“Why don’t you have more soldiers with you?” I ask him, truly curious. “You don’t normally travel without an entourage.”
“Nadia doesn’t like it.”
“Ah. And you like Nadia.”
He simply stares at me, eyes blank.
“You do realize she’s only here for the money, right?”
“She’s not like that.”
Bastian snorts. “Of course, she’s not.”
“It wasn’t me,” Sonny says, ignoring Bastian. “I didn’t order an attack on your wife.”
I smile. “No?”
“No.”
“All right then.” I stand. “Everyone out.”
Bastian steps backward, putting his gun away. Our soldiers begin to file out, taking the two Sonny brought with him along.
Sonny looks at me, confused. He grins and begins to rise. I guess he thinks this is over. He’s mistaken.
I whip my arm out to grab him by the back of the head, rear back and smash his face into the glass coffee table. He screams, and I’m not sure what’s louder, that scream or the sound of his skull cracking the heavy glass surface, but I do it again. A deep line splits the table and blood pools on the glass, dripping over the edge and seeping into the tacky white and gold area rug.
“Nadia is not going to appreciate that, Uncle,” Bastian says as I hand Sonny off and adjust my cuffs. Bastian shoves a dazed Sonny against the wall and forces him to look at him. “How would you like twelve men to do to you what they would have done to her?” he asks through gritted teeth, all casualness vanished as his rage surfaces. “We can arrange it.”
Sonny reaches into his pocket and produces a switchblade. “You motherfucking half-breeds,” he says, and although not quite steady on his feet, he’s steady enough to swing the blade toward Bastian’s face.
But Bastian’s seen it too, and Sonny, still dazed, only manages to nick his jaw before Bastian jerks away. Sonny is slower than he might be otherwise, giving Bastian time to draw his arm back and punch Sonny so hard that he goes down sideways while still gripping the weapon.
“What do you think?” I ask him as I step on his wrist and crouch to take the knife. Bastian sets his knee on Sonny’s windpipe. “Do you want to find out what twelve men can do to a woman at their mercy?” he asks, pressing.
“It… wasn’t me. I’m telling you,” Sonny chokes out. “Her… brother.”
Just before Sonny passes out, Bastian shifts his weight off his knee. Sonny gasps for breath. Bastian takes the knife from me and brings it to Sonny’s jaw, to the same spot Sonny got him. It’s a surface wound, but what he does to Sonny isn’t. Sonny’s hands fist, and I know it takes all he has not to cry like a fucking baby as blood gushes from his face.
“You crossed a line, Uncle,” Bastian says, standing. He drops the switchblade a few feet away.
I stand too, studying Sonny. He holds my gaze as he manages to sit up, his back to the couch. His forehead and the side of his face are already swollen, a bruise forming around his eye, and he’s got his hand over the cut Bastian made, but his rage and hate still burn hot in his gaze.
“This was a warning. You stay the fuck away from what is ours.” I turn to my brother. “Let’s go.”
He nods, and we walk to the door.
“Amadeo,” Sonny calls out when we get to it. Bastian pulls the door open, and I turn back. “You have many enemies. Watch your back,” he says through gritted teeth.
8
VITTORIA
What happened to you?
I wake with a start. Bastian’s words haunted me throughout a restless sleep. A sleep I couldn’t wake from. The nightmare repeated, yet I can’t remember anything but the sick feeling it leaves behind. The weight in my stomach. The sweat. The fear. The way it has me turning my hands over again and again searching for something, but I don’t know what. And along the edges, when I’d manage to come close to consciousness, were their words. Their question.
What happened to you?
I don’t know.
Sitting up, I wipe the sweat off my forehead. I search the room, expecting to find one of them here, but it’s empty, the light from behind the curtains gone. A glance at the clock tells me it’s a little after eight at night. My stomach growls as if realizing just from the time it’s missed dinner. I am hungry. Famished.
When the events of the morning replay before my eyes, I push them aside and get up to go into the bathroom. I wash my face and brush my teeth. I study my hands, back and front. They look the same. Not like the hands of a killer. Of a woman who ended the life of a man. But what’s frightening isn’t that. It’s not what I did. It’s that I don’t feel anything. Not a single thing. What does that make me?
I comb through my hair while I study my reflection. There’s a bruise on my forehead along with the cuts that are healing. My body has cuts all over it, but the lingering pain is dull and doesn’t bother me.
What would have happened if Amadeo and Bastian hadn’t come in time? What would have become of me after those men finished with me? My mind wanders to Emma. Emma is relying on me. She needs me.
With thoughts of my little sister, I walk back into the bedroom and through it to the closet. From inside a shoebox, I get the dagger Amadeo had taken from me that I had taken back. I’d hidden it, not wanting them to find it on me, but if I’d had it when that man had delivered me down to the basement of horrors, maybe things would have gone differently. Maybe they wouldn’t have gotten as far as they did.
Standing naked in the closet, I fashion a strap out of a pair of stockings I destroy and tie the dagger to my thigh. No sheath. It’s not the smartest thing to do, but I won’t be without it again. And I won’t let them take it from me. It’s not against them that I will use it. Unless they force my hand.
I choose a simple black dress and pair it with high heels. Then I walk back into the bathroom and rummage through the drawers for my makeup bag. From inside it, I find my lipstick. I hate my signature red, yet it’s so much a part of me. It fits, I think, that particular shade. The color symbolizes blood and violence. I smear it thick across my lips. I don’t bother with anything else but leave the tube open on the counter, not even bothering to pick up the lid when it rolls into the sink. I make my way out into the hallway, half expecting a locked door or a guard but finding myself free.
Walking down the stairs, I’m very aware of the edge of the knife at my thigh. Lights are on in the living and dining rooms. The table is set for three, and I can smell food cooking in the kitchen. I’m about to go in there when the door opens and a woman in a uniform steps through carrying a bowl of salad. She’s clearly startled to find me standing there, and I wonder what I look like when it takes her a minute too long to take me in. I look down at the dress, which I think is casual. It’s a simple fitted T-shirt dress. But her expression is strange.
“Are Amadeo or Bastian here?” I ask.
“Yes, they’re in the study, Mrs. Caballero.”
Mrs. Caballero. I’ll have to get used to that.
“Thanks,” I say, and when she points the way, I head toward the study. I hear the rumble of their voices as I approach and don’t bother to knock before opening the door. The brothers turn when they see me. Amadeo leans against the wall by the window, and Bastian sits on one of the leather chairs. Eyebrows rise and they exchange a glance, and again I’m left wondering what’s wrong. I touch my hair, tamp it down. Is it that? Does it look strange? It frizzes and gets huge at a drop of moisture in the air.