Matteo started the car and it began to pull away from the curb.
“You will never turn your back on us again.” Her father eyed her with disgust. “Do you understand me?” The pupils of his eyes, hard and furious, fixed on her.
She broke the gaze and jutted her chin toward the window. Margaret rushed inside, and Sacha prayed Fin would be okay.
A deep sadness weighed in her belly like a rock, and it felt like her heart bled. She’d known him less than twenty-four hours, yet somehow, she felt closer to him than her family.
Her father’s gravelly voice boomed. “Do you hear me, you littlezoccola?”
“Yes.”Zoccola,the Italian word for whore, yet it also meant rat. Her face drooped at the memory of Fin’s nickname. She’d never hear it fall from his beautiful, scarred lips again.
“I hear you,Babbo.” When much younger, she’d called Pops by the Italian word for dad, and it fell from her lips again, making her feel small and vulnerable.
She faced forward.
Her heart shriveled inside her chest, every beat slower and weaker with each foot of distance between her and the intriguing man who made her body sing.
“I’ll do whatever’s required.” And she would if it meant Fin and Margaret stayed safe—stayed alive.
Chapter 24
Fin
Ahotpokerstabbedinto Fin’s shoulder.
“What the—” he moaned. His eyelids were heavy, but he forced them open.
Margaret’s gaze flitted to his face, then refocused on his shoulder. She peeled wet cloth from the wound. Dark red blood poured with the movement and dripped onto the stone floor, seeping into the cracks. Grabbing a towel from her apron, she pressed it against the jagged, bleeding hole.
“Good God, woman—what the devil are you doing?” He tried to sit but a fresh burst of pain ripped through his chest, and a scream burst loose from his lips.
“Be still, Fin.” She pushed her hand to his other shoulder. “Those bastards shot you.”
“What?” The memory rushed in, and his mind awoke. “Where’s Sacha?”
Vito, Vito, Vito,rushed through his thoughts.Oh, Gods.
Margaret continued to dab but kept her mouth shut.
“Where. Is. Sacha?” With his good hand, he clutched her wrist and forced the ministrations to a halt.
Her rigid gray gaze met his. “They took her. I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “That barbarian father of hers slapped her across the face then dragged her away like an animal.”
The back of Fin’s head hit the floor. His burning shoulder became an unimportant buzz in a corner of his mind—it didn’t compare to the pain of Sacha being ripped from his life.
His fist clenched. “Her father struck her?”
Margaret nodded. Her eyes full of sorrow cut deep.
Of course, he did. He didn’t have any qualms beating a fourteen-year-old boy with a whip while full-grown men held him down, so hitting a woman would be nothing.
“I’m going to kill him.” A savage growl poured from his throat. “Bring me the book sitting on my desk.”
“But, Fin—”
“Get it now, woman.” His voice was like a detonation inside the stone walls. “Stop wasting my bloody time.”
He stood, drew her to her feet, then released her wrist.
