23. Giovanni
TWENTY-THREE
GIOVANNI
I woke up at the crack of dawn with three hours of sleep under my belt.
Turning my head toward the sound of soft breathing, I found Lia curled into herself and her cheek rested on her folded hands. Her face was partly hidden by her golden hair, making her look like an angel.
After she patched up my cut, we went to sleep. I liked sharing the room with her, her scent perfuming the air. It calmed me.
I sat up, took a quick shower, and then headed to my office.
Romeo was there, sprawled out on the sofa, watching the Boston Red Sox playing against the Yankees. A rerun. It was my brother’s favorite pastime, although only God knew why.
He glanced toward me as I sank down on the seat behind the desk and reached for the secured laptop I kept here.
“What’s up with the ridiculous Band-Aid?” Romeo asked, nodding at my neck.
“Razor cut.”
Romeo leaned back, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, because you look clean-shaven.”
I brushed off his comment and sat down at my desk. “Shouldn’t you be working?”
“I am.”
“It doesn’t look like it to me.”
“Looks can be deceiving.”
“Doubt it.”
Romeo was quiet for a moment, and that was usually never a good sign. “Just look in the mirror, man. You say you cut yourself shaving, yet you’re sporting a three-day stubble.” He chuckled. “Like I said, looks can be deceiving.”
I laughed, then zeroed my attention on the screen. He continued watching the baseball game, and we sat there in silence for a while.
“You have the patience of a saint.”
“Not really.”
He scoffed.
“Not too many husbands are willing to sleep on the couch during their honeymoon or put up with a bride who tries to slice their throat.”
“She didn’t mean to.”
Romeo laughed. “Right.” And then sobered. “You’re being serious?”
“She has nightmares. She thought she was protecting me.”
He shook his head. “Jesus Christ, you are actually serious. You’re seriously pussy-whipped, except you haven’t even had her pussy yet.”
I continued typing. “Fuck you, Romeo. And if you mention my wife and the word pussy in the same sentence again, you’re getting a beat-down.”
“Duly noted.”
I rolled my eyes. “Now, have you gotten in touch with Asher?”
Asher Varangr was somewhat of a pirate, treasure hunter, and, you could say, a criminal. I didn’t conduct too much business with him, but occasionally, I would reach out for certain rare artifacts that were illegal to procure via legal channels.
Like today.
It’d be a one-and-done kind of deal, then we probably wouldn’t hear from each other for another year when he needed weapons and I needed a rare artifact.
“Yes, he’s waiting for us in Cuba. And before you ask, yes, I talked to the Corsicans too. They’re lined up for the delivery right after Asher.”
“Good.” We’d started delivering products to the Corsicans six months ago and it had proven lucrative, if only those idiots would get their shit together. “What time are we scheduled to drop off the crates?”
He never looked away from the TV screen. “Eight.”
Good, I preferred to get all my business done in the morning.
“We’ll take the small boat to shore,” I told him.
This time he looked at me. “You think she’ll run if we dock?”
“She won’t.” Actually, I didn’t know, but I didn’t want to admit it to myself, never mind him. “But I’m not risking it. Let’s just get there first, okay?”
LIANA
“Boss, are you listening to me?” José’s voice boomed from the other side of the line.
My spine snapped upright, and I shoved my thoughts of Giovanni away. I hadn’t seen him all day, and his absence was gnawing at me, spinning my mind. It wasn’t a feeling I was familiar with.
I’d manicured my nails. I’d made enough origami to overflow a dumpster. It was how I found myself in his office, but he wasn’t here as I expected.
“Yes, José, no need to shout,” I answered. Steady rainfall surrounded me, the sound soothing. Like standing under the protection of an umbrella. “Now, can you repeat what you said?”
His heavy sigh filled the line.
“Were you kidnapped or not?” José demanded. “Why is your location turned off?”
He wanted to get a crew of men and come after me. Except, he had no idea where I was—and neither did I. Telling him I was floating around the ocean certainly wouldn’t narrow things down.
“It’s probably the doing of my kidnapper. And yes, I was kidnapped, but?—”
“Then I should come for you.”
“No.” My voice was soft, but the message was non-negotiable. “Not yet. If I need you, I’ll find a way to let you know my location.”
“I’ve been losing my mind looking for you. It’s like you disappeared without a trace.”
“I know. It certainly wasn’t in my plans to get kidnapped in such a manner.” I sighed tiredly. The sea air certainly had a way of tiring out a person. “Now, tell me what’s new with our business.”
“Kian is demanding you call him,” he said. “The first chance you have.”
My jaw clenched.
The reminder of my failed promise and betrayal brought a bitter taste to my mouth. I didn’t have many scruples left, but disloyalty to someone who’d helped me didn’t make me feel good about myself.
“Have we heard anything about Atticus?”
“No, he’s gone underground.”
Before I called Kian, I needed to know if Atticus Popov had made contact with him. Each of the men were formidable in their own way, and although my loyalties first and foremost lay with me, I promised Kian I wouldn’t betray him.
After all, he was one of the reasons I’d survived Perez. Atticus, on the other hand, was something else entirely. He was able to deliver me Emory and that liver that Amara so desperately needed.
Atticus Popov was an actual mobster disguised as a legitimate gentleman who, along with his son, Danil, held more power than royalty. Making an enemy out of them would be stupid.
“Okay, and The Mistress. Have we been able to get her identity?”
“Negative. We don’t have much to go on.”
“I gave you a fairly detailed description.”
José sighed. “You know how many women look like what you described—dark hair, greenish eyes, older with an evil smile—in this world?”
“Apparently not many,” I retorted dryly. “Because you haven’t found a single match yet.”
“Are you sure it’s worth using our resources to search for her?”
“Yes,” I gritted. I wanted revenge; she had to pay.
“Where are you?”
My eyes flicked up, the horizon of stormy gray and blue surrounding me. “In the middle of an ocean.”
“And Amara?”
“She’s back where she belongs,” I said, my chest squeezing. The loss of my daughter hurt, but a part of me knew she was safe. She’d be loved very much. The way she deserved all along. “Just get me the information on The Mistress.”
So I could finally rest in peace too. Maybe I could find a place where I belonged.
After I hung up, I drifted to the couch, my mind inevitably drawn back to the day that had shattered me beyond repair. I rarely allowed myself to revisit those memories, but as I tucked a throw blanket over my lap and rested my cheek against the decorative pillow, it felt impossible to resist.
Thunder rumbled and I startled, goosebumps scattering over my skin.
Santiago was away, giving me peace and quiet in this house that had become my prison. Now that I was finally pregnant, he didn’t worry about me escaping as much. What he didn’t know was that I wanted to escape more than ever. I didn’t want my baby to grow up in this hellhole.
“One more month,” I murmured, rubbing my eight-month-pregnant belly.
I hadn’t wanted a child, especially not one that was a product of horrific circumstances, but after carrying the seed inside me for the past eight months, I’d grown to love it. To think of it as mine and mine alone.
I had to run before the child was born. It was the least the baby deserved—a chance at a decent life. The prenatal checkups on this compound were a joke at best. The doctor refused to talk to me, only communicating with The Mistress, per Santiago’s instructions. It was so humiliating to ask your husband’s mistress for the status of your prenatal checkups, but then I suspected that was the point those two were trying to make.
The door opened, and when I caught a reflection of the woman in the glass, I stiffened.
Turning to face her, because I didn’t trust her not to stab me in the back, I asked, “What do you want, Mistress?”
I wasn’t allowed to know her name, and I would have preferred to call her a whore, but I couldn’t risk a beating. Not in my condition. Besides, she didn’t need me calling her names when what she wore—a bright red dress that was too tight and far too short for someone her age—did the job. Her red lipstick and red heels sealed the deal.
“I wanted to see if you need something?”
I scoffed. “And you’ll get it for me?”
She smiled a soft, almost pretty smile. It made me even more leery of her.
“I have a proposition for you.” Her eyes fell to my big belly. When I remained silent, she continued, “Why don’t I help you escape?”
My spine snapped upright, hope igniting like sparks about to set fire. But just as quickly, so did my suspicion.
“Why would you do that?”
A heartbeat passed.
“I want Santiago for myself.” Was she serious? She could have the old man. I hated his cruelty. Everything about him. “You’re still young. What are you, eighteen, nineteen?”
I swallowed. “Nineteen.”
She smiled. “You have a whole life ahead of you.”
I did. And so did my baby. “Santiago will come after me.”
Her heels clicked against the floor as she came to stand in front of me. She wasn’t a short woman, but with her heels, she almost towered over me.
“He will,” she agreed. “But it will be too late.”
I narrowed my eyes on her. “Why do you want to help?”
Her smile never faltered. “Like I said, I want Santiago.”
“You already have him,” I pointed out. “You’re his mistress.”
Something passed her expression, but it was schooled too quickly. “If you want to run, we have to do it now. Time is of the essence, Louisa.”
She called me by my twin’s name. Even after a year in captivity, people didn’t know any better. Did it mean that my twin was out in the world with her lover, free and happy? Maybe I could seek them out. They would help me and my baby.
“Okay.”
Victory flashed in her eyes, and although I hated seeing it, I focused on what had to be done so I’d get freedom.
I wouldn’t get another chance like this, especially after I gave birth.
An hour later, I ran through the woods as best as I could in my condition. I paused to catch my breath, leaning against a tree. My eyes darted around, scanning the area for the line of thinning trees that would tell me I was close.
The rain was falling in sheets, reflecting the pain between my legs, and it didn’t take long before I was drenched and out of breath.
I knew I wouldn’t be safe until I was out of Venezuela, thousands of miles away from Santiago and his cartel. Someway, somehow, I would succeed. Even if I had to die. As long as my baby was born in some semblance of a safe environment.
And so, ignoring the pain between my legs, I started running again.
The fear of being caught propelled me forward, adrenaline surging through my veins, fueling my endurance. But it was the thought of seeing my sister again, of finally being free, that truly kept me going.
Just as I reached the last line of woods, I came up short as I spotted a car. I recognized it immediately. The black Escalade that was reserved only for The Mistress. Why was she here? That wasn’t part of her plan. She was going to keep the guards distracted, and instead she’d brought them to me.
Trap, trap, trap.
My mind repeated the words like a broken record.
I pulled back into the shadows of the tree, making myself as small as possible.
Then the window of the car lowered, and I could see her red lipstick even from here, issuing orders.
In the next heartbeat, two men moved toward me and I turned on my heel. I ran as fast as I could, back toward Santiago, the irony of it not escaping me. I ran and ran, my feet tripping over wet branches.
And then I was tackled, my back hitting the wet ground with a force that stole my breath.
“Time to slice you open, Russian whore.”
With thunder cracking through the sky, shaking the earth, I was held down as a man was brought forward.
“Cut her open.”
I thrashed against his iron grip, screaming and sobbing, my pleas for mercy swallowed by the storm. Tears mingled with rain, streaking down my face like rivers of despair.
Then it came—the searing, jagged pain ripping through my stomach. The first slice, cold and merciless.
I howled my agony into the deafening thunder, my voice raw, my soul unraveling. The world blurred, spinning into shadow until everything dissolved into black.
I jerked awake, a set of hands on my shoulders and a dream fresh on my mind. I blinked over and over again until a familiar figure came into focus.
Giovanni.
“You had another nightmare,” he said, studying me closely.
The thunder rumbling outside the window reminded me of a different night, a different time.
I was still a teenager when I got pregnant, the result of my husband’s rape. But the baby had been mine, growing under my heart.
Until they took that away too.
From that night forward, I never trusted another human being again. And it shook me to my core to feel my defenses lowering for this man standing in front of me.
My husband.