Chapter 5
Giana's breath hitched, a ragged, painful gasp that tore at her throat. It wasn't a fever dream.
Rodrigo is here.
He was covered in the blood of her captors, dust clinging to him, his eyes scanning the room with terrifying, unhurried precision, and Giana had never been so happy to see him.
The two guards, momentarily frozen by the sudden, brutal violence of his entrance, reacted a second too late.
The first managed half a shout before Rodrigo was on him.
Blades flashed in a horizontal arc of gleaming steel.
It opened the man's throat from ear to ear in a spray of crimson that painted the grimy wall behind him.
The man crumpled, a wet gurgle escaping the ruin of his neck.
The second guard fired. The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space.
Giana flinched, squeezing her eyes shut.
When she opened them, the second guard was staggering back, clutching at the knife buried hilt-deep in his chest. He looked down at it, bewildered, then slumped to his knees and was dead before he hit the concrete.
Rodrigo stepped over the bodies as if they were litter, his gaze sweeping the room, dismissing the carnage he had created. His eyes locked onto the cage in the corner.
Giana met that gaze, and the world narrowed to the space between them.
The rage in his eyes didn't fade, but it shifted, intensified, focusing with laser precision.
He studied the cage and her body curled inside it.
He saw the blood on her face, the swelling around her mouth, the ruined hand she cradled protectively against her chest.
"Rodrigo…" she whispered in a ruined voice.
Something in his expression shattered, and the controlled killer vanished. An animal snarl of pure wrath ripped from his throat.
He took a step toward the cage, then stopped. His head snapped toward the doorway leading to the interrogation room. A figure stumbled out, blinking against the sudden light and the carnage.
"What is going on?" he demanded and froze.
It was the man with the pliers. His eyes widened in terror as he took in the scene: his dead guards, the blood, the dust, and the avenging demon standing amidst it all, staring at him with hellfire in his eyes. The man whimpered, backing away until he hit the wall.
Rodrigo's gaze cut back to Giana, still huddled in the cage.
His voice, when he spoke, was deceptively calm. "Giana, is this the one who laid his hands on you?"
His eyes flicked to her mangled left hand, then back to her face, demanding confirmation.
Giana stared at the torturer, fear contorting his features, the piss stain darkening the front of his trousers.
She remembered him whispering threats, the cold metal of the pliers, the excruciating rip as her nail tore free.
She remembered the taste of her own blood filling her mouth as he'd worked on her teeth.
Cold hatred surged through her. This man had hurt her for money, for power, and for a last name that meant nothing but grief.
She met Rodrigo's burning gaze and croaked, "Yes."
The word was shredded by her swollen throat and missing teeth, but it rang like a death knell in the silent room.
Rodrigo wrenched his combat knife free from one of the corpses with a sickening, wet sound.
He didn't look at the blade, slick with gore.
His eyes never left the torturer. The man screamed, a high-pitched, ragged sound of pure terror.
He scrambled along the wall, trying to get to the shattered main doorway.
Rodrigo was faster. He covered the distance in two strides, grabbing the man by the collar of his shirt and hauling him off his feet as if he weighed nothing.
With brutal strength, he slammed the man face-first onto the grimy concrete floor, pinning him with a knee grinding into his spine. The man's screams dissolved into choked, wet sobs.
Rodrigo shifted his grip, grabbing the man's right wrist. He yanked the arm straight out, palm flat against the concrete. The man shrieked, thrashing uselessly.
"You touched what is mine," Rodrigo stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "You hurt her with these hands."
The knife flashed down. Once. Twice. Brutally efficient as he severed tendons, bone, and flesh. The screams reached an inhuman pitch, then cut off abruptly as the man passed out from the agony.
Rodrigo didn't stop until both hands, severed cleanly at the wrists, lay like discarded meat on the concrete floor beside the twitching, unconscious body. Blood pumped rhythmically from the stumps, spreading in a dark, viscous pool.
Rodrigo stood up, wiping his blade clean on the unconscious man's shirt. He looked down at his handiwork for a second, his expression unreadable, then left it there.
Rodrigo walked toward the cage. The fury hadn't left his eyes, but it had banked, replaced by something else far more terrifying.
Giana shivered uncontrollably, adrenaline crashing with shock and the sheer, overwhelming reality of his presence.
He was here. He had heard her prayer and had come for her. He was covered in the blood of her enemies, and he was still the most beautiful, terrifying thing she had ever seen.
Rodrigo reached the cage and shattered the crude padlock securing the door with a single, savage kick from his heavy boot.
He crouched down and pulled the door open.
He took in every injury, every bruise, every sign of violation with a scrutiny that felt almost physical.
His jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek, but his touch was unexpectedly gentle.
Large, strong hands, still smeared with blood, reached for her. One slid carefully behind her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. He gathered her up, lifting her from the cold, gritty floor of the cage. He cradled her against his chest, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle and violence.
The contact sent shockwaves through Giana's battered system. It was comfort and confinement, salvation and branding, all rolled into one. The cold emptiness and fear inside her were replaced by the terrifying, all-consuming warmth of his possession.
Her body betrayed her, melting into his hold despite the screaming protests from her injuries. A small, broken sound escaped her lips that wasn't quite a sob or a sigh.
Giana buried her face against the warm skin of his neck, breathing in the smell of him beneath the blood and violence: leather, expensive cologne, and something uniquely, intrinsically Rodrigo.
He shifted Giana's weight, holding onto her more securely. His thumb brushed gently over her temple, avoiding the worst of the swelling around her cheek.
His voice, when he spoke, was a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into hers. It was stripped of the killing calm, replaced by a raw tenderness that cracked something open inside her.
"You are safe now, anima mia," he murmured, the Italian endearment falling from his lips. "I have you."
The words, so simple, so absolute, shattered the last of her fragile control. Tears spilled over, hot and silent, tracking through the grime and dried blood on her cheeks.
Safe. The relief was a physical ache, deeper than any wound.
"And you said we wouldn't need explosives, but that door proved otherwise. Lucky for you, I didn't listen," a woman's voice said smugly.
Giana recognized the bloody face instantly as Athena Edgeworth. Other faces appeared in the gloom: Leo, Dante, Kon Zalam… Rodrigo had brought them all to save her. She could hardly believe her eyes.
The group moved through the building with the fluid coordination of people who had survived things together that couldn't be explained to outsiders. She had heard the stories about them, but whatever had forged this crew had made them something more than mercenaries.
Giana lifted her head slightly, wincing at the movement, to look at Rodrigo. His face was close, his eyes holding hers with an intensity that stole her breath.
"I'm…" Her voice was a raspy ruin, barely audible.
She swallowed, tasting blood and salt. She forced the words out, needing him to understand.
"They are Sicilian, or were hired by them.
They want the name. The money." She tried to shake her head, but it sent fresh pain lancing through her jaw.
"I just… I don't know which family they were working for. "
Rodrigo's gaze didn't waver. There was no surprise, no flicker of doubt, only an unwavering, terrifying certainty. He shifted her weight, preparing to carry her out of the charnel house.
"Doesn't matter which fucking family it was," he stated, his voice dropping lower. His eyes held hers, dark and fathomless, promising shelter and storm in equal measure. "You're coming home with me."