"You touched what is mine," Rodrigo stated, his voice devoid of emotion. "You hurt her with these hands."
The knife flashed down. Once. Twice. Brutally efficient as he severed tendons, bone, and flesh. The screams reached an inhuman pitch, then cut off abruptly as the man passed out from the agony.
Rodrigo didn't stop until both hands, severed cleanly at the wrists, lay like discarded meat on the concrete floor beside the twitching, unconscious body. Blood pumped rhythmically from the stumps, spreading in a dark, viscous pool.
Rodrigo stood up, wiping his blade clean on the unconscious man's shirt. He looked down at his handiwork for a second, his expression unreadable, then left it there.
Rodrigo walked toward the cage. The fury hadn't left his eyes, but it had banked, replaced by something else far more terrifying.
Giana shivered uncontrollably, adrenaline crashing with shock and the sheer, overwhelming reality of his presence.
He was here. He had heard her prayer and had come for her. He was covered in the blood of her enemies, and he was still the most beautiful, terrifying thing she had ever seen.
Rodrigo reached the cage and shattered the crude padlock securing the door with a single, savage kick from his heavy boot. He crouched down and pulled the door open. He took in every injury, every bruise, every sign of violation with a scrutiny that felt almost physical. His jaw tightened, a muscle leaping in his cheek, but his touch was unexpectedly gentle.
Large, strong hands, still smeared with blood, reached for her. One slid carefully behind her shoulders, the other beneath her knees. He gathered her up, lifting her from the cold, gritty floor of the cage. He cradled her against his chest, his body a solid wall of heat and muscle and violence.
The contact sent shockwaves through Giana's battered system. It was comfort and confinement, salvation and branding, all rolled into one. The cold emptiness and fear inside her were replaced by the terrifying, all-consuming warmth of his possession.
Her body betrayed her, melting into his hold despite the screaming protests from her injuries. A small, broken sound escaped her lips that wasn't quite a sob or a sigh.
Giana buried her face against the warm skin of his neck, breathing in the smell of him beneath the blood andviolence: leather, expensive cologne, and something uniquely, intrinsically Rodrigo.
He shifted Giana's weight, holding onto her more securely. His thumb brushed gently over her temple, avoiding the worst of the swelling around her cheek.
His voice, when he spoke, was a low rumble that vibrated through his chest and into hers. It was stripped of the killing calm, replaced by a raw tenderness that cracked something open inside her.
"You are safe now,anima mia," he murmured, the Italian endearment falling from his lips. "I have you."
The words, so simple, so absolute, shattered the last of her fragile control. Tears spilled over, hot and silent, tracking through the grime and dried blood on her cheeks.
Safe. The relief was a physical ache, deeper than any wound.
"And you said we wouldn't need explosives, but that door proved otherwise. Lucky for you, I didn't listen," a woman's voice said smugly.
Giana recognized the bloody face instantly as Athena Edgeworth. Other faces appeared in the gloom: Leo, Dante, Kon Zalam… Rodrigo had brought them all to save her. She could hardly believe her eyes.
The group moved through the building with the fluid coordination of people who had survived things together that couldn't be explained to outsiders. She had heard the stories about them, but whatever had forged this crew had made them something more than mercenaries.
Giana lifted her head slightly, wincing at the movement, to look at Rodrigo. His face was close, his eyes holding hers with an intensity that stole her breath.
"I'm…" Her voice was a raspy ruin, barely audible. She swallowed, tasting blood and salt. She forced the words out, needing him to understand. "They are Sicilian, or were hired bythem. They want the name. The money." She tried to shake her head, but it sent fresh pain lancing through her jaw. "I just… I don't know which family they were working for."
Rodrigo's gaze didn't waver. There was no surprise, no flicker of doubt, only an unwavering, terrifying certainty. He shifted her weight, preparing to carry her out of the charnel house.
"Doesn't matter which fucking family it was," he stated, his voice dropping lower. His eyes held hers, dark and fathomless, promising shelter and storm in equal measure. "You're coming home with me."
6
Rodrigo sat slumped in the worn leather chair behind his massive desk. The polished surface was littered not with ledgers or maps of territories, but with sleek, matte-black monitors.
One displayed a live feed from the infirmary wing of Giana's bed, her form covered by crisp white sheets, an IV line snaking from her bandaged hand to a bag of clear fluid hanging beside her.
Her face was swollen, and her left hand was bandaged, the tips of her fingers peeking out, raw and red where nails had been ripped away.
Rodrigo had scrubbed the blood off his skin, but he couldn't scrub the images of her hurt from his mind.
He forced his gaze to the adjacent monitor. This one pulsed with clean, clinical lines: heart rate, respiration, blood oxygen saturation, blood pressure. Green numbers flickered steadily. Normal.Alive.He tried to reassure himself that Giana was safe here under his roof, but his body wouldn't listen.
