CHAPTER 17
ANGELO P.O.V.
My fucking lungs are on fire. The freezing mist tearing through the Sicilian woods feels like swallowing crushed glass with every breath I take, but I don't slow down because the pure, unadulterated rage spiking my adrenaline won't let me. She actually ran. I gave her an inch of breathing room during the transport and she took off into the pitch-black tree line like a suicidal rabbit, entirely oblivious to the fact that she was sprinting straight into a firing squad. I crash through a thicket of dead brambles, the thorns ripping at my clothes and scratching a burning line across my cheek, my eyes locked on the dark shape stumbling through the mud ahead of me. She’s fast, fueled by that delusional Silvestri pride, but she’s out of her element in this heavy tactical gear and she trips on a slick root just as she hits a small clearing.
I lunge. I hit her dead center, using my entire body weight to tackle her down into the churned, wet earth.
We hit the ground hard. She thrashes instantly, a feral, wild thing clawing at the dirt, so I crush her deeper into the mud, throwing a leg over her to pin her thighs beneath my knees.
I grab both of her wrists in one hand, neutralizing her frantic swings, and slam them down into the sludge above her head.
"Where did you think you were going, Fiorella?" I snarl, my chest heaving against hers as I grind my forehead against her cold skin, forcing her to feel the heat radiating off me despite the freezing rain. "Cazzo, you move like a rabbit. Stop. Fucking. Moving."
She doesn't stop. She bucks beneath me, her teeth chattering so hard I can hear them clicking over her ragged gasps for air. I tighten my grip on her wrists until the bones grind together. She’s fighting with this psychotic desperation to escape, entirely blind to the reality that if she’d crossed that ridge line fifty yards away, she would have been nothing but a backlit silhouette for a sniper rifle.
I am consumed by a lethal, toxic cocktail of fury and this terrifying, gut-wrenching vulnerability of having almost lost my only leverage. My obsession.
I suddenly stiffen. Through the high whistle of the wind, I hear it. A distant, rhythmic thwack of a branch hitting a heavy boot, followed by the muffled, two-note call of a night bird that sounds way too clinical to be a fucking animal.
I instantly clamp my heavy, mud-stained leather glove over Fiorella’s mouth, cutting off her next scream.
I tilt my head, scanning the pitch-black treeline with my eyes peeled for the sweep of flashlights.
I press my thumb deep into the soft tissue of her cheek, digging in hard enough to hurt, reminding her of the immediate physical cost of a single sound.
"If you make a sound, we both die right here," I whisper, my lips right against her ear, the metallic tang of my holstered handgun digging into my ribs as I shift my weight. "Listen to the woods. They aren't looking for a daughter. Shh... stay still."
She freezes under me, her chest rising and falling in sharp, panicked jerks against mine.
The mingled condensation of our breath hangs in the dark air between us.
I wonder if she can actually hear the scouts moving on the perimeter or if she’s just too blinded by her own stubborn, aristocratic bullshit to realize she’s being hunted by her own blood.
When the snapping twigs fade into the ambient noise of the freezing rain, my tactical awareness instantly shifts back into a deeply personal, violent resentment for what she just pulled.
She spits a muffled curse against my glove.
I violently yank her up by the shoulder strap of her tactical vest. I don't give her a second to find her footing. I haul her upright so fast her head snaps back, forcing her to confront the mud-caked, freezing reality of her failed little flight. She tries to stumble away from me, her pride refusing to crack, but my grip on her arm is an iron shackle. I roughly brush a clump of wet, rotting leaves off her shoulder, swatting at her with enough force that it’s more of a strike than a cleaning gesture.
"You’re a mess, puttana," I sneer, dragging her forward. "You think this vest makes you a soldier? Walk. Now."
I march her deeper into the dense, ancient pines, needing to break the line of sight from the main ridge where those scouts are definitely circling.
She struggles to keep her footing over the wet, massive roots, her boots slipping on the slick pine needles, but I just haul her harder, dragging her into a natural alcove of thick-barked trees where the moonlight doesn't even bother trying to reach.
With a low growl, I shove her hard against the trunk of a massive pine.
The heavy bark scrapes loudly against her nylon jacket.
I cage her in instantly, slamming both my hands onto the wood on either side of her head.
I loom over her, my chest heaving, demanding her total attention.
I use my sheer physical size to trap her, to make her understand that in this dark, freezing thicket, I am the only law that fucking exists.
I lean my weight onto my forearms, slowly closing the gap until the metal buckle of my tactical belt grinds aggressively against her stomach.
"Look at me when I’m talking to you," I demand, my voice dropping into a deadly register. "No more running, Fiorella. You’re trapped in the dark with the only man who can save you."
"Bastardo," she spits, her chin lifting in that classic, defiant Silvestri arrogance that makes me want to ruin her. Her honey-amber eyes are blazing, catching the faint ambient light, and I feel this massive surge of possessive hunger completely eclipse my anger.
I don't flinch at her insult. I reach up and catch her jaw in a bruising grip, tilting her head back until she has absolutely no choice but to expose the frantic pulse jumping in her throat. I force her to look past me, out toward the dark ridge where the scouts are sweeping.
"Say it again. I like the way it tastes coming from you," I tell her, my thumb pressing against her jawline. "You think Alessio sent a rescue team? You’re just a debt he’s decided to write off."
The cold touch of my leather glove against her skin makes her shiver, her defiant, hot breath washing over my lips.
I lean in until my mouth is brushing the shell of her ear, verbally dismantling her entire reality piece by piece.
I detail the specifics of the kill order I intercepted on the wire.
I tell her exactly how her sadistic brother sounded—cold, clinical, utterly bored.
"Fifty thousand euros for your head, Fiorella," I whisper, my words sharp and methodical, carving out the truth she doesn't want to hear. "He doesn't want you back. He wants you silent. I’m the only one here who isn't trying to put a bullet in you."
I watch the psychological blow land. Her eyes go wide, the pupils expanding as the realization sinks its teeth into her brain.
She thought her run for freedom was an escape, but it was just a sprint toward an execution squad.
Her hands, which had been balled into tight fists against my chest, slowly begin to unfurl, her fingers going limp against the rough bark of the tree.
The sharp, sudden intake of her breath hits my face.
I can feel the trembling starting in her knees, traveling up her body until she is vibrating against me.
Watching her break is a sick, bittersweet victory.
I hate that she’s hurting, but I need her to be mine, and to be mine, she has to have nothing else left.
I keep my grip on her chin, holding her eyes locked on my oil-slick stare. I soften my voice just a fraction but keep the iron edge beneath it, cementing my dominance.
"You have no name now. No family," I tell her, my thumb wiping away a single, stubborn tear that breaches her lash line. She refuses to cry properly, but that one drop tells me everything I need to know. "You are mine. Do you understand? Tell me you understand that I am all you have left."
The silence of the woods presses in around us, broken only by the scent of rain-soaked earth and the heavy thumping of my own heart against my ribs.
I feel the shift in her body language. The fight drains entirely out of her muscles, and she slumps slightly against the tree, letting out a fractured, broken breath.
The air between us thickens instantly. The violent hostility of the chase morphs into this heavy, electric, suffocating pull.
I don't pull away. I stay crowded entirely in her space, my gaze dropping to the dark curve of her mouth.
The rage I felt just moments ago twists into a desperate, primal need to feel something warm and alive out here in the freezing dark.
I hook two fingers into the collar of her jacket, drawing her an inch closer until our lips are a breath apart.
"You’re shaking," I murmur. "Is it the cold, or is it me? Don't look away now."
She doesn't. She stares at my mouth, her shallow, jagged breaths puffing over my chin. I can feel her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my chest, matching my pulse beat for beat. It’s a completely different kind of war now, and I’m ready to tear into her when the comms unit in my ear suddenly crackles to life, a high-pitched burst of static slicing through the heavy silence.
"Ferraro, report. Are you clear?" Renato’s voice is sharp, low, strictly tactical. "Scouts are moving toward the ravine. Get her out of there."
I clench my jaw, a muscle ticking hard in my cheek as I fight the immediate urge to rip the earpiece out and stomp it into the mud.
The external threat of the Silvestri executioners is pressing in, reminding me that our window is closing, but the physical gravity pulling me toward Fiorella is impossible to snap.
I reach up slowly, my eyes never leaving hers, and press the transmit button on my shoulder mic.
"Copy that. We’re moving," I bite out.