Pieces of Her (The Carmine Family Chronicles #2)

CHAPTER ONE

Luca

Blood and Broken Things

The strip club smelled like cheap perfume, stale beer, and money.

It always did. Velvet Nights was one of my more legitimate fronts—if you could call a strip club legitimate.

The girls were clean, consenting, and well-paid.

The books were mostly honest. The clientele knew the rules: look but don't touch unless the girl says otherwise, pay your tab, and don't start shit.

It was a Tuesday night, which meant slow. A handful of regulars nursing overpriced whiskey, a bachelor party that had already been escorted out for getting handsy, and the usual rotation of dancers doing their thing on stage.

I wasn't usually here on Tuesdays. I had better things to do than babysit drunk assholes who thought a twenty-dollar bill bought them the right to grab ass.

But Marco had called, said there was a problem with the liquor delivery, and since I was already in the area after meeting with one of my suppliers, I'd stopped by.

The liquor delivery was fine. Marco was just paranoid.

I was heading back to my car, parked in the alley behind the building, when I heard it.

A sound. Soft. Barely there.

A whimper.

I stopped, my hand automatically going to the gun at my hip. The alley was dark, lit only by a single flickering bulb above the back door. Dumpsters lined one side, the brick wall of the neighboring building on the other.

There it was again. Quieter this time. Almost... broken.

I moved toward the sound, my eyes adjusting to the shadows.

And then I saw her.

She was crumpled between the dumpster and the wall, a space so narrow I almost missed her. At first, I thought she was dead. Her body was too still, too twisted. But then I saw the shallow rise and fall of her chest.

"Jesus Christ," I breathed, dropping to my knees beside her.

She was young. Early twenties, maybe. Dark hair matted with blood, her face so swollen and bruised I couldn't make out her features. Her clothes were torn—a dress, or what was left of one, shredded and stained with blood and dirt.

And there was so much blood.

It pooled beneath her, dark and sticky, soaking into the gravel. Her legs were bare, scraped raw, and positioned in a way that made my stomach turn.

I didn't need to be a doctor to know what had happened to her.

"Hey," I said, my voice rough. "Hey, can you hear me?"

She didn't respond. Her eyes were closed, her breathing labored and wet-sounding. I could see bruises around her throat, dark purple fingerprints that made rage explode in my chest.

Someone had done this. Someone had beaten her, raped her, and left her here to die like garbage.

I pulled out my phone and called Deangelo.

He answered on the second ring. "Yeah?"

"I need Dr. Bassi at the compound. Now."

There was a pause. "What happened?"

"I found a girl. She's—" I looked down at her broken body and felt something crack inside my chest. "She's in bad shape. Really bad. I'm bringing her in."

"Luca, if she needs a hospital—"

"No hospital," I said sharply. "Not yet. Just get Bassi there. And tell him to bring everything."

I hung up before he could argue.

Carefully, so fucking carefully, I slid my arms beneath her. She was small, light, and when I lifted her, her head lolled against my chest. Up close, I could see more damage—split lip, broken nose, a gash above her eyebrow that was still bleeding.

Her dress fell open, and I saw bruises covering her ribs, her stomach, her thighs. Bite marks on her shoulder. Scratches down her arms.

Whoever did this had wanted to hurt her. Had enjoyed hurting her.

I was going to find them. And I was going to make them beg for death.

But first, I had to make sure she survived.

I carried her to my car, moving as gently as I could. She made a small sound when I settled her in the passenger seat, a broken whimper that gutted me.

"I've got you," I said, even though she probably couldn't hear me. "You're safe now. I've got you."

I drove faster than I should have, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to press against the worst of the bleeding—a gash on her side that looked deep. My hand came away red.

She didn't wake up. Didn't move. Just kept breathing those shallow, rattling breaths that told me her time was running out.

"Stay with me," I said. "Come on. Stay with me."

The compound was twenty minutes outside the city, hidden behind gates and walls and enough security to make Fort Knox jealous. I pulled up to the main house and found Deangelo already waiting, Dr. Bassi beside him with a medical bag in hand.

Ginny was there too, her face pale.

"Oh my God," she breathed when she saw the girl in my arms.

"Inside," Bassi said sharply. "Now."

I carried her through the house to one of the guest rooms on the first floor. Bassi had already set up—clean sheets on the bed, medical equipment spread out on the dresser, an IV stand in the corner.

I laid her down as gently as I could, and Bassi immediately went to work.

"Out," he said without looking up. "All of you. I need space."

"Luca," Ginny said softly, touching my arm. "Come on."

I didn't want to leave. Every instinct I had screamed at me to stay, to make sure she was okay, to stand between her and anything that might hurt her.

But Bassi knew what he was doing. And I'd only be in the way.

I let Ginny pull me out into the hallway.

Deangelo was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed. "What the fuck happened?"

"I found her behind the club," I said. My voice sounded hollow. "Someone beat the shit out of her and left her there."

"Did you see anyone?"

"No. The alley was empty."

"Security cameras?"

"I'll check the footage." I ran a hand through my hair, my fingers coming away sticky with her blood. "But whoever did this knew what they were doing. They left her in a blind spot."

Ginny's eyes were wet. "Is she going to be okay?"

"I don't know."

We stood there in silence, waiting. Minutes stretched into an hour. Then two.

Finally, the door opened, and Bassi stepped out. He looked exhausted.

"She's stable," he said. "For now."

"What's the damage?" I asked.

Bassi pulled off his gloves, his expression grim.

"Severe. Multiple contusions and lacerations.

Three broken ribs. Fractured cheekbone. Concussion—possibly severe, I won't know until she wakes up.

Internal bleeding that I've managed to control, but she needs monitoring.

Significant trauma to her pelvic region consistent with sexual assault. "

The words hit me like bullets.

"She's lucky you found her when you did," Bassi continued. "Another hour and she would have bled out."

"Can I see her?" I asked.

Bassi hesitated. "She's unconscious. And she's going to be for a while. Her body needs to heal."

"I don't care. I want to see her."

He stepped aside.

I walked into the room and stopped.

She looked so small in the bed, almost childlike. Bassi had cleaned her up—the blood was gone, her face washed, her hair brushed back. But the damage was still there. Her face was a mess of bruises and swelling, her arms wrapped in bandages, an IV in her hand.

She was breathing easier now, the oxygen mask over her nose and mouth helping.

I pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down.

"Who are you?" I said softly, even though she couldn't hear me. "What's your name?"

There was no answer. Just the steady beep of the heart monitor and the hiss of the oxygen.

I reached out and carefully took her hand. It was small and cold, her fingers limp in mine.

"I'm going to find who did this to you," I said. "And I'm going to make them pay."

It was a promise. One I intended to keep.