30. Lucia #2
Even though Dante and the men I assume are his brothers, since they have similar features, are outnumbered one to twenty, they gain the advantage almost instantly. They bring the room to heel brutally and bloodily, like they’ve been waiting for the prime excuse to unleash hell on these men.
I don’t have time for an official head count before Dante reaches me. After draping his blood-dotted jacket over my trembling thighs and chest, he gathers me in his arms. His hold isn’t rough, but it’s firm enough to announce how much adrenaline he still has left to disperse.
Don’t get me started on his raging heart. It’s pumping with a fury I’m not sure even a complete massacre could subdue.
As he carries me through the chaos without a hint of strain on his face, I cling to him.
My fingers curl around his crinkled dress shirt as my lungs fight for oxygen.
I’m so shaken that my breaths aren’t visible in the cool night air when he pushes through the back door of the residence and heads to the first SUV in a line of many.
He doesn’t speak, not when he puts me in the back of an SUV or when he slams the door after climbing in behind me.
He stays silent the entire drive home. The only noises are the occasional crack of his knuckles as he flexes and unflexes his fists, and the grinding of his teeth when no number of “I’m safe” mantras stop me from uncontrollably shaking.
“Thank you,” I huskily murmur when Marco hands me my backpack once we reach the underground garage of my building. He must have gathered it from the broom closet when Dante and his brothers stormed the event.
With a tsk that signals to Marco he shouldn’t follow, Dante tugs me out of the SUV and walks me to the elevator. We ride to the twelfth floor in silence. Dante’s jaw is clenched so tightly I’m surprised it doesn’t crack, but he doesn’t say a word.
His silence scares me more than anything I faced tonight.
We enter his apartment, and he steers me straight toward the bathroom. I feel a bruise forming on my hip when he lifts me to sit on the vanity, but I act nonchalant. There’s enough torment in his eyes; he doesn’t need more.
I don’t wince when he presses his thumbs to each side of my nose to make sure it isn’t broken. It’s not, but you wouldn’t believe that if you could see his expression. You’d swear I was bruised head to toe.
He drinks in every inch of my face before his focus shifts to my wrists. They’re a little achy but thankfully bruise-free.
When I take in my reflection in the full-length mirror, I don’t look any different than I did in the broom closet thirty minutes ago.
Well, except that one gleam. But now isn’t the time to discuss that.
I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready.
“I’m fine,” I assure Dante when his assessment shifts to my scuffed elbows. They’re not bleeding. They’re a little rough from thrashing against the carpeted floor as I attempted to fight off my attackers.
When Dante continues to fuss, I place my hands over his, stilling them, then silently coerce eye contact. My heart thumps erratically when he finally grants my request. His eyes are utterly broken, and they tug at my heartstrings.
“I’m fine,” I repeat, my voice subdued but honest.
Only once he authenticates the honesty in my tone does his voice shake with fury. “Name your price.”
Lines scour my forehead. “What?”
He’s too angry to accept my daft plea tonight.
Anger radiates off him in invisible heat waves as he steps closer.
“Name your fucking price,” he repeats, louder this time, his words ripping out of him as my heart would have ripped out of my chest if he had arrived tonight five minutes later. “How much were you going to earn tonight?
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. The fear I felt tonight hurt, but this, his terrified expression, is so much worse.
“Answer me, Lucia. How much did they have to pay per head to fucking rape you!”
“Stop it,” I whisper, my fight lost to the fear I may lose him forever. He isn’t looking at me like he usually does. He isn’t even looking at me anymore. He’s seeing straight through me.
“No. Answer me. How much?”
“It doesn’t matter—”
“It matters to me! How much?”
I fling a tear off my cheek that his roar pops from my eye before murmuring, “Ten thousand.”
“Ten thousand?” His laugh is mocking and cruel. “Wow. Ten thousand divided by a hundred is a measly hundred dollars. I thought the going rate for prostitution was more than that per penetration.”
Although I deserve his anger, I can’t help but retaliate. “Stop it. You’re being cruel.”
“Cruel? I’m being cruel?” He bends his knees, bringing us eye to eye. Even with me seated on the vanity, he still towers over me. “They were going to tear you to shreds! They were going to fucking rape you. Do you understand that?”
“I would have fought them off.”
His disbelieving chuckle is the most painful to date.
After a brief pace of the bathroom, he rakes his fingers through his hair, fluffing up his scent.
It’s clear he’s seeking five minutes of peace when he says, “A hundred dollars per penetration times the legally aged men in Carlisle is…” His eyes, still narrowed and tormented, glaze over as he calculates a figure. “A little over two million.”
When he exits the bathroom at the speed of a bullet, I leap off the vanity and follow him.
From my station at the end of the hallway, I track him when he moves to the far wall of the living room.
With a quick flick, he knocks a painting off the wall and enters a six-digit PIN into a hidden wall safe.
Far more bundles than the three I deposited last week into Edoardo’s offshore account are in his safe. Possibly hundreds.
He stacks the bands on the dining room table Camille colors at every day, then raises his massively dilated eyes to mine. “That’s half your going rate. I’ll get the rest to you tomorrow morning.”
The ends of my wig scratch my back when I disregard his offer. “I don’t want your money.”
He acts as if I didn’t speak. “Is that enough to keep you out of trouble for a week or two, Cici?” He spits out my stage name with disgust. “Or do I have to pay double since I’m unwilling to rape you?”
“I don’t want your money,” I say again, louder this time.
His reply stings more than an acid burn. “Liar.”
His look of disgust makes tears burst in my eyes before he turns on his heel and heads for the door.
“Where are you going?” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. He can’t stack a million dollars on the table and then leave. He can fake it all he likes, but this is not how an employee–employer relationship works.
Dante freezes partway through the door, his hand shooting up to grip the frame. “Camille needs me. She has a fever.”
“Camille is sick?”
Finally, his eyes find mine.
A new fear erupts inside me when he bobs his chin.
“Then why did you come?” I’m not aiming to be mean. I am simply trying to understand why he would ever place me before the well-being of his child. Perhaps if he can explain it to me, I’ll understand why I’ve been struggling not to do the same.
My chin quivers when he answers, “I don’t know, Lucia. Why did I come?”
He walks through the door and slams it shut before I can voice a single reply.
Although my brain screams at me to let him go, before I can remember my objectives, I race into my apartment, throw on a pair of sweats, rip off my wig, then hightail it out the door.
Dante is sliding into the driver’s seat of the SUV when I reach the underground garage. Even though he could drive away before I slot into the passenger seat, his only response to my sudden arrival in his peripheral vision is the firming of his grip on the wheel.