?”
I nod jerkily. I know the one; something about a running rabbit and a farmer’s gun.
I shake my head, not in answer, but Rome takes it as such.
And then he begins to sing softly.
Paralyzed with fear, it’s all I can do but shiver listening to the sinister sound of Rome singing off-key.
“Don’t make me do something I don’t want to do, Red. I’d miss you terribly.”
Stomach flipping violently, I buck one last time in Rome’s grasp. This can’t be fucking happening to me. I’m living a real-life nightmare, except no matter how hard I dig my nails into my palms, I don’t seem to be waking up.
“Nuh uh.” Rome pins my body to his, dragging me along as if I weight nothing. “Stop that. Be a good girl, Carlotta, otherwise this will end in worse ways.”
Annoyance surges through me, gathering traction alongside my fear.
How fucking dare he.
“Now, get in your ride.”
My ride?
“I hate you,” I yell beneath the duct tape, but all that comes out is a garbled scream, one in which Rome ignores in favor of grabbing a hold of my waist, lifting me from the ground and throwing me into the back of a car.
I land face down, the paper bag on my head crinkling loudly as my nose squishes painfully against the hard leather, before somebody rightens me up in their lap, pulling the seatbelt over the both of us and slotting it into the mechanism.
“Stay calm,” Cassiel whispers deep in my ear, shifting beneath me.
I breathe a slight sigh of relief when I realize it’s his lap I’m sitting on, but that relief is short lived when the car trembles beneath us, rolling smoothly forwards before picking up speed.
It’s disorientating not being able to see shit and I squirm in discomfort when we soar over a pothole, the whole car jolting, causing me to bump my head on the roof of the car.