CHAPTER 13 #2
Fiorella steps tentatively out of the shadows of the storage room.
She looks like a fucking specter. She’s completely swallowed by my jacket, her long chestnut hair a wild, tangled mess.
Her bare legs are marked by the purple blooms of bruises where I gripped her too hard.
She pulls the long sleeves of the jacket down over her hands, trying to hide her raw wrists.
Renato stops mid-motion. His hand freezes on a cardboard box of ammo. His expression shifts from exhaustion, to confusion, to pure disgust.
"So, the princess is still breathing," Renato says, shining his flashlight straight at her bare feet. "She’s wearing your gear, Angelo. Why is she out of the cage? She looks... different. You’ve been busy. I didn't think you’d go this far with her. She’s still a Silvestri, boss.
Don't let the face fool you. Is she talking? You've compromised the mission."
I move with a predator’s instinct. I step laterally, my boots scraping the floor, putting my body completely between Renato’s gaze and Fiorella.
I physically block his line of sight. I flex my jaw so hard a vein throbs in my temple.
My voice drops into a low, vibrating register that even I barely recognize. It’s a killing frequency.
"Watch your tone, Renato," I growl.
Renato clicks the flashlight off, but the hesitation is heavy.
"Lower the light. She is exactly where I want her. Don't call her that again. You're here to deliver news, not opinions. Eyes on me, not her. I'm still the one holding the gun. You’re forgetting your place. Another word and you’re walking back through the hills. Understood?"
Renato swallows hard. He backs down from the glare I’m giving him.
He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out a cheap burner phone, and wipes a bead of sweat from his upper lip with his sleeve.
His fingers are actually shaking as he pulls up a series of encrypted text screens.
The blue glow of the phone screen lights up his face in the dark room.
He looks at me, the gravity of whatever the fuck he’s about to say finally overriding his petty jealousy.
"The mainland chatter is blowing up," Renato says, his voice losing its bravado. "Alessio didn't wait. He’s not playing the game, Angelo. I got this off the dark net an hour ago. The encrypted channels are scorched. He’s bypassed the mediation. Look at the screen. They’ve put a price on it. A big one. It’s not a ransom anymore. "
I grip the edge of the steel table behind me. My knuckles turn bone-white against the metal.
"Alessio isn't negotiating," Renato says grimly. "He's not paying the blood debt."
"What did he do?" I demand.
"He didn't even respond to the second deadline," Renato explains, reading the screen. "He’s declared you a rogue agent. He’s told the families you raped her and killed her already. He’s scrubbing his hands clean. The debt is off the table. He’s calling it a mercy mission now.
He doesn't want her back, Angelo. He wants her gone.
The bounty is open-ended. Dead or dead. No alive option. "
Fiorella steps fully into the dim light. She pushes past my arm. Her voice is trembling, but she forces it out.
"A kill order?" she asks, her eyes locked on Renato. "For him?"
Her knees are visibly knocking together beneath the hem of the oversized jacket. She’s clinging to the delusion that her brother is still a human being.
"You’re lying," Fiorella says, her voice cracking. "Alessio would never. He’s my brother. Tell me he’s joking. Why would he kill me? I’m his only sister. Is my name on that order? Read it to me. Every word. How much is my life worth to him? Angelo, tell him he's lying."
Renato looks at her with a mix of pity and cold pragmatism. He shakes his head.
"For both of you," Renato says brutally. "You're a scandal now, princess. Alessio wants you erased."
Fiorella stares at him. The last drop of color drains completely from her aristocratic face. She staggers back, her hand blindly finding the cold concrete wall for support.
"You're a liability, Fiorella," Renato continues, twisting the knife.
"Dead girls don't tell stories. He’s already replaced you.
The order says 'eliminate with extreme prejudice'. You’re just a name on a list now. He signed it himself. The Silvestris don't forgive embarrassment. You’re not his sister anymore. You’re just a target. Welcome to the other side."
The psychological shock hits her exhausted nervous system all at once. Her knees buckle.
She goes down, her eyes rolling back in her head.
I close the distance in a fraction of a second.
I catch her before she hits the floor. My arm wraps around her waist like a steel band.
I pull her flush against my chest, her head lolling onto my shoulder.
She doesn't fight me. Her fingers instantly clutch the heavy tactical webbing of my vest, her bruised knuckles turning white as she holds on.
Her heart is firing like a machine gun against my ribs.
"I’ve got you," I murmur against her hair, holding her weight easily. "Don't go down now. Stay with me. He’s not worth the tears. You’re with me now. I told you they were monsters. Don't look at Renato. Breathe into my chest. The debt is mine now, not theirs. You're not going anywhere."
Renato sighs. He pulls his tactical knife from his belt and points the blade straight at Fiorella’s slumped form.
"She's dead weight, boss," Renato says, like he’s discussing a flat tire. "No leverage. Put a bullet in her and let's move."
My brain shorts out.
I snap my head toward him. Every instinct I have hones into a single, violent point. Renato takes a cautious half-step back as the entire atmosphere in the room shifts.
"She’s a waste of ammo, Angelo," Renato argues, holding his ground stupidly. "We can move faster without her. She’s just a Silvestri. What are you doing? Think with your head, not your dick. She’s going to get us caught.
The hit squads are coming. Just one shot and it’s over.
Are you really going to risk your life for her? Boss, look at her. She’s nothing."
I let go of Fiorella. I leave her slumped against the wall and lunge across the room with terrifying speed.
Before Renato can even raise his blade, I slam him into the concrete wall.
The impact forces a massive gasp out of him, knocking the wind from his lungs.
The plaster cracks behind his shoulders.
I pin his throat with my forearm, cutting off his air supply.
My own combat knife is out in my other hand, the carbon-steel tip pressed deep into the soft, vulnerable skin right under his jaw.
Renato drops his knife. It clatters on the floor.
His heels kick uselessly against the concrete.
"You don't touch her," I snarl, my face an inch from his.
"You don't even talk about her. Do you hear me? I’ll open your throat right here.
She is mine. Say it. Tell me you understand who she belongs to.
I don't need you that much, Renato. One more word about a bullet and you’re the one who stops breathing. Are we clear?"
I lean in further. The smell of my own rage-fueled sweat mixes with his terror.
"Say that again," I rasp, a guttural sound torn from my chest, "and I'll carve your tongue out."
I press the tip of the blade upward. I draw a single, tiny bead of warm blood from his neck. It rolls down the steel. Renato chokes. His eyes are wide, bulging, filled with genuine, pathetic terror. His eyes dart desperately toward Fiorella, who is watching us from the shadows, paralyzed.
"Understood... boss," Renato chokes out, wheezing around my forearm. "I... I was just... I’m sorry. She’s yours. Please. I’m loyal to you, Angelo. I won't say it again. I’ll help you. Just put the knife down. She’s untouched. I promise."
I stare at the terror in his eyes for three long seconds. Let him marinate in it.
I shove off him.
I sheath my knife in one fluid motion, the metal clacking sharply into the kydex holster. My chest expands as I suck in a massive breath, bleeding off the excess adrenaline. Renato slides a few inches down the wall, coughing violently, rubbing his bruised throat.
"Get the bags ready," I command, not looking at him. "Check the radios. We move at midnight. Don't look at her again."
I turn my back on him. I stride across the room toward Fiorella.
"Fiorella, come here," I order. "Ignore him. I’m the only one you listen to. Do you understand? We have a lot to do. Midnight. Not a minute later."
I don't wait for her to come to me. I close the gap.
My heavy boots thud on the floor. I trap her against the heavy steel door of the bunker, my massive frame boxing her in.
I slam my hands flat against the steel on either side of her head.
I am a wall of heat and threat right in her space.
She looks up at me, breathless, her eyes huge, waiting for my violence to turn on her.
I reach out, my hand shooting forward. My large fingers wrap securely around the lower half of her face.
I don't hit her. It’s a firm, inescapable grip that forces her to tilt her chin up to look me in the eye.
My thumb roughly traces the soft curve of her lower lip.
I pull it down slightly, exposing the wet glint of her teeth.
The cold metal of my wedding ring—a dead relic of my past life—scrapes roughly against her jawline.