CHAPTER 1 #3
I wrap my free arm entirely around her waist, locking it like a brutal band of iron, and lift her clean off her feet.
I drag her backward into the absolute densest part of the hedge maze, away from the moonlight.
She thrashes like a wild animal, her midnight silk gown catching and tearing loudly on the sharp thorns of the bushes.
She kicks her legs out wildly, aiming backward.
Her stiletto heel catches me square in the shin, the sharp point digging into the bone and drawing blood.
The pain flashes white-hot in my mind. Kick again and I'll break your leg. Stop fighting. It only makes it hurt. I squeeze her ribs with my arm, a sudden, warning pressure that violently forces the air out of her lungs and makes her choke. I can hear the sound of her expensive silk ripping in the dark, feel the frantic, desperate scratching of her manicured nails tearing at the sleeve of my jacket. I feel her heart pounding against my forearm—it’s like a trapped bird beating itself to death against a cage. Fast, frantic, and doomed.
I slam her back against a tall stone wall totally hidden by thick ivy, using my body weight to pin her in place.
The air between us is thick with the scent of her lavender perfume mixed with the metallic, sour tang of her fear-sweat.
She’s gasping for air directly into my palm, her amber eyes wide, dilated, and shining with pure, primal terror.
The ballroom music flares up in the distance—a loud crescendo that might mask a scream, but it also means the guard rotations are shifting.
I use my knee to step between hers, pinning both of her legs hard against the rough stone wall, completely neutralizing her ability to kick me again.
Look at me. Look at what your brother did to my family.
"Stronzo!" she screams into my hand, the vibration buzzing against my skin.
I can feel the cold stone against her back, the heat radiating off my body pressing into her.
I stare down at her, making sure she sees the thick scar over my eye.
I want her to know exactly who the fuck is taking her.
I lean in close, my mouth hovering just inches from her ear.
I drop my voice to a low, terrifying growl, letting the thick, mountain Sicilian dialect bleed through completely.
"One more sound, Fiorella, and I will cut your tongue out before I take you.
Do you understand? Nod." She refuses to nod.
Her eyes are spitting absolute defiance at me despite the hot tears of terror leaking out of the corners and sliding over my glove.
I am the debt your brother forgot to pay.
I'll break you, Silvestri. Piece by piece.
I lean my full weight forward, my solid chest violently crushing her breasts against the wall to physically show her how easily I could break her ribs if I wanted to.
I feel my hot breath bouncing off her ear, the rough stubble of my jaw scraping against her smooth temple.
I hate how she smells. She smells like wealth.
Like safety. Like the life I was supposed to have before her brother painted my house with blood.
Her eyes flicker with a sudden realization when she hears my dialect—she recognizes the Old World brutality in it, realizes I'm not some random kidnapper off the street.
In that brief second of shock, I move. I swiftly swap my leather-gloved hand for the heavy, chemical-soaked cloth.
I press it hard over her nose and mouth, using my thumb and forefinger to pinch her nostrils completely shut, forcing her to draw breath through her mouth.
Breathe, damn you. Just sleep, little princess.
The nightmare starts when you wake up. She thrashes with terrifying, renewed energy.
Her hands fly up, her fingernails clawing viciously at my face, nearly catching my eye.
I quickly tuck my chin down into my collar to protect my eyes, fully accepting the stinging scratches as her nails drag bloody lines across my forehead.
The overwhelming, sweet-chemical burn of the sedative fills the small space between us.
I listen to the sound of her frantic, stifled breathing as she inhales the poison.
I count the seconds in my head. Five. Ten. Fifteen.
The violent tremors in her body begin to shift, changing from desperate, targeted resistance to heavy, uncontrolled, rhythmic shudders.
Her clawing hands slowly lose their vicious grip, her fingers slipping uselessly down the front of my stolen uniform.
I hold her tight against the wall, an immovable object, feeling the exact moment her body betrays her and begins to give in to the drug.
She tries to knee me in the groin one last time, but it's a weak, fumbling, drunken movement that barely grazes my thigh. I adjust my grip on her waist, pulling her flush against me so her heavy head falls limply into the crook of my shoulder as she loses all muscle control. There we go. That’s it.
Sleep. You're mine now. I feel the sudden, complete dead weight of her body sagging against me, her lavender perfume fading under the harsh reek of the chemical.
A security radio chirps faintly somewhere in the gardens.
A cold surge of triumph washes over me. The first piece of the Silvestri legacy is finally in my fucking hands.
Fiorella’s eyes roll back into her head, the defiant honey-amber totally disappearing under her heavy lids.
Her mouth hangs open slightly against the cloth, her breath coming out in shallow, chemical-laden puffs that barely fog the air.
She goes completely limp in my arms, a doll with its strings cut, her torn dark silk dress pooling around our legs like a shadow bleeding into the dirt.
I hold her steady for an extra second, making sure the transition to unconsciousness is total.
I hear a guard calling out a name loudly near the terrace.
They’re looking for the two men I sent away to the north gate.
Perfect. A ghost for a ghost. They’re coming.
Time to go. I quickly reach up with my free hand and press my fingers against her throat to check her pulse, my calloused fingertips lingering on the soft, warm skin of her neck for a tactical beat.
Her pulse is slow. Steady. She looks so innocent when she's unconscious, bathing in the blue tint of the moonlight.
It just makes me want to ruin her even more.
I hoist her up quickly, draping her limp body over my broad shoulder in a secure fireman’s carry.
Her ruined silk gown bunches up around her waist, revealing pale legs and incredibly expensive heels.
I move fast, incredibly fast for a man carrying dead weight, navigating the twisting maze toward the breach I cut in the heavy iron fence two hours ago.
Her weight starts shifting awkwardly as I jog, the tearing silk making her slick and difficult to hold securely.
Dead weight. Typical Silvestri. Almost there.
I stop for a second, rip a long strip of her ruined silk sash with my teeth and free hand, and violently tie her slender wrists together behind my back so her arms stop swinging and throwing off my center of gravity.
I can hear the heavy thud of my own heart in my ears, the scratch of low branches whipping against her dangling legs, and the faint smell of diesel floating up from the dirt road below the property line.
I think about how Alessio will react when he finds her empty glass.
The panic. The rage. The realization that he is no longer a god. It’s delicious.
I reach the blacked-out SUV waiting idly in the dense trees just beyond the perimeter line.
I pop the latch and roughly slide Fiorella into the dark trunk space, dropping her onto the heavy padding and securing the pre-installed zip-tie restraints around her ankles.
I stand there for a second, resting my hand on the cold metal of the bumper, looking back up the hill at the glowing, arrogant lights of the Silvestri estate sitting on the cliffside.
I hear the first faint wail of a siren in the distance.
The guards found the empty terrace. I hawk a wad of spit onto the dirt, a final gesture of absolute disgust, before I turn away and climb into the driver's seat.
Burn in hell, Alessio. I have your soul in my trunk.
Go. Now. I put the car in gear without turning on the headlights, release the brake, and let the heavy truck roll silently down the hill on gravity alone, watching the estate shrink into nothing in my rearview mirror.