CHAPTER 19 #2
I slam the magazine home and rack the bolt.
I pop up and deliver a devastating volley.
I’m not just defending anymore; I’m hunting.
I catch two scouts moving through the clearing, the bullets dropping them instantly into the dirt.
I move with a lethal fluidity, fueled entirely by the woman sitting at my feet.
I expose myself more to draw fire away from her, adjusting my stance and crushing a discarded magazine into the floorboards with my boot.
"Two down! Give me another one!" I shout.
"Puttana! They're retreating!" Renato yells.
The rhythmic thunder of my rifle fills the room. I smell gunpowder. I see bodies falling in the moonlight. I'll kill every single one of them for making her bleed.
A frantic, bloody rhythm takes over the room.
I fire until the bolt locks, drop the empty mag, and Fiorella is already there, sliding the next one into my palm.
She has become my shadow. Her movements mirror my needs with an instinctual precision that shouldn't be possible for two people who hated each other yesterday.
She wipes blood from her cut foot onto her torn slip, her focus never leaving the magazines.
"Here! Last one of this box!" she yells over the noise.
"Good girl. Keep them coming."
The heat in the room is rising from the gunfire. Our breathing is perfectly synchronized. We were made for this. Two monsters in a broken shack.
"Vehicle! Front! Heavier weapons!" Renato yells from the back, his voice strained to the breaking point.
I hear the roar of a high-performance engine screaming up the dirt track.
Blinding headlights cut through the trees, vibrating the floorboards under my boots.
If that vehicle reaches the shack, they’ll use it as a battering ram or open up with a mounted gun.
I wipe sweat from my eyes with my sleeve, leaving a dark smear of soot across my face.
"Fiorella, the last mag! Now!" I yell.
"Renato, stay back! I've got the driver!"
I have one shot to stop this. If I miss, I lose her.
Fiorella doesn't slide it this time; she tosses it through the air.
I catch it mid-air, slam it in, and step fully into the frame of the shattered window, totally exposing myself.
I ignore the incoming fire and focus on the approaching SUV, leading the target before unleashing a full-auto dump right into the engine block and the windshield.
My jaw is set so hard my teeth ache as I hold the trigger down.
"Die, you bastards!" I roar.
"Hold on to something!" Renato yells.
The wall of sound from the rifle is deafening.
Sparks fly off the SUV’s hood. The tires screech in a total panic.
The heavy vehicle veers sharply, flips into a shallow ditch, and slams headfirst into an ancient pine.
The engine sputters out, instantly replaced by the jarring, endless blare of the horn as the dead driver slumps against the wheel.
The woods fall into a terrifying, ringing silence.
The immediate threat is gone, but the high of the battle is still surging through my veins like battery acid. I slowly lower my rifle. My shoulders are trembling with the sudden, massive release of tension. I smell leaking gasoline mixing with the pine.
"It's over. For now," I say, my voice rough.
"Check the back, Renato. Make sure no one's crawling."
We’re alive. She’s alive.
Renato moves through the room, kicking a spent shell casing out of his way as he checks the bodies through the window.
He turns to me. "Reinforcements will be here in ten.
We need to move." He looks at Fiorella sitting on the floor, then back at me, seeing the raw, unhinged intensity radiating between us.
He nods and steps out onto the porch to keep watch, leaving us alone in the dark.
"Ten minutes, Angelo. Not a second more," Renato calls back.
"I'll be on the perimeter. Don't take too long."
Ten minutes. It's not nearly enough. I need to feel her. I need to know she’s real and breathing.
I drop my rifle into the dust and cross the room in two strides.
I fall to my knees in front of Fiorella, my chest heaving under my tactical vest. I don't say a word.
I just stare at her, my eyes searching every inch of her for damage.
The transition from warrior to obsessive protector is instantaneous and violent.
I reach out, my hand hovering over her before finally touching her warm cheek.
"You're bleeding. Where else?" I demand.
"Why did you do it, Fiorella? Why did you help me?"
She’s covered in my war. And she looks fucking beautiful.
My hands are everywhere—on her shoulders, her waist, her bare legs—checking for bullet holes I might have missed.
I find the cut on her foot and hiss between my teeth.
My thumbs aggressively wipe away the blood and soot from her skin.
My touch is rough, desperate, completely possessive.
I’m over-handling her, my adrenaline demanding physical contact to prove she’s still mine.
I grip her chin, forcing her to look into my oil-slick eyes.
"You could have died. Do you understand? You almost left me," I snarl.
"I didn't think... I just didn't want them to win," she gasps out.
She chose me. She chose her kidnapper over her life. I’ll never let her go now.
Fiorella grabs my wrists, her fingers digging deep into my scarred skin.
She isn't trying to push me away; she’s pulling me closer.
Her breathing is just as frantic as mine, her amber eyes dilated with the same lethal high that’s coursing through my veins.
The tension in the room finally snaps, turning the survival instinct into a primal, desperate need.
She pulls my hand flat to her chest so I can feel her frantic heartbeat.
"Feel it. I'm here. I'm here, Angelo," she begs.
"Cazzo, I’m going to ruin you for this," I breathe.
I let out a low, animalistic sound and crash my mouth against hers.
It's not a kiss; it’s a fucking collision.
I taste the dust on her lips and the metallic tang of blood from where she bit them.
I drive my tongue into her mouth with a possessive ferocity that claims every inch of her breath.
I tangle my fingers in her chestnut hair, pulling her head back to expose the long line of her throat.
"You're mine. Say it," I demand against her mouth.
"I'm yours. Damn you."
The taste of salt and iron mixes with the scraping of my stubble against her soft skin.
The weight of my body pins her completely to the dusty floorboards.
I want to devour her. I want to leave marks that Alessio can never erase.
Fiorella doesn't shrink back; she arches into me, her hands clawing at my tactical vest, desperately trying to find the skin beneath.
She matches my aggression perfectly, her teeth grazing my lower lip until I groan into her mouth.
The desperation in her movements is a mirror to my own.
She hooks her bare legs around my waist, pulling my hips flush against her center.
"Don't stop. Don't you dare stop," she pleads.
"I've got you. I've got you."
The friction of my tactical gear against her silk slip drives me insane.
She’s not the aristocratic princess anymore.
She’s a creature of the dark, just like me.
I pull back just enough to see her face, then grab the collar of her silk slip.
I don't care about the fabric; I need to see the skin I just protected. I rip the delicate material until it’s hanging in absolute ruins around her waist, my eyes dark with a terrifying, worshipful hunger.
I pause for a second to trace a fresh bruise on her shoulder with my tongue.
"Look at what you did to me," she breathes.
"You’re a mess, Fiorella. My beautiful mess."
The sound of the tearing silk mixes with the cold air hitting her heated flesh.
My hands are calloused and stained with gunpowder as I slide them up her thighs.
I don't use finesse; I grip her soft flesh with a force that will surely leave marks, marking her as mine in the most visceral way possible.
I reach her underwear and tear them away in one impatient, violent motion.
I lean down and bite the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, making her gasp loudly and arch off the floor.
"Puttana, you make me crazy," I growl.
"Please... Angelo, now."
I’ve never wanted anyone like this. It’s a fucking sickness.
Fiorella’s hands find the buckles of my tactical vest. She fumbles with them, her fingers clumsy from the adrenaline, until I help her, ripping the velcro open and discarding the heavy armor into the dirt.
She immediately goes for my belt, her knuckles grazing the hard, ridged muscles of my abdomen.
She accidentally scrapes my skin with her broken nail, and I let out a sharp, encouraged hiss.
"Get it off. I need to feel you," I order.
"Hurry, Fiorella. We don't have time."