CHAPTER 5 #2
"He wouldn't leave me," she breathes out.
She reaches out her hands as if she wants to push me away by force, but her hands stop dead just inches from my chest, hovering uselessly in the damp air between us.
She's so brainwashed by that cartel loyalty bullshit she can't even process the silence outside these walls.
It makes me want to shake her until her teeth rattle just to wake her the fuck up.
I'm done with her pathetic shouting. My hand shoots out fast and hard, my rough fingers clamping onto her jaw with bruising force. She gasps in sharp pain and shock. I tilt her face up aggressively, forcing her to look directly into my unyielding pupils.
"Look. At. Me." I demand, pressing my thumb right into the corner of her soft lip until the skin pales under the pressure. Her skin is so fucking soft it feels like a literal sin against the rough, bloody life I lead. I want to crush it. I want to protect it. Both impulses are a major liability.
"The Silvestris are done with you," I say, grinding the words out. "You’re mine now. Only mine."
Without breaking eye contact for a millisecond, I reach down with my free hand to my tactical belt.
I slowly unsheathe my heavy, blackened combat knife.
Shring. The sliding sound of the cold steel against the leather sheath is the only sound left in the room, cutting through the heavy silence.
The sudden introduction of a lethal weapon instantly shifts the entire vibe from psychological intimidation to an immediate, visceral mortal threat.
The air gets heavy with the promise of blood.
The tip of the knife catches a stray beam of the yellow light, reflecting a sharp, bright glint directly into her dilated eyes.
"Do you know what this is for?" I ask quietly.
She’s paralyzed with absolute terror.
"Don't scream. It won't help." I bring the blade up slowly. "Steel is more honest than your brother." I don't want to kill her. Not yet anyway. But she needs to understand right now that her life is a gift I can rescind at any given second.
I tap the flat, icy steel of the blade right against her flushed, burning cheek.
The temperature difference is extreme. The metal is freezing cold, and her skin is radiating pure adrenaline heat.
I watch her eyes track the subtle movement of the knife.
I’m testing her nerve, waiting to see if she’s going to beg for mercy, if she’s going to finally break down and show me the terrified little girl hiding beneath the Silvestri name.
A single drop of cold condensation forms on the blade and runs down her cheek like a silver tear.
"So hot," I murmur, my eyes fixed on the moisture. "You're practically glowing."
She doesn't breathe.
"Stay very still. Does the steel feel real enough for you?" I watch her pupils dilate until her eyes are almost entirely black. She’s terrified, yeah, but she isn't looking away. She’s a fighter. Fuck, I hate how much that excites me.
I turn the blade edge-in and drag it with agonizing, deliberate slowness down her sharp jawline.
I follow the pale curve of her neck, stopping the sharp edge right over her carotid artery.
I apply just enough pressure to make the soft skin indent deeply, but not quite enough to break it and draw blood.
One flinch, one wrong twitch from her, and this game is over.
The boundary between raw violence and a dark, twisted intimacy is razor-thin right now.
She swallows hard, her throat bobbing aggressively against the sharp edge of the blade in a dangerous, involuntary motion.
"I can feel your pulse," I say, my voice a low rumble in the tight space.
"One slip. That's all it takes. Is your life worth a piece of fucking bread, Fiorella?
" The pulse hammering under my blade is rhythmic, frantic, and beautiful.
It's the only goddamn thing in this underground hellscape that actually feels alive.
I can feel the rapid vibration of her heartbeat traveling straight through the steel of the knife and right into my own palm.
The sensation is electric, a direct live wire into her primal survival instinct.
I stare down at her parted mouth, my own breathing growing heavy and uneven in the sweltering heat of the cell.
I’m completely losing my clinical detachment here.
The proximity, her fear, the absolute power I hold over her—it’s all combining into a massive spike of dark arousal that threatens whatever shred of control I have left.
I grip the hilt of the knife tighter, my knuckles turning white just to hide the slight tremor in my own hand.
"You're fighting so hard to live," I say, my voice thick. "Why? What do you have to live for now? Don't tempt me." I want to drop the fucking knife on the floor and just use my hands. I want to see if she’s this hot all over. I curse myself internally for even letting the thought form.
I lean in even closer, my nose grazing the soft skin of her temple.
I breathe in deeply, catching the potent scent of her high-end bergamot and jasmine perfume, now sharpened aggressively by the metallic tang of pure fear and the salty hint of a single tear leaking from the corner of her eye.
I linger there like a wolf at her neck. I am totally crossing the line from kidnapper to stalker right now.
My sensory fixation on her is morphing into an obsession that has absolutely nothing to do with the Ferraro debt anymore.
My nose brushes a loose strand of her chestnut hair, and I pause just to feel the silkiness of it against my rough skin.
"You still smell like a palace," I murmur against her hairline. "Even in the dirt, you try to be beautiful. It’s a waste." She doesn't belong down here in the dark. And I am never going to let her leave.
I keep my face close to hers, murmuring right into her ear.
"You don't belong to the Silvestris anymore. You’re collateral.
You're a debt I am collecting." I use the flat side of the blade to physically tilt her head further back against the concrete, exposing the full, vulnerable length of her throat.
"I don't give my property permission to starve to death.
" Eating isn't a choice for her health; it's a direct order to maintain my asset.
I like the word 'property.' It simplifies things in my fucked-up head. It turns her into an object, not a real person I’m actively starting to want.
"You belong to the debt now," I tell her. "My property stays healthy. You eat because I say so."
My voice drops into a dark, promise-heavy register.
"Would you prefer I force you?" I ask. "Because if you don't eat the bread, I will use this knife to pry your mouth open and force it down your throat myself.
I have all night to make you swallow." To prove the point, I let the razor edge of the blade nick her skin—just a fraction of a millimeter, just enough to leave a faint red mark on her pale neck.
She lets out a sharp gasp of air. I pull the blade back slightly and mimic the motion of prying with the hilt right near her lips.
"Choose, Fiorella. Now." Part of me actually wants her to refuse. Part of me is dying to see if I’m actually capable of crossing that line into that level of cruelty with her.
I withdraw the knife abruptly, the suffocating tension snapping between us like a severed wire.
She slumps slightly against the concrete wall as I sheathe the weapon with a loud click.
But before I pull my body away, I reach out and run my rough thumb directly over the faint red line I just left on her neck.
It’s a slow, almost caressing gesture that entirely contradicts everything I just threatened her with.
The sudden release of pressure leaves us both completely breathless.
I linger on her frantic pulse point for a fraction of a second way too long before finally pulling my hand away.