Chapter 14
Imogen
The intensity of the harsh light has me squinting and sweating at the crown of my head. I shift uncomfortably.
I’m bound.
Again.
Except this time to an unforgiving chair. As I shift I can hear the crinkle of plastic beneath me.
Is he going to kill me?
Heart pounding I scream out his name for him to appear from the shadows and step in front of the light. “Rico!”
Silence answers me. I should know better. The Grim Reaper answers to no one except the Devil.
But he will answer to me.
“Rico,” I scream his name so loud to where it echoes and strains my throat. I scream his name over and over again until my vocal cords shred.
Fucking damn him.
Tears burn at the back of my eyes. Why must crying be my reaction to everything? Even with my anger. They land on my cheeks. Such a betrayal. Each one burning more than the last.
“Please don’t tell me you’ve chosen him as your favorite,” I hear a man’s voice that sounds youthful and lighthearted say to me. The crinkling of the plastic alerts me to know he’s close.
I grit down on the back of my molars and wait for him to stand in front of the light.
“Because I think my feelings may be hurt.”
“Who the hell are you?” I ask hoarsely.
He gasps like he’s been offended. “We’ve met. Unofficially of course. You were kind of out of it.”
I correct him, annoyed. “Drugged.”
He snaps his fingers. “Si. Drugged. Anyways I’ve already met you Imogen Murphy. You little runaway. But allow me to introduce myself.”
Finally I see him. He rests on his haunches but his presence is still quite large. There’s an easy smile on his face that showcases almost perfect teeth. A piece of dirty blonde hair lays down his forehead, right between his eyes. They’re kind. A juxtaposition to the eyes of the average Made Man.
“The name is Pietro Morelli,” he says cheekily. He then holds out his hand. A large roughened hand with knuckles red and bruised. I glare at him and he at least has the decency to look sheepish. He retrieves his hand and slides it through his hair. “Sorry. You’re all tied up.”
“Really? I haven’t fucking noticed,” I bite.
He snorts. I roll my eyes. “Funny. Too bad the man you’re calling for lacks humor. I can at least appreciate the art of sarcasm.”
My lips twist. “I don’t care what you appreciate. And I don’t give a flying fuck about you. Where is Rico?”
Feigning being hurt he places his hand over his heart. “You’re killing me, princess.”
“Don’t call me that,” I snap.
His hands come up in surrender. “Apologies.” The insane part? He actually sounds sincere. What weird twilight zone of Made Men did I fall into?
He rises, towering over me. There’s something about the Italian Mafia men that are just built. . .different. Because the men at home? The men at home aren’t nearly as physically intimidating.
“Step away from her Pietro or it will be your blood covering the plastic.” The monotonous voice of the man I’ve known all of three days calms me. It wraps around me, providing security like a blanket.
Pietro playfully winks at me before taking a step back. “I was just getting to know our captive.”
“My captive,” he corrects. That shouldn’t relieve me and yet it does. Better the enemy you know than the one you don’t.
He waves his hand dismissively in the air. “Semantics.” Rico ignores him. Pietro doesn’t appear to be bothered. “But since sleeping beauty here is up—”
“I am not a princess,” I remind him through clenched teeth.
“Va bene, va bene,” he says in his language apologetically. “We can begin the fun.”
A bucket of cold water douses over me at his words. “What fun?”
He wiggles his brows with a manic smile. “You’ll see.”
Heart racing my eyes seek for Rico. I know I’ll be met with a stoic expression and eyes devoid of emotion, but it will be welcome.
Sensing my panic he replaces the spot Pietro had just left. I stare in his eyes. His unfathomable deep eyes that could drown me if I let them.
“You said you don’t lie.” There’s a desperation in my voice that I wish I don’t have.
He presses closer to me. His hand comes to rest on my thigh and I feel the shock of it zap right up my spine. “I don’t.”
I lick my lips. He tracks the motion. “Are you going to kill me?”
Silence hangs between us and I could choke on it. Perspiration trickles down my back as the blood drains from my face. Fear. It’s been so long since I’ve tasted it. It’s vile.
His fingers squeeze the tender flesh of my thigh as he leans in. I suck in a shaky breath but I keep his gaze. He then does the unthinkable. With his cheek almost kissing mine he breathes me in. So very much so how a predator would their prey before devouring them.
“You do fear death,” he states calmly.
“Yes,” I confess. “I fear death if it’s not by your hands.” It’s a terrifying truth. I believe for an unmerciful man he would bestow that upon me.
I feel his breath against the shell of my ear. “You’d think I would spare you pain?”
“Yes,” I breathe.
“How presumptuous of you. What makes you believe I wouldn’t torture you for hours? Or send you back to your mother land in pieces like I did Dougal?”
It had been him. Whispers of horror had infected the region.
What man could do such a thing and not be more animal than man?
Piece by piece he had come back. Wrapped like meat you would buy at the butcher shop.
Every piece of him went to an integral member of The Murphy Family.
A message was certainly sent. It just wasn’t enough to stop what my Pa and Niall had already begun.
“You wouldn’t,” I tell him. He tilts his head waiting for an explanation.
“You treated my wounds. Despite my pride you’ve been trying to keep me well fed.
Not to mention you just threatened one of your own for being near me.
So, if I am to die and it’s by your hands I believe you will show me the mercy of a quick death. ”
He considers my words. Mulls them over in his head. Dissects them. Then he seals both of us fates as he declares, “My death is a promise by you as your death is a promise by me.”
One shouldn’t find comfort in that. Yet a weight lifts from upon my shoulders.
He removes his hand from my thigh and I feel the absence of it, the lack of warmth he unknowingly provided.
Before he walks away from me he tenderly traces my jugular vein.
It pulses wildly. His lips kick upwards.
Then he returns back to the shadows. But I can still see the ghost of a smile on his face.
Death is smiling at me and I’m smiling back.