7. Vincenzo
SEVEN
Vincenzo
P ain.
A brutal, searing ache spreads through my skull, my ribs, my fucking everything. My head pounds in time with my heartbeat, the coppery tang of blood thick on my tongue. My eyelids are heavy, crusted with sweat and the dried remnants of whatever they beat out of me, but I force them open.
The room is dim. The house, eerily quiet.
Then I hear it.
A scream.
Ottavia.
The sound is sharp, raw—a sound that doesn’t belong to her, something torn from the depths of suffering. And then I hear him—Dario’s laughter, a sickening, rasping sound, followed by Angelo’s bored drawl.
Something inside me snaps.
I push up too fast, agony exploding through my ribs. My vision tunnels, my body protests, but I don’t fucking care. I stagger, my feet barely catching me as I lurch toward the closest surface to steady myself.
I need a weapon. Something—anything.
My eyes dart wildly through the room until they land on a knife lying near the broken remnants of a chair.
I grip the handle, flexing my fingers around the cool steel. The world narrows to one thing—getting to her.
I shove open the door and bolt down the hall, the pain in my body dissolving beneath the violent rage consuming me. I follow the sounds—Ottavia’s muffled cries, Dario’s sick chuckle.
My stomach curdles. My breath comes in ragged bursts, my grip tightening on the knife until my knuckles go white.
I slam into the door, and the sight guts me.
Dario is on top of her as she thrashes beneath him, her dress bunched up to her waist. Angelo sits in the corner, his cock out, smoking a cigarette, watching with lazy amusement.
My vision blurs red, and my pulse slows to something predatory, something lethal.
I don’t think. I don’t hesitate. I act.
I launch at Dario first. He doesn’t even register me until my knife sinks into the side of his neck. He lets out a choked gasp, his grip on Ottavia loosening as I yank the blade free, sending a hot spray of blood across the room.
His hands fly to his throat, trying to stop the gushing, gurgling mess. He flails, his body writhing, his eyes wide with disbelief, with terror.
Not enough.
I drive the knife into his gut next. Twist. Pull.
He makes a strangled sound, something caught between a gasp and a scream, his fingers grasping weakly at my arms as I open him up, his insides spilling onto the floor in a thick, wet slop. I shove him off Ottavia, his body collapsing in a twitching, blood-soaked heap beside the bed.
One down.
I barely have a second to turn before Angelo is on me, roaring, swinging his fist toward my face. I duck at the last second, feeling the air split above my head as I drive my knife up, aiming blindly.
The blade buries into his shoulder, and he stumbles back, just enough to give me room to move, to adjust. He’s reaching for something, but I don’t give him the chance.
I rip the knife free and go for his face.
The blade plunges into his eye socket with a wet squelch.
Angelo screams, the sound high, inhuman. He thrashes, clawing at his face as the blade sticks, buried to the hilt. I let it go, stepping back as he stumbles blindly, blood gushing from the ruined socket. He crashes into the wall before collapsing on the floor, his body convulsing as he lets out another wretched, gurgling cry.
I don’t look away. I don’t move until his body goes still.
The room is silent now, except for Ottavia’s ragged breathing. Except for the sound of my own pulse thudding wildly in my ears.
I turn, my chest heaving, and my eyes find hers.
She’s shaking, wide-eyed, her body curled in on itself. Blood smears her skin, but I don’t know if it’s hers or theirs. My hands are coated in red, my body drenched in death.
But she’s alive.
I take a step toward her, but the weight in my chest is suffocating. I was too late.
My gaze flickers to the bruises already forming on her wrists, the torn fabric of her dress…smears of blood on her naked thighs, the sickening confirmation of what they had done to her.
Rage. Guilt. Something blacker than anything I’ve ever felt claws at my insides.
I should have gotten to her faster. I should have protected her. Instead, they took from her what she could never get back. Because I insisted on playing my fucked-up games, because I refused to see her for what she is—mine—they destroyed her first, her choice, her dignity.
Her breath hitches, a quiet, broken sound that shatters me.
I drop to my knees in front of her, the knife slipping from my fingers, forgotten. My bloodied hands hover over her, aching to touch, to fix, but I don’t deserve to. I failed her.
“Ottavia,” I whisper, my voice wrecked. “I’m so sorry.”
Finally, she opens her eyes and looks at me, the pain in those dark pools ruining me in an instant.
“Are you okay?” she asks, barely audible, body battered and bruised.
My God—she’s been violated in the worst possible way, and she’s asking me if I’m okay. What is this creature?
“I’m so fucking sorry, Ottavia.” I gather her in my arms, needing her close, but hating myself for it. I don’t deserve to touch her, not after failing her like this.
She’s trembling against me, fragile and broken, and it guts me in ways I never thought possible.
My grip tightens, as if holding her now can undo the damage, as if I can somehow put her back together when I’m the reason she was shattered in the first place.
“It’s not your fault,” she murmurs.
“Of course, it is. It’s all my fault.” I wipe away her hair clinging to her face. “You should have let them kill me.”
Swollen lips curve into a gentle smile. Her hand shakes when she reaches for me. Just a little. Just enough to make my stomach twist. But she touches me anyway, as if I’m the one who needs saving.
“You’re my starling,” she whispers, and just like that, this woman tears my heart out of my chest and holds it in the palm of her fucking hand.
And that’s the moment I know I would do anything for this woman. I would burn the world to the ground for her. Sacrifice my entire existence for her.
I’ll never fail her again. Never.