Chapter 8
DANIKA
I don’t know how to process what just happened.
Technically, it’s been an hour since Tommy flung a knife at my head, but the emotions cling to me as though I can still see the blade out of the corner of my eye—the shock and fear washing over me like a December rain.
But the chill only lasted for the briefest second before Tommy’s scalding touch brought on a very different storm of emotions.
The palpable desire in his eyes—the reverent caress of his hand—there’s no denying Tommaso Donati desires me. It’s so confusing because I know he resents my presence. Last night, I was certain he was holding me out of irritation. But now … I’m not so sure.
A strange pull exists between us. It’s heady and intriguing and incredibly dangerous.
It’s the reason I made that ridiculous body comment. I wish I could say I mentally blacked out during those few seconds and wasn’t to blame, but I was all too aware of what I asked. I tasted the words on my tongue, and they were too delicious to resist.
I should not be crushing on this man.
The fact that I’m giving it any mental energy at all is inexcusable.
Tommy is unpredictable at best and possibly unhinged.
He’s Mafia. That alone should repulse me.
And it does, when I think about it, but my body responds to him without thought.
Something about this complicated man speaks to me on an elemental level, and I don’t know how to turn that off.
Regardless, I have to find a way because having one deranged killer in my life is one too many.
I refuse to invite more fear and corruption into my world.
“Danika?” Amelie’s quiet call at my bedroom door startles me from my thoughts. I hurry over and let her in.
“Hey, how’s it going?” It’s such an odd question, considering our situation, but she’s been kind, and my manners are too ingrained to be rude.
“I’m good—how about you?” She looks me over worriedly as we sit on the end of the bed facing one another.
“I’m okay. Spent the night cuffed to the bed and had a knife thrown at my head this morning, but otherwise, I’m good.”
Amelie stares wide-eyed. “Oh my God. Please tell me you’re joking.”
I shake my head.
She takes my hands in hers and leans close. “I swear he’s not a bad man.” She seems to reconsider her words before continuing. “Let’s just say this, I’d bet my life that he’d never actually hurt you.”
I withdraw my hands, not liking the comfort they give. This woman is Mafia just as much as her husband. It would be idiotic to trust her.
“How long have you and Sante been married?” I ask, hoping to change the subject and learn a bit more about the people who hold my life in their hands.
Her answering smile is a mix of joy and embarrassment. “A little over a month. Our families are close.”
I’m not sure why she’d feel compelled to explain being newly married. I get the sense she’s implying their relationship isn’t conventional, but I’m not sure why.
“Was the marriage arranged?” I ask.
“Oh! No, we just got married quickly. I’ve gotten used to having to explain the whirlwind romance.”
Ah, thus the mention of their families being close. “I see.”
“We may not have dated long, nor have I known Tommy for long, but I’ve known the Donatis for years. They truly are decent people.”
My answering nod is far from convincing, inadvertently prompting her to continue.
“Tommy may come off as harsh,” she offers quietly, “but that’s only because he interacts a little differently than some people.
These guys aren’t the type to go to doctors or therapists, but if I had to guess, I’d say Tommy is neurodivergent in one way or another.
You can’t jump to conclusions where he’s concerned, that’s for sure. ”
I consider how impeccable he keeps his apartment—the way he insisted on cleaning the dishes himself—and the seemingly confrontational questions he asked the first time we met.
I think about how hard it is for me to read him and the conflicting signals he sends, abrasive one minute and kind the next.
It would all make a bit more sense in that context.
Then I remember what he said when he threw the knife at me. It’s not a good idea to make fun of the only man between you and the Russian mob.
If he is somewhere on the spectrum or otherwise cognitively outside the norm, he probably was teased all his life. Any possible mockery could easily be a trigger for him, and if he has trouble catching on to sarcasm, he could easily misinterpret it as a joke at his expense.
I’d been so caught up in his actions that I hadn’t truly focused on what he’d said. He thought I was laughing at him. I sigh heavily because while it shouldn’t affect the way I see him, it does. He was simply protecting himself. If anyone can relate to that right now, it’s me.
“I suppose I see what you mean,” I finally say to Amelie. “But he and Sante—all of you—you’re Mafia. That hasn’t changed.” I probably shouldn’t admit my fears, yet I want to trust her. To trust all of them. Having someone to rely upon would be a huge relief.
“True, but that means something different for every organization. I can’t promise you safety, but I know for certain that the Moretti family is nothing like the outfit Biba runs.”
For her, maybe. I’m a different story.
If the Russians are their enemies, they could also see me as the enemy.
“Do you think they’ll let me go?” I ask softly, scared there is no good answer to my question.
“I’m not sure,” she says hesitantly, her lips pursing.
“But I’m confident they won’t turn you over to Biba without good reason.
” She means her words to be reassuring, yet they’re far from it.
Even she would have to agree that Biba’s paternal relationship to me would qualify as a good reason to turn me over.
It’s enough to solidify my resolve to escape. I have to find a way out.