“Morte!” the woman wailed. “Morte!”
She went to say it again but her voice came out jumbled, as if someone shook her.
“B-b-brando,” I whispered so softly that no one even heard me. Except for the French. He pulled out a gun and lifted it high enough that if he fired, he wouldn’t miss a head. Then he put a finger to his mouth, reminding me of his threat.
I heard the click of a gun. At first I thought it was the French, but his gun was still pointed at the wall. He hadn’t moved. Neither had the two Italians. At the noise, the two Italians glanced over at the French for direction. He kept his hawk eyes on the panel separating us from my people, narrowed in fierce concentration.
Someone on the other side held the weapon then. The entire place became quiet, so still that it seemed I could hear the slight inhales and exhales of the two Italians close to me. A string of murmured pleas and prayers seemed to slip in through the thin paneling, coming from the family.
Oh God, please.Don’t kill them, Brando. Don’t.I attempted to plead with him through some telepathic wavelength, from one soul to its mate.
I knew he was capable of it. After Nemours had punched me in the stomach, and I almost hemorrhaged due to the subsequent miscarriage, Violet had told me how he reacted to the woman who had found me, who had also told him to kiss me goodbye before it was too late. Violet had described him as a man who stood outside of himself, searching for his other half in a world that existed right outside of the living.
Other voices sounded from the room. Rocco and Dario. And a strange man was saying something—the woman’s husband? He was pleading for something—his wife’s life? Whatever he was saying piqued the French’s interests.
“She is not dead,” I heard Rocco say. “If what this man says is true, we need to keep looking,fratello. We waste too much time and we might lose ground.”
Brando must’ve used the man’s wife or daughter as leverage. Or that was what it seemed like. Brando was crazed. I could feel his energy. I knew when he stepped out of the villa, I would still feel it.
“She’s not dead,” Brando agreed. “I can still feel her.”
His voice bothered me. I could hear the panic in it, even if the French couldn’t. That didn’t bode well for me. He knew what type of people had abducted me, and they didn’t seem like the kind who had feelings—I hadn’t felt them because they didn’t seem to have any. The Italians had more than the French, but that wasn’t saying much.
The French smiled at this and put a hand to his heart in mock sensitivity.
“Take the family!” Rocco ordered in Italian. “Time to move.”
I wondered if the family would take him on a wild goose hunt? Take him far enough to give my captors time to flee? Or would Brando scare them enough to get the truth?
My heart lodged in my throat, the urge to scream strong. A few more seconds and he would be gone. All of them would.
This could be your last chance…
It could also be someone’s last breath if the French opened fire. He was in a better position for ambush.
I couldn’t chance it. So I sat, tears streaming down my face, as silent as a mouse cowering behind the wall.
The four of us idled for—twenty minutes? The house became quiet, a creak here and there. Settling. Probably releasing a breath of relief. It had gone untouched for the most part.
One of the Italians lifted a hand, went to speak, and the French moved like a strong surge of air, cupping a hand over his mouth, giving him a look that made the Italian’s eyes grow wide in the flickering light of the candle.
Someone stood close—Brando. I hadn’t felt him leave. The humming in my blood was the reason I trembled.
He sniffed loud enough for me to hear him. He wasn’t crying. Just the opposite. He was enraged.
“You have until dark to make this right. If my wife is not returned to me by then, hearts of the innocent are going to be lost.”
The two Italians met each other’s eye at the same time. It was hard to tell in the dimness, but their faces seemed paler and beads of crystal sweat started to pop out from their tan skin.
There was something exceptionally rank about two goons producing fear sweat. It infiltrated the air, mixing with damp mud and the still-strong scent of wet canvas in my nostrils. A deep breath was out of the question, so I attempted to breathe through my mouth. But it was almost as if I could taste the smell on my tongue. I was too afraid to even gag.
The Italians knew he meant business. Judging by their reaction, they had heard stories of his family. None of the men minded reaching in and stealing the heart out of a man’s chest. At that moment, Brando didn’t seem to mind either—his energy was that powerful.
He had vowedinnocent hearts, meaning family and friends.Not you, but those you love the most.Women included. The Faustis had rules. Touching women was one—they usually didn’t do it. But depending on the situation, certain concessions were made. If the Faustis felt revenge would be attempted, or one of their women had been harmed or killed, they would slaughter in her honor. I had read about it.
If Brando made the threat, he was giving them his word. Perhaps he was talking to the silence of the house. Or perhaps he felt I was close, and if there was a chance to be heard, he was going to take it.
“Ha!” The French breathed out. It was what someone would do when taking a hard breath, or blowing on a window to fog it up. He didn’t fear Brando like the Italians did. I doubted the French feared anything or anyone. This was a game to him. A situation he had to settle on the account of a failure—Nemours. I could see this guy getting off on his own pain. The French would want a ruthless death.
