14 | Nightmare
FIORELLA
It’s still dark outside when I wake up. My heart is pounding, blood roaring in my ears, sheets sticking to my damp skin. The sound of the gunshot from my nightmare is still ricocheting in my skull—sharp and final.
I try to shake off the image of my brother slumping in the chair, what’s left of his head lolling to the side. I throw off my blanket and rush into my en suite, stripping off my phantom-blood-soaked pajamas and stepping into the shower before the water’s even warm.
It takes two minutes for my breathing to steady, another two to scrub the awful feeling off my skin. Then I just stand there.
Warm water slides over me as I run my palms down my body—every inch still silk-smooth from the emergency touch-up my esthetician squeezed me in for. She didn’t ask why her once-a-month client suddenly needed the full works again… and thank God for that.
I don’t even know why I did it. I have no shoots coming up, and no one’s going to see me naked if I can help it. But still—the thought of not looking my best on my wedding day threw me.
My wedding day.
I always pictured it as the happiest day of my life.
Instead, I’m in a foreign house, marrying a criminal they apparently call ‘the Butcher’. No love, just blackmailing and coercion.
And maybe… a flicker of something else.
No—nope. Not going there.
I shut off the shower and wrap a towel around myself, then twist my hair into a bun. No point drying it—the stylist will handle it in two hours. I slip into a hoodie and yoga pants, grab my gym bag, and crack my door open.
The hallway is empty, dimly lit by the modern rod sconces mounted on the pristine walls.
I linger for a second, then hurry down the stairs toward the gym.
It’s supposed to be my house, but being outside my room after dark still feels like trespassing. I hurry down the stairs, my sneakers quiet against the polished marble, then slip inside the gym and close the door softly behind me.
“Couldn’t sleep, bella?”
I jump, whirling around.
Santo stands by the punching bag, sleeveless shirt clinging to his chest, black sweats hanging low on his hips. His hands are wrapped. Sweat beads along his temples and arms—he’s been at it a while.
I curse under my breath, trying to steady my breathing. “Nightmare.”
He hums. A low, rough sound. “Yeah.”
I blink. That catches my attention. “You had one too?”
A cynical laugh, like the idea almost amuses him. “Every night.”
The way he says it—flat, factual, and unbothered—makes something cold slide down my spine.
“So how do you sleep?” I ask softly.
“I barely do.” He wipes a hand across his jaw, grabbing a water bottle. “Sleep’s a luxury one can’t buy with money.”
He doesn’t elaborate beyond that, but there’s something underneath—something jagged he’s not guarding as tightly as usual.
I take a step closer before I can talk myself out of it. “Do they wake you up?”
His eyes lift to mine, dark and unreadable. “Amore, they don’t wake me up. They keep me awake.”
There’s a beat where neither of us moves. The air changes—thickens. He studies me like I’m something he’s deciding whether to flay alive or devour.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“It’s freezing here,” I lie.
He gives me a look—lazy and knowing—calling my bluff without needing words.
Then he closes the distance, slow and predatory. He isn’t touching me, but close enough that I feel the heat radiating off him. Close enough that the scent of sweat and smoke coils around me—strangely not unpleasant.
He lifts a hand like he might caress my cheek, but instead, he drags his knuckles along my jaw in a barely-there graze. It’s not comforting or tender, just… staking a claim.
But God help me—it steadies something in me.
After a moment, he steps back, giving me that space only because he decides to.
“Come on,” he says, nodding toward the bag. “Hit it. It helps.”
I hesitate.
Santo grabs a pair of wraps from the rack and holds them up. “Come on, fiore.”
And there—just for a beat—he looks like a man who hasn’t let himself sleep in years, offering me the one thing he doesn’t offer anyone else: a place beside him in the quiet. Even if it’s only for a moment.
So I hold out my hands.
He jerks his chin toward the bench. “Sit.” It isn’t a request.
I sit.
He sinks onto the bench beside me, and the second his fingers close around my wrist, something low in my stomach flips. His touch is firm, impersonal on the surface… but there’s nothing impersonal about the way his thumb drags across the rapid flutter of my pulse.
He notices. A faint smirk tugs at his mouth, there and gone again. “Relax.”
“Hard to do when you’re—you know—you,” I mutter.
That earns me a soft huff of dangerous amusement. “You’re fine, bella. Just pretend there’s people here. You wear the mask so well.”
He loops the wrap around my knuckles, guiding the fabric across my skin with focused precision. Everything he does is like this—controlled and focused, as if the world narrows to a single task.
And right now, that task is me.
“Ever boxed before?” he asks, voice low.
I shake my head.
He finishes the first hand and reaches for the other. “Come here.”
When I offer it, my fingers graze his palm—barely a touch. But he freezes, just for a second. That tiny break in his armor. Then he closes his hand around mine, slower now. Almost like he’s savoring the contact.
The wrap winds around my wrist, my palm, my knuckles. His fingers skim the inside of my hand to smooth the band, and I swear electricity shoots up my arm.
“Breathe,” he murmurs, eyes still fixed on my hand.
“I am.”
“You sound like you just ran a marathon.”
“I…” I narrow my eyes, “…sprinted down the stairs.”
“Why?” He pauses mid-wrap, smirk curving slow and lethal. “You afraid of the dark?”
“Terrified.” I try to sound bored.
Santo’s fingers stay on my wrist. “What’d you dream about?”
I hold his gaze, steady and unyielding. “You shooting my brother.”
Something cold flickers in his eyes—but not surprise. “So you said no to my offer in your dream?”
My throat tightens. “I was wearing a wedding ring,” I say quietly. “You just didn’t keep your promise.”
That stops him—just for a beat. His jaw shifts, a small grind of teeth.
“I wouldn’t betray you like that,” he says, voice low.
My chest goes tight. “You would if it benefited you.”
“No,” he says, sharp as a blade. “I wouldn't hurt you like that.”
The air between us thickens. My pulse pounds against his fingers still on my wrist.
He studies me, unreadable. “Tell me what you really think of me.”
I hesitate—because asking it feels like stepping off a ledge. “What your sister said—is any of that true?”
His stare doesn’t waver. “Every word.”
A shaky breath leaves me, his proximity feeling more dangerous by the second.
He tilts his head. “Are you scared of me, bella?”
I nod.
He leans closer. “Good. Fear keeps you alive.” Then softer, not gentle but… honest. “But understand this: saving your brother is the smallest part of this deal.”
I blink at him.
“You secured your entire family,” he says. “Your parents. Their restaurant. Your friends. No one touches what’s mine.”
A chill runs down my spine—more than just fear.
“And if things had gone differently?” he asks quietly. “If you’d met me without all this… would you have wanted me?”
My heart skips a beat. I look at him for a long moment. “I guess we’ll never know.”
His nostrils flare—just slightly.
I pull my hands from his and stand. “Now…” I flex my wrapped fingers. “…teach me how to hit.”
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Would you want hitting lessons from Santo? ????