Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
FINA
If there were a quota on unpleasant surprises, I would’ve hit my limit ten times over.
I touch the bandages on my cheeks and chin, feel the tight pull of gauze on my knees and thighs. Nothing’s broken. Nothing permanent. Just torn skin, bruises, and nerves shot so raw they buzz under my skin.
I escaped Carlo by death. My father by careful, cunning planning. But if I’d known that psychopath was hunting me down, I would have torched the path behind me.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Because nothing about Emo Accardo is predictable. His obsession with me is terrifying. The white catsuit he was manically trying to force me to wear was proof enough of that.
What kind of psycho wraps women in latex and tortures them for fun?
I wince, and pain flashes down my cheek. The doctor said the cuts won’t scar, I’ve that to be thankful for.
Renzo looks at me like they already have.
He carried me from the farm like I weighed nothing. Held me on his lap the entire boat ride to Sardinia, tending to my wounds with antiseptic from the kit on the boat, which his father’s men provided. I asked him to let me down.
“Not a chance,” he murmured against my hair. “I’m never letting you down again.”
In some ways, he’s more wrecked than I am.
I breathe deep and soak in the silence of this bedroom, grateful for one moment without his heavy gaze tracking my every move.
I called Aunt Teresa first thing. Her voice cracked when she heard mine. She said Dante’s men are watching the restaurant, guarding everyone affiliated or connected. I wanted to cry but instead warned her about Emo, gave her a description. She reassured me she’s safe under mafiosi protection.
Bianca and Camilla got the same warning. Camilla told me the guards are keeping an eye on them. Bianca laughed and clarified, “Eyes, mouths, and very busy hands.” I could almost see her wink.
After the calls, I washed up the best I could, then dressed in a loose pale blue linen dress from Riley’s wardrobe
The room Riley placed me in while the casita is being “straightened up” is drowning in white. White walls. White beams. White furniture. Even the rug is white, and I’ve been pacing the same invisible line into it with my bare feet for the last ten minutes.
But my mind keeps dragging me back.
The scream trapped in my throat as Settemo tried to force that catsuit over me.
The panic.
The pure fear.
And then, of all things, the rooster. My little feathered hero, flying at Emo’s face like a Fury from hell. I hope he clawed the bastard’s eyes out.
I’ll never throw a hay bale at him again.
Then came Renzo. Bursting from the barn like vengeance incarnate. Terrifying in his own right.
His rescue felt like a miracle.
But was it?
Because either he found some superhuman strength to break those manacles … or he had a key all along.
Of course he had a key.
So why didn’t he use it before?
I don’t know whether to sob or laugh, whether to punch him or pull him close and whisper thank you into his chest.
What does it matter how he broke free? I’m here now.
Emo can’t touch me in this place.
I glance at the door, wondering where Renzo’s gone. Dreading his all-consuming tenderness and missing it.
With a sigh, I go and search for him.
Sandro’s villa is spectacular, and very, very white.
I’m upstairs on the mezzanine level, where the hallway forms a rectangle with rooms feeding off it, and the expansive open living area on view below.
The stairway is majestic, like the kind a 1950s movie starlet glides down, ready for an audience.
I hear men talking in the distance, but the living area is empty.
My heart stutters in my chest when I catch sight of Renzo to my right, in the kitchen near an enormous island, drinking orange juice from a container.
By the time I reach him, I realize my mistake too late. He’s not Renzo—but Sandro.
He pauses middrink, orange juice bottle midair.
I notch my chin upward. “Sandro.” Twice in one day is two times too many.
His eyes widen then narrow as he takes me in. Like he can’t make up his mind about me.
“Elia.”
I sigh. This is his house, his mistress’s … girlfriend’s … fuckbuddy’s … clothing. “It’s Fina.”
“Settemo did quite the number on you.”
“Something about me and men who like to put hands on a woman.”
I swear he flinches. Human, after all.
“What was my brother doing on your farm?” he casually asks. Except there’s nothing about this A-hole that’s casual; every question sounds like an order.
I make dumb-eyes at him. “What farm?”
He scowls. I’m certain men quake beneath similar ones. “Shackled inside a barn, from what I hear.”
“Prying for information is what I hear.”
He doesn’t like my response, or me.
We face off.
“If you have questions concerning Renzo, ask him yourself.”
“Protective …” he comments.
“Controlling …” I mimic his condescending tone.
He screws the cap on the bottle and places the juice back inside the refrigerator.
I arch an eyebrow.
“What?”
“Anyone else drinking from that bottle? Or you starting a new batch of bacteria?”
He stares me down. “What I do in my villa, in my fucking kitchen, is no concern of any of my guests. Especially the nosy kind who can’t leave well enough alone.” He shakes his head. “Of all women, he brings you here.”
I stiffen. “What’s that mean?”
“Come on. You obsessed over him like a kid over a carton of candy.” He cocks his head, arrogant as can be. “Let me ask you this: you follow him to Rome?”
“No.”
“You hesitated—”
“I did not,” I spit out. “Truth is, God’s had it out for me ever since …” Oh no. I almost handed him a loaded gun by offering a piece of my past best forgotten.
He laughs. “Ever since you stole from the wedding tributes?”
I pause like a deer in headlights.
“Listen, Elia—”
“Fina.”
“Fina, answer this one question, the one I’m most curious about, and my father will never hear the truth from my lips of how an easy half million in tributes disappeared.”
I try to bluster my way out of this. “Ask away.”
“Did Accardo die from a fruit allergy or something else?”
“A fruit allergy.” I bite my lip, my mind racing, trying to figure out why this, of all questions, has him so fascinated. “He was allergic to strawberries.”
“Huh.”
“What?” I exclaim.
“You don’t know.”
I huff. “I just told you. He died from an allergic reaction.”
“And you split town, with no fiancé to worry about.”
I draw in a deep breath. “I planned on disappearing anyway. It’s why I took your father’s money.”
There. End of discussion. If he has a sympathetic nerve in his body, he’ll drop it.
For a long time, the asshole simply stares at me.
Then he shrugs. “I’m not the only one with questions for my brother.”
The casita is the size of a New York City apartment and decorated with the same luxury details as the villa.
Riley’s been kind and sweet. Why she’s in a relationship with the A-hole is beyond me. I adjust my breasts within the skimpy white bikini she’s let me borrow, feeling more like myself after a solid night’s sleep and the distance I’ve placed between me and Rome.
I make the king-size bed and straighten up, curious at Renzo’s absence since I slept alone last night. But as I catch my reflection in the bedroom mirror, the answer’s obvious. I look like Quasimodo and the bride of Frankenstein had a child.
Bruises will fade, and the scabs show healing. The emotional scars are what will take longer, especially with Emo still out there.
The heat has kicked up even in the early morning.
Dipping my legs in the pool sounds like a good idea.
I head to the open-space living room and, once more, stop to admire the furnishings.
Off in the corner is the only out-of-place piece, a small picnic table with only one bench with a cushioned leather top pitched at a forty-five degree angle.
Metal hooks have been fixed into the sides, and as I examine it more closely, I notice two leather straps casually dangling from parallel ends.
Is that what I think it is?
I cover my mouth with a giggle and whip out my phone, pulling up pictures of spanking benches. I skim through them until I find a near match.
I bite my lip, barely holding back a grin. Of course Sandro’s into kink. Renzo is sex on legs, and they share DNA. But poor Riley, because it’s definitely not Sandro who ends up facedown and tied up.
Still grinning, I glance around, then tiptoe to the bench like I’m sneaking candy before dinner. I flatten my stomach across the leather top and wriggle into position until it feels just right. I shift, settle, testing how my body fits. My lips part in a silent gasp.
I nibble the corner of my mouth. What would it be like to be strapped down like this, bare skin to cool leather, every breath spent waiting for his touch? My pulse quickens. My imagination takes over, bold and shameless.
A shiver curls up my spine, delicious and slow.
Yeah. I’m definitely feeling better.
I rise from the bench, smooth a hand over the leather one last time, then wander toward a massive painting dominating one wall. At first glance, it’s just wild brushstrokes. But as I lean in, I notice the outline of tangled limbs. Bodies. Writhing. Intertwined. Lost in one endless, chaotic orgy.
I bite back another laugh. My cheeks flush, my thoughts even filthier.
Lord, I’m intrigued.
What else is hiding in this wicked little casita?
My gaze lands on an enormous armoire, oversized and elegant, better suited to a bedroom than a living space. It calls to me. I’ve always been curious by nature and not particularly good at respecting boundaries. Years under my father’s rule taught me how to survive, not how to play nice.
Grinning, I grab the ornate handles and swing the heavy wood doors open.
My jaw drops.
Good Lord.