8. Ariana
8
ARIANA
Everything flashes by me. The moment in the dark underground parking garage where Franco and his men ambushed Carla Trapani and her bodyguard, one of the henchmen coming from behind and killing the guard with a perfect stab in the back.
How Franco lured Gigi Trapani in with the simple threat of a mass shooting. I had to sit by, gagged and tied up, unable to do anything to stop her from getting into the van.
I’ve slumped to the cold cement floor and curl into myself as heat seeps out of my body. I knew from the start this is how it ends, but I underestimated Gigi Trapani. A whole gang of men has come for her, shooting to kill.
A sharp stab penetrated my body seconds ago, and now a throbbing pain has settled in my lower abdomen. I can hardly breathe with the duct tape covering my mouth, and a cold sweat sparks over my skin. I close my eyes, trying to zone out the shouts echoing in the warehouse so I can focus on my breathing.
A warm hand rests on my shoulder, and I startle. A man is crouching by my side. When he pulls a knife out, I flinch.
“Easy,” he murmurs, his voice calm and soft, measured. “I’m going to cut your ties and roll you onto your back so I can see how bad it is.”
He works quickly, gently shifts me, and my arms flay out to the sides, no energy left in my muscles. His fingers are on my stomach, lifting the thicker denim and slicing right through it to fold the fabric away.
Footsteps rush in our direction, and another man places something next to me.
“You’ll manage?” the newcomer asks.
“Yes,” my caretaker says as his hands still on my stomach, and it’s the most peace I’ve felt in years. Maybe this is the finally the end and I’ll gently slip away, his soft touch my final memory of a life not really lived.
“Get Gigi the hell out of here. Steph won’t want her to see him go at Franco.”
Tears seep from my eyes. Franco . He isn’t dead yet.
The other man walks off, and I open my eyes to look at the stranger. He’s staring back at me. God, he’s gorgeous. A high forehead and a regal nose, with the beginnings of a beard lining his jaw, but it’s his soft gaze that draws me in. Warm brown eyes that tell me everything. He’ll make the pain go away. He’ll never hurt me. His arms are strong. He is indeed the angel coming to carry me home to Heaven. I’ve sinned, but not so much that the only doors standing open for me are those leading to Hell.
“I’m taking off the tape,” he says, interrupting my hazed thoughts. “It’s going to hurt, but you’ll breathe easier.”
I don’t respond, and his fingers are at the edge of the duct tape, working it loose, and then with care, inching it off. I gasp at the stings, but it’s more in relief than pain. In comparison to everything I’ve lived lately, this is nothing, and with Franco, I’ve learned long ago to be quiet.
His fingers brush along my temple to gather my hair from my face, and his thumb wipes at my wet cheek. I can’t stop the tears—they’re flowing of their own volition.
“It’s going to be okay. Bullet went in on the lower left side. No vitals there.”
And then, his hand stills. Right there where his fingertips could feel my pulse if they press down a bit harder on my neck, his thumb hovering over my lips. He’s no longer looking at me, but to the others.
The air in this vast warehouse seems to have twisted tight, and I prick my ears, trying to listen.
“Franco Fiore. You hit my wife,” a man snarls. “You bruised her beautiful face. You hurt her sister. You’ve cut into her flesh, leaving a mark I’ll still erase. Let me show you how Il Consiglio deals with men like you.”
His wife? ‘ Leaving a mark I’ll still erase.’
I’m not alone. Shudders course through me, and the man starts to stroke the hair by my temple again. It’s the smallest, most gentle gesture, but it does everything it intends to do. It calms me enough to make me breathe slower.
The wife could be Carla. Or Gigi Trapani. But I’ve never heard of Il Consiglio . Or have I?
The man by my side is looking on, not stopping the gentle caress of his thumb over my skin.
“Fight to the death?” Franco’s voice cuts through the leaden silence.
Just die already .
“And that after I brought you someone in exchange for Gigi Trapani,” Franco continues. “Someone you can all share.”
I shudder. The fucker still plans to sell me out as a whore to these men. I turn my head to see, but the man’s hand cups my cheek and forces me to look at him.
“No. We don’t do that type of shit,” he murmurs to me as he shakes his head. “Whatever you do, don’t look. I’ll take care of you and get you out of here as soon as I can, but I don’t want to distract my brother.”
His brother? I want to look at all the men here, but his hand holds my face so gently, his gaze locked with mine.
“You are a sick fuck, aren’t you?” another voice says.
“That depends.” In Franco’s voice, I can hear the sadistic grin he has before he cuts into you. “If you’re into incest or not.”
The man’s hand stills on my cheek, and I reach for it, trapping it in a weak grip and dragging it to my chest where I press it to my heart. He doesn’t tear his eyes from mine. Instead, they start to search my gaze, then jump all around as he maps the contours of my face.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” someone asks…and here’s the moment where it all goes downhill.
I can already sense it. Franco knows how to play everybody—even these strangers. I can’t watch on as he comes for them and close my eyes.
“I’m talking about a baby sister you all took for dead,” Franco says.
‘A baby sister you all took for dead.’
It’s so quiet, his words echo like a bomb’s aftershocks.
“Sick way to buy yourself some time, don’t you think?” another man says.
I can no longer distinguish the voices. So much rage pulses through the air, but the man by my side doesn’t show any of it as he just lets me squeeze his hand. I’m clutching it as if it’s my last lifeline, right there where my heart beats like a horse’s hooves on a racetrack. As long as he’s here, I’ll be okay. I can die in peace, whatever happens to Franco next.
“If you kill me, you’ll never know.”
Franco sounds pained now, and I loll my head to the side to look at him.
The man doesn’t stop me this time. He lets me look on. Someone has Franco in a choke hold. My gaze jumps to the others surrounding him. Franco hasn’t got a chance. One against many, and they look menacing. I can already see the matching traits. Brothers. All of them.
They’re not my brothers. It’s impossible.
“If you know, others will know, and we will hunt them down,” one man says, and it slowly sinks in that he has a look-alike; they are so similar, they must be twins.
“If she survives your bullets,” Franco croaks out.
“Oh, she’ll survive,” my guardian angel says to me as he starts to dig with his free hand in an emergency medical kit.
Franco is going to die in the next few moments, I just know it, and for the first time in weeks, a spark of hope flares up in me.
My will to survive kicks in, and I let go of his hand. As long as he’s here, I’ll be okay.
He puts on surgical gloves, and I know what he’s going to do next. Contain the bleeding, cover the wound, and get me to hospital as soon as possible.
Except I’m an illegal here on a fake passport with a madman who isn’t going to live through the next hour.
Then, the sounds of a fight break out. Feet scuffle, fists hit, bones crack. It’s blood sport.
“Don’t look, sweetheart,” my guardian angel murmurs as he tears something open that smells like disinfectant. “It’s the thing of nightmares.”
As if my rapist’s and tormentor’s murder could give me anything but sweet dreams.
His hands are on me, gentle, warm, prepping the wound, folding my skirt’s fabric even lower and exposing my underwear so he can apply the bandage. He stills, and then his fingers dip underneath the band of my panties and peels them away.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath.
I fall to pieces. He said earlier it was going to be okay? No vital organs… I can feel it’s bad, the end of the road as Franco called it, but for a good five minutes, I had hope.
“Franco did this to you?”
His question sinks in slowly. This man isn’t looking at my bullet wound—he is looking at everything else. Franco’s cigarette burns and how he kept tally on my skin.
He turns my face with the back of his hand so I’m forced to look at him.
“Did he do this to you?” he asks again, and the only answer I can give are tears streaming down my temples.
“ Fuckfuckfuck .” He picks up the urgency. “Watch all you want, sweetheart. It’s the last time anybody hurts you like this. Watch that fucking maniac die.”