CHAPTER 3
ANGELO
The glob of spit hit my cheek with a wet smack, sliding hot and slow down my jawline.
I didn’t flinch. I didn’t wipe it away. I just stood perfectly still in the middle of the dim holding room, letting the rhythmic plink of a condensation drip hitting a metal bucket in the corner measure the seconds.
The air in the bunker smelled like old stone, stale dampness, and the metallic tang of gun oil.
I raised my thumb, slowly swiping the moisture from my skin.
I stared at the wet sheen on my glove for a second like it was some kind of fascinating alien bacteria before rubbing it deliberately into the black fabric of my tactical trousers.
Fiorella sat bolted to a rusted metal chair in the center of the floor, her shoulders hunched up by her ears.
She squeezed her eyes shut for a micro-second, her entire body braced for a backhand that was never coming.
The fact that I didn't hit her unsettled her more than a busted lip would have. Good.
I cracked my knuckles one by one. The sound popped like dry gunfire against the concrete walls. "You have your father’s aim, Fiorella. Too bad you didn’t inherit his sense of self-preservation. Is that all you have? Spit and a pretty dress?"
She looked like a bruised jewel tossed in a dirt pile, sitting there in that ruined emerald silk masquerade gown.
I hated how much the contrast worked for her.
I hated how much I wanted to tear the rest of it off just to see the ruin completed.
I started pacing the small perimeter around her chair, my heavy boots scuffing loud and rough against the grit on the floor.
I kicked a discarded, rusted bolt out of my path.
It skittered across the concrete and pinged sharply off the toe of her designer heel.
"Silk doesn't do much against mountain frost, does it?" I asked, looking at the torn hem of her gown where the delicate gold embroidery tangled around the rust-stained legs of the chair. "Look at you. The pride of the Silvestri legacy, sitting in the dust."
She tried to keep her chin up, her neck muscles visibly straining with the effort of holding onto whatever scraps of aristocratic bullshit she thought still mattered down here.
I closed the distance in one lunge. My hand snapped up and caught her jaw.
I dug my thumb and forefinger hard into the hinges of her mouth, forcing her lips to part as I tilted her head back against the cold stone wall behind her.
She tried to jerk away, but I just locked my grip tighter, increasing the pressure until she had no choice but to stop fighting the hold and stare straight up into my eyes.
I used my free hand to adjust the collar of my black shirt, tugging it down just enough to expose the jagged, ugly burn scar climbing up my collarbone.
"Keep your eyes on me," I said, my voice barely above a rasp.
"Don't look at the door. There’s no one behind it but ghosts. I'm the only world you have left now."
Her skin was softer than I expected. It pissed me off.
She should be rough. She should feel like the jagged rocks outside, not like expensive lotion and fucking roses.
I leaned in closer, studying the way her amber eyes were blown wide.
Her pupils were struggling to adjust to the strobing shadows thrown by the flickering yellow lightbulb overhead.
Her throat hitched. She was fighting back the bile rising in her stomach from the Dormirex I pumped into her at the gala.
I remembered the exact weight of her when she went limp in my arms on that balcony.
Now she was fluttering her eyelids, her balance failing so badly she ended up leaning a fraction of her weight into my hand just to stay upright.
"The Dormirex is a bitch, isn't it?" I muttered. "Focus, Fiorella. I need you awake for this."
She finally found her voice. It came out sharp, imperious, completely disconnected from the reality of being strapped to a chair in a hole in the ground.
She started rattling off Silvestri assets like she was reading a grocery list to a personal assistant.
She named offshore accounts in the Caymans.
She named properties in Switzerland. She told me to name my price so her brother could wire the funds and end this inconvenience.
The leather restraints on her wrists creaked loudly as she tried to gesture with her bound hands, the sound thin and brittle bouncing off the stone.
The sheer fucking audacity of these rich pricks thinking they can put a price tag on a decade of graves.
She actually thought this was a business transaction.
She thought I was some low-level street thug looking to upgrade my tax bracket.
My brain just flooded with white noise at the absolute absurdity of her sitting there, reeking of expensive perfume and offering me blood money from the same accounts that paid for the gasoline that burned my family alive.
I let out a low, vibrating laugh that scratched the back of my throat.
I leaned in until our noses almost touched, letting her feel the heat of my breath.
"Cazzo." I plucked a single loose green sequin from the shredded bodice of her dress and let it flutter to the dirty floor between my boots.
"I don't want your brother's money. Your wealth is just paper. I’m here for the ink.
You think you can buy a man who has already died once? "
With a smooth, practiced flick of my wrist, I drew the serrated folding knife from my belt.
The metallic snick of the blade locking into place echoed in the room, bringing the smell of harsh sharpening oil with it.
I didn't point it at her chest. I just held it up near her face so she could see her own distorted, pale reflection in the steel.
She sucked in a sharp, panicked breath and immediately tried to pull her legs back under the chair, her heels scraping uselessly against the concrete.
"Do you know what steel feels like when it’s cold, Fiorella?" I asked. "Be still. Or don't. It makes no difference to the blade."
I didn't cut her. I just turned the knife and laid the flat side of the blade against the base of her throat.
I slid the freezing metal slowly up the column of her neck, tracing the delicate, rapid pulse jumping under her skin like a trapped bird.
I pressed just hard enough to leave a red drag mark, feeling the frantic vibration of her shallow breathing traveling straight through the steel and into my palm.
I used the tip of the knife to casually lift a heavy strand of dark chestnut hair off her bare shoulder, letting it drop down her back.
"Your skin is so thin," I murmured. "One slip. That’s all it would take for the Silvestri line to end right here. Hold your breath. It's easier that way."
I leaned down, my mouth hovering right next to the shell of her ear.
My day-old stubble grazed her earlobe as I spoke, my voice dropping under the low, distant hum of the bunker's backup generator.
I brushed a stray hair away from her face with the back of my hand—a mock-gentle touch to make the words hit harder.
"We are miles from the nearest road. Even the wolves don't come up this high.
You could scream for a century and only the rocks would hear you. "
She snarled at me. Her face contorted into something ugly and feral, and she spat a tiny fleck of blood right onto the toe of my boot.
She told me Alessio was going to hunt me down.
She promised her sadistic older brother was going to peel the skin from my bones while I was still breathing.
"Alessio will hunt you to the ends of the earth.
You don't know what he's capable of. He will make you beg for death. "
Every muscle in my neck locked up. Just hearing her say his name made the phantom burns on my arms itch like a motherfucker.
She was weaponizing the one man I spent ten years dreaming about gutting.
I stood up to my full height, stepping between her and the bulb so my shadow stretched long and completely eclipsed her in the chair. The air in the room went dead cold.
"Ask Alessio about the year 2014," I said, my voice dropping into a lethal, gravelly monotone. "Ask him about the fire at the Ferraro docks. This isn't a kidnapping, Fiorella. It's a foreclosure."
The silence hit her like a physical blow.
Her mouth parted, but no sound came out.
She didn't fucking know. They kept their precious little princess entirely in the dark while they burned the rest of the world to ash.
I watched the realization scramble her features, watched the moral high ground collapse right out from under her chair.
I dropped to one knee in front of her, ignoring the way she flinched and weakly tried to kick her ankles out.
I checked the heavy tanned leather cuffs strapped around her wrists.
I grabbed one strap and yanked it tighter.
The buckle clicked sharply. My rough, calloused thumb dragged deliberately across the soft skin of her inner wrist where her pulse was drumming so fast it felt like it was going to burst through the vein.
"Too tight?" I asked, looking up at her. "Good. Try to slip them, and you’ll just lose the skin."
I stood back up and started rhythmically tapping the flat of the knife blade against my own palm.
Smack. Smack. Smack. "Seven days, Fiorella.
That's the clock. You have one week down here before I start reminding your family you exist. On the eighth day, I start with a finger.
Maybe I'll send Alessio your ear so he can finally listen to someone else for a change. "