And now we were all paying for it.
Sergio paced for what felt like hours, muttering plans and promises under his breath, before stopping and turning toward me with that same gentle, unhinged smile.
“You’re dirty,” he said softly, almost sadly. “Covered in his touch. His scent. We need to fix that.”
Before I could react, he grabbed my arm and pulled me up from the couch with surprising strength. I stumbled after him as he dragged me down a dark hallway toward what looked like an old bathroom. The tiles were cracked and stained, the bathtub ancient and rust-ringed, but water still ran from the faucet when he turned it on.
“No,” I whispered, panic spiking as steam began to rise. “Sergio, don’t…”
“Shhh, my love.” His voice was eerily calm, almost soothing. “I have to clean you. Make you pure again. For us. For the baby.”
He started pulling at my clothes with careful, methodical hands, like he was undressing a doll rather than a terrified woman. I fought him then, really fought, twisting and kicking, my nails raking across his arms.
“Stop!” I screamed. “Don’t touch me!”
But he was stronger. Madness and obsession gave him a terrifying kind of power. He pinned my wrists with one hand and continued undressing me with the other, humming that broken wedding march again.
When I was naked and shivering, he lifted me into the tub like I weighed nothing. The water was scalding. I gasped at the heat, but he held me down gently, almost tenderly, as he began washing me with a rough cloth.
“See?” he murmured. “I’m being gentle. I don’t want to hurt you. I just need to get him off you. All of him.”
Tears streamed down my face as his scarred hands moved over my body. The contrast between his gentle tone and reverent touches against the horror of his ruined face was unbearable. When his hand lingered too long on my stomach, something inside me snapped.
I lunged forward and jammed my fingers hard into the destroyed side of his face.
My nails sank into the thick scar tissue, digging into the raw, ruined flesh where Santino’s bullet had torn through him. Sergio screamed, a raw, animal sound of pain and rage, but I didn’t stop. I clawed deeper, feeling the grotesque texture give way under my fingers, warm blood slicking my hand.
“You did this!” I screamed, sobbing. “This is what Santino did to you! And it’s my fault! But I won’t let you touch me!”
For a moment, pure agony flashed across what remained of his face. Then the madness surged back stronger than before. He grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip and yanked my hand away, blood dripping from the fresh wounds I’d torn open.
His breathing was ragged, the good side of his mouth twisted in a snarl while the ruined side leaked blood down his neck.
“Bad girl,” he rasped, voice trembling with pain and something darker. “Stupid little girl. I was being gentle. I was trying to love you.”
He shoved me back against the tub, water sloshing over the sides, and pinned me there with his body. Blood from his face dripped into the bathwater, turning it pink.
“You’ll learn,” he whispered against my ear, his breath hot and metallic. “You’ll learn to be good for me. Even if I have to break you first.”
I sobbed helplessly as he continued washing me, his touch no longer quite so gentle, the water turning darker with his blood and my tears.
Santino had created a monster.
And I was trapped in the nightmare with him.
Chapter Twenty-Three: SANTINO
Theconvoyslicedthroughthe night like a blade forged in hell itself. Blacked-out SUVs roared along the private coastal road leading to my father’s fortified estate, headlights cutting through the darkness like predatory eyes. I sat rigid in the back seat beside Leo, the silence between us heavier than lead.
The weight of Angelo’s watch, now on Matteo’s wrist, still haunted my skin where it used to rest.
My cousin, the Serpent, stared straight ahead, his profile carved from cold marble under the passing streetlights. He hadn’t said much since we sealed our uneasy alliance at the docks. Neither had I. Words were useless now. Only blood would speak tonight.
Aurora was out there. Pregnant with my child. Taken.
The thought clawed at my insides like barbed wire, twisting deeper with every mile. I pictured her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, those fierce eyes that had once challenged me in a devil mask now wide with fear. My hands curled into fists on my thighs.
Edoardo Moretti’s compound emerged from the shadows like a monument to arrogance. Marble fountains gleamed under floodlights, perfectly manicured hedges lined the long drive, and armed guards patrolled the perimeter. It was the kind of place built to project power, but tonight it felt like a tomb waiting to be filled.
