Chapter 17
17
GIANNA
Who did this to me?
Who the hell does he think did this to me?
Rage propels me forward. My hand slams into his chest, but he doesn’t even flinch. So I hit him again, and again, and again, my lips trembling as I spit out, “What business is it of yours who did this to me?”
“Gianna, love, I–”
“Why are you here?” Another hit, but this time his hand catches mine, his fingers snagging on the necklace wrapped around my wrist as he presses my palm flat against the heat of his chest.
I don’t know why, but my gaze drifts behind him—to Uncle Aldo, whose mouth hangs open, face ghostly pale as he glances between Michael and me like a frantic little rodent.
“Who did this to you, Gianna?” Michael asks again, his voice carrying a dangerous edge.
Uncle Aldo slowly shakes his head at me, his eyes flicking to the corner of the room. I follow his gaze and—oh.
For the first time, I see Dario. Cowering.
Not so brave now, are you, cousin?
“Funny story actually,” my uncle laughs unconvincingly. “My niece fell down the stairs. Hit her face on the railing. So clumsy, aren’t you, Gigi?”
Michael places his index finger and thumb under my chin and gently tilts my face until I’m looking only at him. Then, without breaking my gaze, he throws back coldly, “I wasn’t asking you, Aldo.”
I search those vivid blue depths, and despite myself, hope blooms in my heart. Could he be here for me? Does he have the power to take me away? Is that why Dario and Aldo seem so scared? Could this be my chance to get away from them?
I don’t trust Michael. Not anymore.
But maybe… maybe I can use him.
Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I hold his gaze while pointing straight at Dario. “He did.”
“Thank you,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing the scabbed bruise at the corner of my lips with impossible gentleness—soothing for just a moment. Then, just like that, his touch is gone.
And so is his patience, apparently.
He rolls his neck as he stalks towards Dario, and I watch with morbid fascination as my cousin’s eyes go wide with growing terror. A pathetic little whimper slips out the closer Michael gets to him, and my fascination deepens. So he’s capable of fear, huh? Good to know.
Michael doesn’t hesitate. His fist connects with brutal force, sending Dario’s head snapping back against the wall before he slithers to the floor like the spineless coward he is. But Michael doesn’t let up—he hunches over him, landing blow after blow, the sick crack of bone filling the room until blood bursts from his face, splattering across Michael’s shirt.
He broke his nose.
And it is glorious .
Dario’s terrified gaze finds mine—a reflection of the fear I must have worn last night while he beat me. The sight of it sends a thrill through me, and a dark smile spreads across my face, making him flinch. Or maybe that’s just Michael’s next punch landing on his throat. He doubles over, choking, and my uncle jolts in his chair.
“Micha—Mr. Hart, please,” Uncle Aldo calls out weakly, standing up, though he remains safely behind his desk.
He should’ve stayed quiet.
Michael whirls around to face him, and he recoils so violently he loses balance, collapsing back into his seat with a pitiful thud.
“You let your worthless son hurt her. You have no say here.” He takes out his phone, typing furiously before tucking it back into his pocket. Then he makes his way towards me.
My gaze catches on his inked knuckles, a little bruised from smashing into Dario’s ugly face, the diamond on his thumb stained with blood. He forgot to take it off. Something tender stirs in my chest, and I ruthlessly crush it.
No. I won’t let him in again just because he defended me.
The door bursts open behind me, and I whip my head around in surprise to see a flood of armed men pour into the study, Lorenzo leading them. My brows knit together as they line up like soldiers awaiting orders.
“Take him,” Michael commands, nodding at the whimpering mess that is Dario, who’s still on the floor, clutching his broken nose with one hand and his throat with the other.
“What are you going to do to him?” My uncle gets up from his seat again, watching helplessly as two men haul his bloodied son up by his arms and drag him out of his study.
“I’m going to give him a punishment befitting his crime,” Michael answers, accepting some wipes from Lorenzo—who offers me a small, almost reassuring smile—to clean the blood from his hands and ring.
“What crime?” Aldo bites out. “Having an altercation with his cousin—my niece? That’s beyond the Nightshades’ jurisdiction. It’s a family affair.”
Michael smirks, tossing the bloodied wipes onto the study floor. “Not if the cousin in question is my bride-to-be.”
“ What? ” Aldo and I snap together, making my uncle immediately turn his glare at me like I had anything to do with this.
Michael doesn’t answer either of us. Instead, he pulls out a gun from the small of his back, cocks it, and points it straight at Uncle Aldo who stumbles back fearfully.
“Michael don’t—” shoot him. But the rest of my words are swallowed by the deafening crack of the gunshot, the tip of the barrel smoking. I glance at my uncle, now on the floor, clutching his leg.
He shot him in the knee.
Relief floods me—then shame for feeling relieved. I really shouldn’t care if he dies or lives. The man put me on the butchering block himself by engaging me to Carlo. And for as long as I can remember, he’s treated me like trash, a human punching bag for him and his son.
“That’s for not stopping your son from hitting your niece you should’ve protected, and for betrothing her to a man like Carlo.” Michael tucks his gun back into the small of his back and turns to me. “Let’s get out of here.”
I hesitate, years of failed escape attempts making me wary. Could it really be this easy?
“Gianna.” The way he growls my name sends a shiver down my spine. His hand closes around mine, linking our fingers together, and tugs me with him, leaving no room for second-guessing.
I glance back once—at Uncle Aldo, still writhing on the floor, his face twisted in pain. Then I follow Michael out the door. Behind us, Lorenzo and the rest of the men march out with us.
Outside the office, Aunt Marie is pacing the length of the hallway, looking nervous as hell. The second she sees Michael, she stiffens and stumbles back, giving him—and me—a wide berth, refusing to meet my gaze. Funny how power changes things.
Michael leads me through the big house, to the front door and the familiar Cullinan parked right in front, amidst a trail of four other expensive-looking SUVs, where the men who took Dario earlier are waiting. He helps me into the backseat, then slides in next to me.
The familiar leather interior embraces me, but I stay rigid, half expecting any second for my uncle to come limping out of the house, blood splattering everywhere as he yells at his men to stop us. But instead, the engines roar to life almost in perfect sync, and we pull out of the house in a slow procession.
We drive past the gate without a hitch and head northeast towards 6th Avenue. I stare out the window, a little dazed, as the city blurs by. But it isn’t until we’re on the highway, passing signs for Interstate 95 N, that it sinks in: I’m free.
Really free from Uncle Aldo this time.
“Are you okay?”
Michael’s concerned gaze draws my attention. I study him for a moment, then decide to ignore his question. He can stew in worry for all I care—not that I’m deluded enough to think he might actually be worried about me. I turn back to the window, and his sigh tells me he gets the hint that I don’t want to talk.
There’s too much going on in my head right now. And at the forefront is anger, so much anger at him. Because how dare he?
How dare he play with me like this?
First, dragging me to that Rafael’s place where Aldo was waiting, dashing every ounce of hope I had for freedom. And us— not that there was any us beyond my own delusions. And now, what? He thinks he can swoop in like some goddamn hero, save the day, and I’ll just fall gratefully into his arms and forget everything?
Fuck. That.
I remain stubbornly silent as we turn onto a street with the sign ‘North Avenue’. Here the cityscape changes, going from the glistening skyscrapers to sprawling mansions tucked back behind thriving greenery.
We’re in the suburbs.
I shift in my seat, eyeing the tasteful, expensive houses as we cruise through the quiet neighborhood. Michael Hart lives in the suburbs? I never pictured him—or any person linked with the mafia, really—living somewhere so… serene.
I wonder what the people living in these houses would think if they happened to glance out the window and see this convoy of heavily tinted luxury cars rolling past.
Our cars finally slow as we approach an ominous-looking pair of gates that part for us automatically as we get closer. I steal a peek at Michael, who looks for all intents and purposes, cold.
He’s different from how he was in Seattle when it was just the two of us. Could it be the company?
My gaze drifts to Lorenzo in the passenger seat. Who is he to Michael? A relative? Colleague? Employee? They seem close, but I can’t tell in what way.
As if sensing my stare, the man glances back at me. I don’t bother looking away. Instead, I raise both brows at him. The corners of his mouth twitch like he’s fighting a smirk before he turns to face forward again.
I sigh, slumping against the window as the car follows the winding driveway, which seems to go on forever, before finally revealing the house. It’s not exactly a huge mansion like my uncle’s, but it’s big. Too big for one person. A three-story brick house, strikingly similar to the one in Seattle—white stone, slanted dark roof, floor-to-ceiling glass windows that glisten under the sun. And behind it, the shimmer of water.
I sit up slightly, and from the corner of my eye, I catch Michael glancing at me, but I ignore him.
There’s plenty I want to unload on him, but something tells me to hold off until we have some privacy. Somehow, I know his response will be different if I call him out in front of his men.
These mafia guys have a thing about their reputations.
The driver gets out and opens my door. Michael exits on the other side, so I give the driver a stiff nod as I climb out. Behind us, the other car doors open one by one, the men spilling out in a synchronized wave.
Dario is yanked out last, and his hateful gaze finds mine. I flinch back at the sheer vitriol in his bloodied eyes. Then suddenly, a broad shoulder blocks my view as Michael steps in front of me, his stance solid, protective.
Frowning, I peek around him just in time to see Dario’s glare waver before he quickly looks away—coward that he is. The men drag him towards the side of the house, but I don’t bother watching where they take him.
“Come on.”
Michael’s palm presses against the small of my back, guiding me towards the front doors, which open as we approach. I half-expect them to be motion sensors, like the sliding ones back in Seattle. But instead, an older woman with a warm smile steps out.
“Is this her?” she asks Michael, her voice brimming with excitement as she reaches for my hand. Instinctively, I let her take it.
“Yes.” Michael’s hand slips from my back, and he glances down at me strangely. “This is her.” Then, to me, in that damn smooth voice, “I’m going to leave you in Mrs. Monti’s capable hands, love, while I go take care of some business.”
Love.
I narrow my eyes on him, hating that my heart skips at how easily the endearment seems to slip out of his mouth. “We need to talk.”
“Later.” He steps back before I can argue, heading towards the side of the house with Lorenzo.
I don’t have to ask what business he has to take care of. It’s Dario. And quite frankly, I couldn’t give a flying fuck.
What he did to me last night doesn’t even scratch the surface of the hell he’s put me through over the years. Michael can do whatever he wants with him.
A gentle squeeze pulls my attention from Michael’s retreating form. I look down at my hand, still clasped in the woman’s, then up at her warm but assessing gaze. “Hello, ma’am,” I murmur, suddenly feeling shy under her scrutiny. Michael introduced her as Mrs. Monti. Who is she to him?
And why the hell do I even care how Michael is related to the people around him? I’m leaving soon anyway, so it shouldn’t matter.
She shakes her head. “None of this ‘ma’am’ business, miss. I’m Gracie to you.”
Her smile is so genuine, so effortlessly kind, that I just… stare. It’s a warmth that surpasses anything I’ve known in years, leaving me speechless, unsure how to respond appropriately.
Sensing my hesitation, she gives my hand a gentle pat. “Come on in. Let me show you your new home.”
I nearly trip over my own feet. “My new home?”
Surprised, I follow her through the doors into a breathtaking anteroom, and I barely register the vaulted ceilings because my attention is stolen by the walls. Or rather, what’s on them. Large, gold-framed paintings—nearly human-sized—stretch across both sides of the room, taking up most of the space. My eyes immediately catch on the tulips, and before I realize it, I’m drawn towards it, hand lifting hesitantly.
“Beautiful, isn’t it? You can touch it. This is a home, not a museum,” Mrs. Monti says encouragingly.
Home.
I close my hand into a fist, dropping it. Her expression dims slightly, and the disappointment there reminds me of my earlier question. “This is Michael’s house, isn’t it? Why would you call it my new home?”
She frowns a little. “Well, you’re to get married, aren’t you? So I assumed you’d be living here since this is Michael’s primary residence, and?—”
“We’re to be what?”
Her frown deepens. “Did I mishear? It did come as a surprise, I admit. You see, I never thought that boy would let his guard down enough to enter into a serious relationship, but he did say he’s bringing his fiancée home.”
A host of curse words jam up in my throat, and I swallow them down viciously.
“Was I mistaken?”
I shake my head slowly, unsure how to answer the question. “It’s just… a surprise that he told you.” Since I wasn’t even aware of the fact myself—him calling me his bride-to-be in front of my uncle doesn’t count.
Mrs. Monti smiles again. “He usually doesn’t share personal information with me, but this is important news.”
Indeed it is.
I’m going to kill that asshole when I see him. Because there’s no way in hell I’m marrying Michael Hart.