Sliding a finger around the shape of my throat, his tongue shot out of the side of his mouth, catching a droplet of olive oil from his head. He had a long, fat tongue. The sight of it caused my skin to crawl with disgust.
He didn’t want me, not truly. He only wanted to play with something that didn’t belong to him.
“Why are you not afraid of me? If you believe that I’m a witch?”
“You cannot possess the devil. I ruleyou.”
A thick hand slid up my thigh, pinching a bit, until he found my lace underwear. Taking hold of the fabric, he ripped it away, sticking it in his back pocket.
I started to scream then—the panicked feeling reached a high and I could read his intent clear enough—though something screeched in my head that he was going to use me as bait to lure Brando out.
I refused to allow him the jump.
He covered my mouth with his hand, but I bit the excess skin of his palm, pinching clear through. The taste of metal almost made me gag. He hissed but smiled, enjoying the pain.
Oh, that’s how you like it, you bastard!
I swooped down, picking up a chunk of glass, catching him on the arm, but he slapped it out of my hand before too much damage could be done. We fought. He mostly contained me, the space almost too tight to control such thumping madness.
The door flew open, cool air rushed in like a breath of winter after a burning summer, revealing Brando. He held a gun to Ettore’s head, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip.
“Take your hands off my wife,” he said in Italian—calm for the situation, as though he were the one in total control.
Ettore lifted his hands, the teasing face still in place, even with the gun to his skull.
“Scarlett,” Brando said, nodding to the space beside him.
I almost wanted to close my eyes, scoot out slowly, because he felt like a ticking time bomb. Instead I flew, almost too afraid that Ettore would reach out an arm and snatch me back.
Brando took the underwear from Ettore’s back pocket, stuffing it in his own.
My entire body convulsed when the gun went off, a blast like a detonated bomb in the small area. Ettore lifted a hand to the side of his head, stunned.
Brando had shot part of his ear off, nothing left but a piece of flesh that reminded me of rat-nibbled Swiss cheese. Blood ran with the olive oil, and the scent of gunpowder blossomed like a poisonous rose.
Ettore went mad, turning fast and charging Brando like a bull. The gunshot didn't seem to even faze him. Instead of stunning him, it seemed to challenge him. Madness lived inside the monster like a heart lives inside the body. The gun flew in the darkness, landing with a reverberating clank on the floor somewhere.
All of the lights had been turned out. Even so, I knew there were others in the room with us, hiding in the shadows, waiting for Ettore’s word to act.
Brando and Ettore were grunting, fists connecting with flesh, and I was somehow shoved into a corner, Ettore’s back stifling my breath. A loud crunch rang out, his body went slack, but not down, and the fight seemed to settle.
Footsteps pounded against the floor upstairs, coming toward us from the office. Then the noises halted, and I assumed the group noticed the absence of light.
“Turn the lights on!” Marzio ordered.
Brando snatched my hand, ripping me from behind his raging uncle, dragging me toward the steps, toward the sound of Marzio’s voice.
A man down on the floor did what he was told, but not until Ettore gave him the order first. Marzio and Rocco were on the second landing, the rest of the men behind them. Every man had a hand on a weapon.
“This is how it is going to be, son,” Marzio said, holding up a hand to his men.
Ettore limped over to the area below the steps, face set in determination, in unadulterated hate. “You sided with him!”
“He does not want your place.”
“What about what I want!”
“You want his wife!”
