58. Nicolai
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
NICOLAI
I quietly open the library door and lean against the doorframe. Watching her. She’s curled up in the wingback chair, reading.
“My mother,” I say, and she startles, slamming the book shut. Her eyes flash, but I keep my voice low. “She cornered you in the gardens.”
Luna doesn’t deny it. She never would. “And?”
I cross the room, and she stiffens as I stop just short of touching her. The cut on her hand is shallow but angry. She’s been playing with the rose bushes again. I take her hand and brush the wound with my thumb. “You let her get under your skin.”
She pulls her hand free. Ah, my defiant diavolina. Little devil. “Should I have thrown her into the fountain instead?”
I breathe out a quiet chuckle, shaking my head. “Would’ve paid to see that.” Sitting on the arm of her chair, I tilt her chin up. Her pulse thrums under my touch. “But next time, let me deal with her. You’ve got enough to carry.” My palm grazes her stomach, and the baby kicks my hand.
She arches a brow. “Worried I’ll go into premature labor?”
“Worried you’d enjoy it too much.” I trace the curve of her lip. Mine. Always mine. “You’re ruthless when the hormones hit, amore mio.”
She snorts, but her shoulders relax. “Ruthless? I was polite. If I were ruthless, your mother would be fertilizing the roses.”
I grunt. Luna’s version of polite is less forgiving. “What’d she say?”
Her jaw tightens. “The usual. That I’m a placeholder. That Bianca is still the family’s darling.”
Bianca . The name tastes bitter on my tongue. I tuck a loose curl behind Luna’s ear. “You know why I didn’t marry her.”
“Because she’s a spineless bloodsucker?”
“Because she isn’t you.” She stills, then rolls her eyes, but the flush creeping up her neck betrays her.
“ Machiavelli would’ve hated you. Too sentimental.”
I drag my thumb over the book’s embossed title. “Everyone sees what you appear to be,” I recite, my mouth at her ear. “Few experience what you really are.” She sucks in a breath. Good.
The phone in my pocket vibrates—Mateo. Docks cleared. Police bribed. It’s taken care of. Later.
For now, I pull her to her feet, and her back flush against my chest. “Rest,” I order.
She scoffs. “Or what?” I spin her around, grip firm on her hips.
“Or I’ll tie you to the bed.” Her laugh is dark, laced with sin.
“Promises, promises.” But she lets me lead her upstairs, her fingers pressing into my arm like she needs reassurance.
I lay down beside her, and as she drifts off, her grip on my sleeve loosens. I brush my lips over the bruise on her shoulder, my mark from a few nights ago, before I slip free.
The burner phone bleats again. Enzo. “Speak.”
“Your wife’s famiglia put a bounty on you . They’re breaching the estate now.” Fuck. I’m already moving, my Glock in hand.
“How many?”
“Around twenty or thirty. They breached the gate—” A scream cuts through the line, then nothing.
God dammit! Mateo and my team are still at the docks, which are a few hours out.
I spin around, heart hammering. Luna’s still asleep, her body half-twisted in the sheets, one bare leg kicked free. She doesn’t know the threat that’s lurking outside.
Glass shatters downstairs. Gunfire erupts. Too sparse. Too brief. They’re inside.
I cross the room in three strides, gripping the edge of the mattress. “Luna, wake up.” My voice is urgent.
She stirs, brows furrowing. “Mm?”
“No time. Get up.”
She blinks at me, confused, but when she hears the distant shouting, the unmistakable chaos of a siege, she’s awake in an instant. I pull her to her feet, pushing her toward the en suite. Just until I clear the house.
“Nico—”
“I need you to stay quiet.” My hands frame her face. “Can you do that for me?” She whispers, “Promise,” but I see it in her eyes. She hates this. Hates being tucked away while I fight.
But I don’t have time to argue. Footsteps pound up the stairs. Close. Too close.
“Lock the door and hide in the tub.” I press a Glock into her palm. Just in case.
Luna locks the door behind me, and I race out of the bedroom with my Glock leading the way.
Two D’Angelo foot soldiers round the corner. I put bullets in both of their skulls before they blink.
But another emerges from a guest bedroom. And another. And another.
Christ. They’re cockroaches.
I empty the clip. Reload. Empty again. Bodies are piling up by the entryway. Still, they come. A round grazes my bicep; another buries in the wall behind me.
Then a shadow detaches from the ceiling, and the butt of a rifle crashes into my temple. I go down hard, my vision swimming. Boots pin my arms, and a familiar face looms: Vittorio, Luna’s uncle, his gold tooth gleaming. “Papa D’Angelo sends his regards.”
I lunge, but a needle pierces my neck. Ice floods my veins.
Gunshots, a scream, and my blood turns cold.
Luna.
Through the haze, they haul her downstairs, her pregnancy on full display. She’s biting, kicking, fighting, and her scream splinters into a sob. “Nico, they’re—” A glove smothers her mouth. My pulse soars. Her eyes lock on mine.
I try to roar, but nothing comes out. My throat locks, my limbs dead weight. I thrash, useless, as they drag her away, kicking, screaming, her voice shredding the air.
I can’t move. Can’t speak. Can’t reach her. They hurl her into the black van like she’s nothing. Like she’s not my entire goddamn world! Vittorio crouches beside me, his breath hot against my ear. He pats my cheek like I’m a child.
“Don’t worry. We’ll keep the kid. Family first, eh?”
I try to lunge, but my body doesn’t cooperate. The world slowly disappears, and Luna’s name is the last thing I hold onto.
When I try to open my eyes, everything happens in slow motion.
My focus comes in waves, and the shadows distort unnaturally.
The overhead light is too bright and hums too loudly.
The ground beneath me feels shaky, even though I’m not moving.
My stomach twists. I blink. Once. Twice. I force myself to focus.
Then I see her. Across the room, tied to a chair, wrists bound, mouth gagged. My wife. My pregnant wife.
The fog disappears, and I growl, but when I try to stand, my body protests.
And that’s when I realize they’ve stripped me to the waist and bolted me to a warped wooden board.
The leather restraints with their jagged edges grinding into my flesh.
The bastards are using my own torture tactics against me!
“Watch closely, figlia ,” Papa D’Angelo purrs. “This is what happens to men who kill my only heir.” He points to Vittorio, who swings a crowbar like a batter warming up.
Crack.
The first rib goes. White heat explodes in my chest. I bite into the gag, copper flooding my tongue.
Luna’s scream is muffled by the cloth stuffed in her mouth. No!
Vittorio grins. “Too quiet, stronzo .” He rips the gag off. “Let her hear you beg.”
Papa D’Angelo backhands her. “Silence . You’ve pushed me to the limit.”
Crack.
Another rib. I arch against the board, a guttural roar tearing loose. “Luna. . .”
Her father rips the gag from her mouth, and she screams, “Nico!” Luna strains against her ropes, voice fraying. “Look at me. Marito , look at me.”
I force my gaze to hers. Her eyes are wild. Unbroken. Unbreakable. My throat burns as I fight to breathe. “Let her fucking go, D’Angelo,” I snarl through the pain.
Vittorio discards the crowbar. Selects a pair of needle-nose pliers. “Let’s see how a traitor’s bones sing.”
He crushes my pinkie finger first. The snap is obscenely crisp. I don’t scream. He takes the ring finger next. Then the middle.
Luna’s sobbing now, ragged and rageful. “I’ll kill you. I’ll feast on your fucking hearts—” Papa D’Angelo backhands her again, blood pearls on her lip.
“You’ll watch. Then you’ll thank me for purging his filth from your veins.”
He signals Vittorio. Two thugs tip the board backward until I’m inverted. A bucket of brine sloshes nearby.
Waterboarding.
The first pour is a cold shock; the second floods my nostrils, my throat, and my lungs. I thrash and choke to get free, but a hand clamps over my nose and mouth.
Luna , I silently scream. I’m so fucking sorry I failed you.
Blackness curls at the edges of my vision, my body screaming for air.
Then, the pressure lifts just as I teeter on the brink of oblivion.
I gasp, coughing violently, the brine burning its way back up my throat.
Vittorio watches as I convulse, my chest heaving.
I vow right then and there, if Luna and I survive, they will regret the day they fucked with a Caputo.
The bucket swings into view again before I can inhale fully. No ? —
Water crashes over me. Thick. Suffocating. Relentless. I thrash, but the cuffs bite deeper, pinning me to the board. Vittorio’s laugh is muffled beneath the buzzing in my ears .
Hold. Hold. Hold. But my body betrays me, a primal gasp, sucking in liquid fire.
Again, the darkness. Again, the yank backward. I vomit water, ribs shuddering, mucus, and blood dripping off my chin. Vittorio crouches, tilting his head.
“Still with us, fratello ?” He flicks my temple. “Papa wants you awake. Says you gotta see what happens when you lie.”