Chapter 17 #3
Shoot? I snuck a glimpse through the curtain concealing the door window.
Gun in one hand and locking pliers in the other, Enzo towered over his mother, who blocked him on the porch.
Blood stained his white shirt, the messy streaks a gruesome painting on his clothes.
My throat constricted. Once he’d seen the mark Franco left on my neck, he’d grown livid, speeding home so fast, I’d braced for a crash.
I hoped he’d cool off back here at the house, but he hadn’t.
“You will not shoot my nephew.” Carina rammed his chest, futile at budging his hard, muscled form. “Don’t be so stupid, Enzo. Bad enough you dragged him back here and tortured him! What do you think Tommaso will do when he finds out you killed him, too?”
He’d carted Franco here… to torture him?
My gaze once again fell to the locking pliers in his bloody hand, and my stomach coiled.
Tonight, when he’d come to my aid, I’d seen his dark side unleashed…
but this, this was something else entirely.
I scanned my throat, flinching at the touch before balling my hand into a fist. A small part of me found relief in the retribution, but another part twisted my insides, shocked that I found Enzo’s violence justifiable.
It was as if his darkness was seeping into me, staining something I had always believed to be pure.
“He’s breathing air he doesn’t deserve.” He bypassed his mother and bounded for the garden.
“Shoot him—” Carina persevered, her finger pointed at the porch. “—and I swear you won’t have a wife waiting for you upstairs.”
I veered back. What on earth did she mean?
Enzo shook with untamed fury. “Are you threatening me?”
“You bet I am.” She folded her arms. “Go on down to that garage and I promise you’ll be burying two bodies tonight. Now call on the guards to untie him, send him home.”
He bared his teeth. “Not until he pays for what he did to Gemma!”
“He’s paid enough!” She hovered her pointy nails by her ears as though about to rip out her hair in utter frustration. “Oh, you’re an unhinged savage, just like your father!”
His laughter echoed in the night, the sound unstable. “What are you on about? My father wasn’t perfect, but he was a far cry from savage.”
Carina shook a finger. “I meant what I said. Go down there and Gemma dies, too.”
Enzo stepped forward, closer to the porch light, the crimson stains on his shirt making me flinch. He’d lost his mind. He fired several shots into the palm tree adjacent to the house. “Trust you to pull out all the stops.”
I stepped back, having seen and heard more than I could handle. Racing upstairs to my room, I flattened my back against the door and peered at the ceiling. “Help me,” I whispered my heartfelt prayer and stumbled to the dresser.
A large envelope sat on the table, addressed to both me and Enzo.
I tore the paper and read the contents inside.
Our marriage certificate. Did the maid leave this here?
I read the details of our legal marriage, pausing at Enzo’s date of birth.
His birthday neared in a few days. The quicker I grew closer to him, the faster I’d be free to leave.
Free from the danger this place posed to my mind, body, and soul.
An idea played in my mind. I had to somehow use his birthday to my advantage, to convince him once and for all I’d developed feelings for him.
Slipping beneath the sheets, I lay on my side, the events too fresh in my mind to allow sleep. Darkness eventually consumed me, yet even then, Franco’s scent—stale wine and sweat—filled the air. His breath feathered my neck, his rough hands ravished my body.
Scream. Cry. Shout. Instead, I’d grown numb.
“Gemma.” He called my name, his timbre different, kind even.
“No!” The sound burst out, raw and desperate, forcing my eyes open.
Enzo leaned closer, his brow furrowed with concern.
The strain in my limbs loosened, similar to earlier tonight, when he’d come to my rescue and saved me from the worst ordeal of my life. “Enzo?” I sprang up in bed, panting for breath.
“You had a nightmare.” He stroked my hair behind my ear. No longer dressed in blood-stained clothes, but now sporting a black t-shirt and boxer shorts.
Another person’s blood covered this man mere hours ago!
Why hadn’t I blanched at his touch? Why had I leaned into his gentle fingers and prayed each soothing stroke lasted forever?
Or maybe his mere presence alone produced the tranquil calm I inhaled.
Either way, I laid my head on bended knees and soaked in the bliss.
“Gemma, you still haven’t told me what happened tonight,” he whispered above my head. “Talk to me. Let out the pain.”
No. Franco’s actions scared me, but Enzo’s potential retaliation terrified me more, especially after witnessing his brutal violence.
He’d already threatened my father with a gun once.
I had to protect my parents, and if he learned I tried contacting my mother, he might actually hurt them this time.
I shifted slightly in the bed, trying to ease the tension coiling in my muscles, but a sharp intake of breath escaped my lips, followed by a low moan I couldn’t stifle as the soft fabric of my pajamas scraped against my skin.
His hand stilled where it rested near my temple. “What is it? Are you hurt?”
Tears pricked my eyes again, this time from the sharp, radiating sting across my back. “My back,” I managed, my voice raspy. “The thorns... when he pushed me...”
A beat of charged silence. “Right,” his voice low and practical, lost its earlier tenderness. “I’ll get something from the bathroom and bring one of the maids in to treat them.”
My stomach clenched and I gripped my knees tighter. “No. I don’t want them seeing... I don’t want anyone to know...” my words faltered as burning mortification seared my throat.
His gaze briefly flickered away before meeting mine again. “If you let me, I can do it.”
I swallowed, easing some of the burn in my esophagus, then gave a short, jerky nod.
He rose smoothly from the edge of the bed. “Take off your top. Lie on your stomach.”
He then disappeared into the en-suite bathroom, the soft click of the door closing granting me a moment of privacy I hadn’t expected.
My hands trembled. Vulnerable. Exposed. The words echoed in my head, warring with the insistent throb of pain.
But the stinging was real, sharp with every slight movement against the sheets.
Hesitantly, I straightened and pulled the soft cotton of my pajama top over my head, letting it drop beside me on the mattress.
The air felt cool against my bare skin. I turned carefully onto my stomach, burying my face in the soft pillow, squeezing my eyes shut, bracing for his return, for his touch.
The en-suite door opened and closed again.
The mattress dipped slightly beside me as he settled back down.
A faint, clean, slightly herbal scent reached me—calendula.
Then, his touch. Fingers, unexpectedly gentle, brushed against the edge of the abrasions, mapping the damage before applying something cool and instantly relieving.
His touch was careful, tracing each angry, stinging line with the calming cream.
Those same hands that tortured a man mere hours ago now methodically worked with gentle precision, aiming to soothe and heal.
Despite my deep-seated fear of him, despite knowing the potential for violence simmering beneath his controlled exterior, the light pressure was undeniably comforting, easing the worst of the fire in my skin.
It was an unsettling, dangerous contrast that left my thoughts tangled and my breath unsteady.
He finished his ministrations, the silence stretching for a moment, marked only by my quiet breathing and the distant rumble of the barking guard dogs somewhere on the villa grounds.
Enzo rose to his feet then. The mattress shifted, signalling his withdrawal. “I’ll let you rest,” he said, his voice back to his neutral, detached tone. “Call out if you need me.”
Alone? In the dark, with nothing more than my misery for company. I gripped my discarded top, concealing my breasts as I twisted on the mattress. “Enzo.” My croaky voice froze him in his tracks. “Don’t leave. Can you sleep in here tonight? In case I have another bad dream.”
He studied me for a silent minute, then disappeared into the walk-in.
I stole the opportunity to redress into my pajama shirt, the material no longer aggravating the sores thanks to the ointment.
He returned with a pillow and heavy blanket, dropping both at the foot of the bed.
I made him take the floor. A wave of guilt washed over me as I watched him arrange his makeshift pallet.
I’d deprived him of his comfy bed, but the memory of Franco’s touch, my nightmare, wouldn’t let him leave.
I wanted him nearby, a comfort against the lingering image of Franco’ face still so vivid in my mind.
It was twisted, but Enzo, with all his darkness, was the only monster I trusted to fight the other monsters away.
No… why did it feel wrong identifying him as a monster?
Scarred, possessive, misunderstood even, but was Enzo really a monster?
I’d been here long enough to realize he couldn’t be, even after the violence he displayed tonight.
“Go to sleep. I’ll be here if you need me.”
Huddled beneath the covers, I reached over to flick off the bedside lamp.
I’ll be here if you need me. The way he spoke those words resonated, a promise that felt bigger than our situation, warming me from the inside out.
One day soon, when this game ended, so would his promise.
I’d be fine with the idea. I am fine, just fine.