He bent over and retched all over the floor, nothing in his stomach but acid. I lifted myself off of him at once, realizing then that not only was his arm broken and shoulder dislocated, but so was his right leg.
Brando’s breathing increased, coming out of him in hard gasps. Sweat poured from his skin, almost drowning him. His black hair dripped droplets like crystal rain.
For a moment, I was temporarily stunned into paralysis. I didn’t know where to touch him or how to approach him again. The men were too close to even whisper in his ear.
Violent spasms shook his body, making the fetters clink together. I wasn’t sure what was scarier, the thought that he would go on this way, not able to stop because the pain was too great, or that these two monsters would hurt him again.
I scooted closer to him, on hands and knees, and attempted to get him to look at me.
“He is useless,” the French said. “Could not get it up even if he tried.”
I ignored the French, using the softest touch possible to caress Brando’s overheated face, to run my hands through his hair.
Brando said something sharp to me in Sicilian. It wasn’t the words, but the way he had spoken them. It was downright frightening.
“What did he say?” I asked the French.
The French grinned down at me, an evil sneer to his face. “You stink like a fucking whore. You touch him once more and you will only be able to hear out of one ear.”
Dammit, Brando, look at me!He refused to meet my eye, or couldn’t.
Think, Scarlett!I balled my hands into fists, my nails cutting into flesh.
I cleared my throat. “Once there was a boy who lived in a small town,” I sang, my voice off pitch, doing the best I could to keep a French accent as the melody came forward. “The boy’s name was Elliott, the boy who could not hear.” I carried the “hear” out to buy some time.
Brando became still. Slowly, oh so slowly, he raised his head and his eyes met mine.
That’s it. Keep your eyes on mine, mio marito.
“Ah, Natchitoches was his home until the day he died.”
The two guards moved in closer. I could feel their wariness; it came from them like rank perspiration.
We are here to save you,I signed.
“Get up!” the French ordered.
The Italian yanked me up by the arm, not waiting for me to get up on my own.
Five minutes—how long had it been? Not long enough.
The two men shoved me between each other, both asking me questions at the same time. Brando said something from below that made the two men pause.
The French went to kick at him, but I shoved him. “Don’t touch him again!” I hissed, attempting to wedge my body in front of Brando’s.
The Italian man responded to Brando’s words, yanking me forward. Then he stuck his tongue in my ear. I went to shove him, but it was no use. Both men were rock solid.
“You came for him but will get us,” the French said, leering at Brando. The Italian repeated the French’s words in Sicilian, knowing Brando didn’t have the language.
The noise that came from Brando’s throat sounded animalistic, almost feral.
“I will go first,” the French said. “Out of all we have done to him, this might hurt the most. He has never even whimpered. Now he will. When he watches as I fuck this whore so hard that she bleeds. He seems tolikeher.”
He began to shove me into a corner, about to untie the ribbons around the crotch of the outfit, but he couldn’t get a handle on me. I slipped to the floor, stood up, and then lunged onto the Italian’s back as he went for the door. We were so close to freedom that I could taste it.
He attempted to buck me off. The wig flew off, landing in a heap on the floor. The Frenchman, shouting at the Italian to stop going in circles so he could grab me, stepped close to Brando.
Brando—his skin much too pale for such a dark man—stood, using the back of the wall as a brace. He wrapped his arms around the French’s neck, pulling back. No matter how hard the French hit him, Brando pulled harder. He was pulling from some reserve, a demented animal in the throes of killing, fighting until his last breath.
