Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87704 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 439(@200wpm)___ 351(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
He nods begrudgingly but with his trademark smile. “This is true.”
“So, your story,” I say. “What is it?”
He spreads his arms wide as if unveiling a masterpiece. “A tale of excitement, romance, drama, suspense.”
“Romance?” I arch a skeptical brow.
“Well, maybe erotic passion,” he corrects.
“The erotic passions of wiping your captive’s privates?”
His grin widens shamelessly. “My dick was hard. That should tell you all you need to know about how erotic I found that experience.”
“I get a feeling your dick is hard most of the day.”
“Only when he’s ignored.”
I chuckle and bite my bottom lip. This, at least, is familiar—banter, teasing, something resembling normalcy in the midst of chaos. He likes me. This big mafioso with the flamboyant charm finds me amusing. And despite the fact I’m spending time with him under duress, I can’t help liking him, too. But my mom was clear when we came back to nurse my aunt. Don’t get involved with anyone in the life. They’re snakes in sharp suits. They don’t just have fangs to eat.
There’s a balance here, and I need to play the game. Teasing is one thing, but I can tell it would be easy to take things too far with Alexis.
“I’m going to rest upstairs,” I tell him, taking a step back. His eyes drift over the length of me, lingering on my breasts and hips. It’s not an invitation for him to join me, but he wishes it was.
“Okay, gattina. We’ll continue this conversation later.”
As I make my way upstairs, I turn to find him watching me, with his trademark shark smile still in place. He’d eat me alive if I let him and spit me out like an olive stone.
“Careful,” I whisper to myself as I reach the top and can finally breathe.
19
ANTONIO
MAKE ME CRY
The sound of the TV hums through the walls, carrying up the stairs. Luca is watching some Italian American comedian—one of the few with the rare ability to make him laugh. Alexis is in the shower, washing away the filth of the day and probably jerking off. We have no privacy in this fucking place.
Aemelia sleeps beside me, her breath slow and steady, her hair a dark halo against the mattress. When I checked on her and found her like this, I couldn’t leave. She has nightmares, and if she wakes up alone in this strange place, she might panic.
The sun has drained from the day, leaving behind the heavy weight of dusk pressing down on the house. There are only two rooms on the second floor, one for my crew to sleep in shifts and one for us. Four thin mattresses almost cover the floor in a tight arrangement, forcing proximity whether we like it or not.
Carlo knows we have her. The coin rests at the bottom of the well, but he’s playing games instead of returning for her. What kind of piece of shit sends a bullet with his daughter's name engraved on the side? He wants to kill his own flesh and blood? It has to be a game. He’s telling us to go ahead and kill her if we dare.
“The DNA test came back,” Luca had said earlier.
I jerked my head back. “Well.”
“Definitely not Mario’s kid.”
Even though I knew, the confirmation settled the last butterfly of anxiety in my stomach.
“The video wasn’t enough to scare Carlo out of hiding,” he continued. “They don’t believe we’ll kill an innocent woman.”
It’s our reputation that’s complicating this situation. In a city ruled by powerful families, we’re the only one that doesn’t trade in sex. That alone makes our enemies think we’re soft when it comes to women.
So we need to change that perception. We need Carlo and whoever is protecting him to understand that Aemelia will die if he stays in his rat hole. We have to show her suffering. If Carlo wants to play games, he needs to understand that we’re going to win. The thought churns in my stomach like acid.
Beside me, Aemelia stirs, her lashes fluttering before her dark eyes open, still fogged with sleep. Her first conscious breath is sharp, a small gasp as she blinks against the dim light. She stiffens when she sees me, scrambling back so quickly that she nearly falls off the mattress.
“Antonio?”
“I’m sorry to scare you.”
She exhales, shoulders slumping as recognition settles. “Is everything okay?”
“No, kitten.” I hesitate. “Nothing’s okay.”
Her face falls. “What is it?”
“Your father…”
“He isn’t coming.” There’s no question in her tone. Just cold certainty. She already knows. Of course, she does.
“The video wasn’t enough to drag him out.”
She nods once as if she expected it. “So, you need more?”
Nausea rises in my throat at how easily she says it, how readily she accepts the cruelty of this world. “Yes.”
“What?”
“We need to show you suffering. Enough to make him panic. Enough that he believes—” I can’t finish the sentence. The words taste like poison.