Chapter 3
ALLEGRA
Ilook at the huge hand that’s covering mine. Cassian Trevino’s hand. Cassian Trevino who has somehow materialized out of thin air. How did he get in here without my hearing him?
His skin is warm, but calloused and although he’s not hurting me, I remember what he did to Michael. How he snapped his wrist and brought him to his knees with these very hands.
I need to keep that visual front and center. Remember that for all his beauty—because he is beautiful—this man is brutal.
“Well, Moth?”
I glance over my shoulder to see the door that was locked when I tried it earlier now standing open. Of course. He’d told the guard to put me in the room adjacent to his. That must be his bedroom.
“My name isn’t Moth,” I say, not looking at him just yet. Not quite ready for that.
“Your name is what I say it is. Stand up.” He speaks calmly, his voice low and controlled.
I don’t move. Instead, I try to pull my hand free, but he doesn’t let me. My heart is pounding so hard against my chest there’s no way he doesn’t hear it.
“What did I say about repeating myself?” he warns.
I have to get up. I have to face him. To show him I’m not afraid.
Except that I am. I know what men like Cassian Trevino are capable of. As if I need a reminder, my thumb moves to the nub of my pinkie. It’s subconscious. Memory telling me to tread lightly. This man is dangerous.
I draw a deep breath in, and it takes all I have for me to rise to my feet. I keep my back to him. One step at a time. I can’t face him just yet. I’m looking down and I notice his feet are bare which for some reason is strange to see. Like it’s too human, too normal.
He pulls his hand away giving me just enough room to turn and face him, but I remain as I am, still holding onto the doorknob while I concentrate on breathing. He’s so close I feel the heat of his body at my back. Feel how much bigger than me he is.
I remind myself that I am collateral. He took me until my brother pays him back. I’ll be safe. He can’t hurt me.
But even as I think it, I know it’s bullshit. This man can do whatever he wants. He strolled into our house soldiers in tow. He didn’t sneak in. He stood in my father’s study like he owned the place. He drank his whiskey.
And besides, the little voice inside my head starts, what do you think will happen when Michael can’t pay him four million plus interest by the end of next week?
I ignore it. I can’t think about that now. Now, it’s me and him and I just need to survive this moment.
But I’m not defenseless, I remind myself. I am a Moretti. And I decided five years ago that I would not, would never, be a good little victim again.
Steeling my spine and setting my jaw, I turn to face my enemy.
I look up. My heart races. He must be almost a foot taller than me.
He’s wearing a T-shirt and that tattoo I’d glimpsed earlier is more visible now.
I don’t concentrate on that just yet. I make myself keep going, taking in the chiseled line of his jaw, a sharp contrast to full, soft lips.
It helps that they’re set in a smirk. When I get to his eyes, I find they’re gleaming with amusement.
If he was hideous, a beast, this would be so much easier.
This though, how fucking beautiful he is? It’s just wrong.
I clear my throat, take in the wet, messy hair, the scent of soap similar to the aftershave I’d picked up from him earlier.
He took the time to shower before coming in here to get me. He’s relaxed, I guess.
My gaze shifts to his tattoo, I’d only glimpsed a small portion on the side of his neck earlier. Now, through the V-neck T-shirt, I see the head of a hooded man and what I can make out of the face peering out from beneath that hood is a skull.
The Grim Reaper.
Reaper.
That’s right. That’s what his nickname is. My father commented on it once and I must have cataloged it somewhere.
From the ink I can see, the tattoo must span both his chest and back.
He looks around me to the door. He tugs that hairpin I managed to jam in the lock out and holds it in the palm of his hand.
I stare down at it.
“What is this, the movies?” he asks.
I look up at him, but don’t bother answering. I think it’s rhetorical anyway.
“What was your plan? Break out of this room with a hairpin,” he starts, emphasizing that last part like it was possibly the dumbest thing anyone’s ever done. “And what, Allegra? Take on my men? Are you some sort of secret ninja warrior? Should I be worried, Little Moth?”
I clear my throat and decide to ignore that last bit. “What did you expect me to do? Sit here and play good little victim?” I ask instead.
“Actually, I’m hoping you’ll fight. Good little victim is no fun. I just didn’t know you were stupid.”
“I’m not stupid. And I’m no victim.”
“You’ve got to admit, it’s not exactly a smart move.”
“Get out of my way,” I snap. I try to scoot around him, but he sets his hand on the wall. When I try to go the other way, he cages me in, arms on either side of my head, his big body blocking me.
“I clipped your wings, Little Moth. You won’t fly away, not from me.”
“Stop calling me a moth.” I shove at his chest, but he doesn’t budge.
“I’ll call you whatever I like.” He leans his face close and, keeping eye contact, inhales deeply and makes a satisfied sound. “Do you know what you smell of, Moth?” I don’t answer, but again, he’s not waiting for me to. “You smell of fear.”
He straightens, a smirk on his face, a challenge. I glare up at him. I have no comeback. He has a keen sense of smell. I am scared. I’m fucking terrified. I have reason to be.
“Any more tricks up your sleeve?” he asks, wholly satisfied with himself.
Prick.
I narrow my gaze and grin. “Just this one,” I say, because I know if you don’t fight, they don’t go any easier on you.
The opposite. So, I slide my hand into the pocket of my pants and wrap it around the bejeweled letter opener I’d found in the desk in the room.
It’s quite pretty, actually. I draw it out and before he can register what I’m doing and before I can change my mind, I stab it into his side.
For a moment, we both freeze. Me with my hand wrapped around the hilt of the letter opener, him, with a look of surprise and then pain on his face.
He grunts or growls or something. His eyes narrow even more. He presses his right hand to my shoulder and pushes me against the door as we both look at where the would-be dagger is sticking out of his side, lodged low, between his ribs.
Warm blood trickles onto my hand and I pull it away, almost trying to hide it behind my back.
“That was,” he starts closing his hand over the hilt. He’s in pain. I hear it in his voice. “A mistake,” he finishes.
Blood seeps around his fingers, but he doesn’t pull the blade out. I think if he pulled it out, it’d be worse.
I stare up at him. Shit. Did I hit an important organ?
He draws a tight breath in, and I know each second of it hurts.
He loosens his hand on my shoulder and the instant he does, I run.
I sprint fast toward that open door and almost reach it.
So close. I scream when he grabs me by the arm and spins me around, but he’s hurt and in pain and I slam my fist into the back of the hand that’s still closed over the wound.
When I do, he lets out a grunt and falls back a step.
It’s enough. I turn and again, I run. I get through the door into what I thought was his bedroom, but stop because there, in the middle is a large stone structure, a baptismal font, carved and beautiful and what the fuck is it doing in the middle of a bedroom?
“You’d better run faster than that, Moth,” he bellows behind me, and I turn to look, to watch him coming.
I take hold of the door to slam it shut, then scream when it stops abruptly as he catches it.
I jump backward, meet his eyes which are raging.
My back hits the font and I turn once more, look for the door in this dark, strange room.
It’s at the far end and I take off for it, but there are too many obstacles blocking my path, slowing me down.
“I said faster!” he orders.
I make the mistake of looking back. He’s faster than I expect him to be considering his injury.
He’s not even really running, more stalking with one hand over his wound to keep the letter opener in place.
When I take my next step, my foot catches the upturned corner of the rug, and I yelp as I go down.
He catches me. I make claws of my hands and scream as I scratch at his chest and in our struggle, I take him down with me.
He grabs a wrist. I shove against him, try to wriggle out from under him.
My hand is slippery with his blood. Something rips as I try to get away.
I’m panting, we both are. There’s blood everywhere, and I’m exhausted, but he’s not.
Not yet. Even wounded he has more stamina than me.
He’s a fighter. A killer. He’s the fucking Grim Reaper.
“Enough!” he roars.
His weight is on me now, the carpet barely providing any cushion from the hard stone.
My lungs struggle to expand against his weight. “Get away from me. I can’t breathe!” I cry out, slapping at his chest, his face. It’s all I can do. He’s got me pinned.
He lifts his weight off my chest and, even injured, manages to collect my wrists in one hand, the other back on his side, his shirt drenched in blood now. He gets to his knees, takes a labored breath in, then stands, very clearly in pain.
“I already told you. You won’t fly away from me,” he says and hauls me to my feet. He drags me toward the bed, and from the nightstand retrieves a pair of leather cuffs.
“What are you doing?” I demand, struggling to get free.
He sits on the edge of the bed, takes a moment, muttering a curse against the pain. He tugs me close. “Enzo!” he calls out.
“What?” I ask.
He looks at me, eyes narrowed and cuffs my right wrist. I tug my left arm away when he tries to cuff it. I don’t get free, though.
He stops as soon as he has hold of it. I knew he would, didn’t I? I don’t look at him. I keep my gaze on the floor. I don’t want to see his face because I know what he’s looking at and can imagine what he’s thinking.
He brushes the tip of his finger over the nub of my pinkie. I yank to get it free, but he holds tight. When I shift my gaze to his, I find those eyes locked on me, eyebrows furrowed, waiting.
Guess he didn’t expect a missing finger.
Heat burns my face. Why this shames me I have never understood. It’s not like I had any control over what happened. I wait for his reaction. But he doesn’t react. Instead, he cuffs my wrist then stands to his full height and glowers down at me.
The door opens.
“Cassian?” a man asks, Enzo I guess. Then he gets a look at the blood. “Holy shit! What the fuck…” he trails off and I don’t even look over at him because I can’t drag my eyes from Cassian’s. From the insane, crazed look inside them.
“I’m fine. Get some bandages,” Cassian says without looking away from me. “You took that to heart, didn’t you?” he asks, but I don’t know what he’s talking about. He drags me toward the post at the foot of the bed and draws my arms over my head to hook the cuffs before he releases me.
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to pull free when he steps away.
“That whole I like a little fight,” he says more quietly, properly looking down at his wound now as Enzo returns. He flips a switch and lights go on. Cassian drops heavily into a chair and glares at me. Enzo rushes to his side.
“I don’t think she hit anything vital,” Cassian says.
Enzo rips Cassian’s bloody shirt to look at the wound.
Cassian reaches back to tug the tatters of it over his head, and I watch the muscles work, his stomach tensing as he braces against the pain of the wound, chest and biceps rippling with the movement.
He tosses the shirt to the floor, and I stare because this is not what normal men look like.
He’s all hard muscle, scarred, inked skin.
And that ink? I was right. A huge Grim Reaper holding not a sickle, but a clock in his hand.
His skull face is partially hidden beneath the hood, and those black, bottomless eyes should be because I shudder to see them.
When I lift my gaze to Cassian’s, I find him watching me, his expression curious, intent.
I jut my chin and look away. Is he thinking up my punishment? I may be safe for the moment, but when Enzo puts him back together, there’s going to be payback. I know that much.
“I’m going to pull it out,” Enzo says, wrapping his hand around the hilt of the letter opener. “Ready?”
“Do it.” Cassian grits his teeth. Enzo blocks my vision when he shifts his position to pull the makeshift dagger out. I see the moment he does it on Cassian’s face and there’s a part of me, the stupid part, that winces, feeling guilty or sorry or some bullshit he doesn’t deserve.
“Okay?” Enzo asks.
“Fine,” Cassian groans. He’s not fine.
“I need to clean it, but I’ll be able to glue it shut. Not gonna lie though, it’s going to hurt.”
Enzo begins to gather supplies. Cassian glances down at the spot and I follow his gaze. The letter opener wasn’t long, just about two inches maybe and half an inch wide, but it did some damage. Slowed him down a little. Hurt him.
Mostly, though, it pissed him off.
“Good,” Cassian tells Enzo, then shifts his gaze to meet mine. “It’ll be a good reminder. Do what you need to do.”
My heart begins to slow, my breath calmer now.
My arms are falling asleep, though, as blood drains.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a huge antique mirror leaning against the far wall and see what that ripping sound was, my blouse.
It’s hanging open, only the two bottom buttons somehow still in place.
My pants are fine, but my shoes are gone.
Lost in battle. My hair is a wild, dark mess around my head, but I raise my chin and I smile.
Looking at myself, it’s not a scared little girl I see.
It’s not a good little victim. It’s the face of a fighter.
A survivor. And that’s what I hold on to when I return my gaze to Cassian’s and lock eyes as Enzo cleans his wound.
I hold his gaze and watch him grit his teeth and clench his jaw against the pain and in his eyes, I read his promise.
His payback. It’s coming. He’ll make me pay for my rebellion.
Will I lose another finger tonight? I feel a familiar panic building, but I force myself to breathe.
To stay calm. I tell myself if I had the chance, I’d do it again, exactly the same.
I’ll fight him every step of the way. If it’s a fighter he wanted, well, then lucky him, because I meant what I said.
I will never again play good little victim.