“Jesus, woman. Stop fighting,” I said, my voice deliberately calm.
Her eyes flashed with hatred, dark and fierce in the moonlight. Even pinned beneath me, there wasn’t a trace of fear in them—only calculation and rage.
I could almost see her mind working, assessing options, looking for weaknesses. But to my utter surprise, I really couldn’t say if it was Mirabella Salvini or Isabella who was pinned under me.
“Vaffanculo!” she spat, her Italian words filled with emotion. “Get off me, you big, dumb oaf.”
I adjusted my grip, careful to apply just enough pressure to restrain without bruising. Her wrists were delicate beneath my fingers, a stark reminder of the physical advantage I had over her. The contrast bothered me more than it should have.
She tried bucking upward, but I held firm, my chest pressed against hers. I could feel her heart hammering, her breath coming in short, angry bursts. Despite the cold afternoon air, heat radiated between us.
I studied her face—the determined set of her jaw, the intelligence behind those defiant eyes—not just some helpless Mafia princess—there was something more there. Something that resonated with a part of me I didn’t even know was there.
That’s when I noticed the injury at her temple—a fresh cut with blood matting her dark hair. Something twisted unexpectedly in my chest. “You’re injured.”
Suddenly, this wasn’t just about the mission anymore. She was hurt, and somehow, that bothered me more than it should have.
I switched my hold, secured both her wrists in one hand, while checking her temple with the other.
“No shit.” Her struggles against me were both irritating and oddly compelling. Each calculated movement showed strength and intelligence—not just blind panic. She knew exactly what to do for maximum effect, even with her limited leverage.
“What did you expect, tackling me to the ground?”
She jerked her hand from my grip, dark eyes flashing with defiance. Then she brought her fingers up and touched the wound.
I grabbed her wrist again and pulled her arm back next to her head, to keep her from touching the bleeding wound with her dirty hands.
She struggled against me. “How about you let go of me?” she said, but her voice suddenly lacked oomph, and her skin color paled.
Shit.
“Stop moving before you make it worse,” I commanded and tightened my grip, but at the same time, I shifted most of my weight away from her and onto my arms while still keeping her pinned. “You’re white as a wall.”
“Well, I feel like a wall just rammed into me. So it kinda fits,” she snarled, but I could see exhaustion taking its toll on her. Or was it something more concerning? Did she hit her head when I tackled her to the ground?
“You’ve got a bleeding head wound. Why can’t you Salvinis ever do things the easy way?”
She stared at me with her beautiful dark brown eyes, which showed every single emotion but also her exhaustion.
“Maybe because we don’t want to play games with assholes like you?” She twisted her wrists in my grasp, but there was zero chance I would let go—could let go before we cleared the situation and came to an agreement. “If I let you stand up, are you going to behave?”
Her eyes turned stormy, which for some sick reason made me borderline giddy. I truly liked her fiery spirit.
“What do you think?” she said, her voice tinted with sarcasm.
“I think you’re going to make this difficult,” I said while tracing a small circle on her captured wrist with my thumb. The skin there was soft, vulnerable. Just like her. “I thinkyou’re going to try something stupid and get yourself hurt worse.”
Her eyes flashed with something—frustration or maybe recognition that I had her figured out. Then her body went slack beneath mine, head dropping back against the ground.
I watched the fight drain from her eyes, a momentary surrender that both relieved and concerned me. The tactical part of my brain appreciated the efficiency; the predator in me mourned the end of the chase. And the man with a mission was concerned about the “don’t harm them” policy that preceded the mission plan.
“No part of it fatigues me but getting off this horse, I assure you. I am very strong. Nothing ever fatigues me, but doing what I do not,” she muttered, her voice thick with exhaustion and defiance.
The words triggered an automatic response in me, a response from a lifetime ago, before blood and violence had consumed my world. A piece of freedom, of hope, of recluse I’d kept from when my mom read and quoted Jane Austen to me. My old life. Before the fighting, before the killing, before the Paraskia. Before everything changed.
I gave her a half-smile. My mother loved Jane Austen, and we’d made it a competition to throw in applicable quotes whenever possible.
“It is a pleasure to see a lady with such a good heart for riding! I never see one sit a horse better. She did not seem to have a thought of fear,” I replied.
