“Fuck!” he says, giving me a quick look.That bad?
My eyes move to the fight scene again.Coppola moves forward, kicking low, aiming for Luca’s legs. Luca jumps over the kick and punches him. I hear a couple of ribs breaking before he aims for the face, sending the man to the ground. He slides one of his knives out, the sight making me cower and shiver. It’s an instinctive, reflexive response that I can usually control. Not right now, though.
Luca hunches down and gestures for Jeff to come closer. His man pushes the muzzle of the gun to Coppola’s head while Luca grabs his hand.
“Was this the hand that touched him?” he hisses viciously in the angry man’s face.
“Fuck you!” Coppola spits out.
Wrong answer,I think, squeezing my eyes and hands, while dropping my head on my bent knees just before a scream leaves the thug’s mouth. Then I hear noises I can’t easily translate, like someone who’s been forced to stay still. Another cry. And another. Wailing sobs follow and screams.
I don’t know how much time passes, but my head feels like floating, and my body is weak. I think a hand runs delicately through my hair just before I’m lifted up in the air. My head lolls on the side, and I get a glimpse of a large red stain covering the ground near Coppola’s hand, or where there used to be a hand. My face is pushed into a wide chest, and it covers everything else around me. Those big pecs make me feel inexplicably protected. The warmth of the sun is on his clothes—mmm—and the smellcoming off him of tobacco and lavender are a dark temptation mixed with safety.
He’s dangerous to me in a new, completely different way now. A much more lethal one.
“Luca,” I call out to him just before everything turns black.
Luca
Doc closes his bag. “Put this on your knuckles as well,” he tells me before leaving, placing the ointment on the foot of the bed near the Band-Aids.
I look at Art sleeping. I’m so fucking mad at him. There are two trashed men in the other room that can vouch for that—the third one escaped while I was busy slicing fingers.
My hand slides into my jacket pocket, curling around my broken necklace. Doc found it in Art’s hand; he had tightened his fist around it, even unconscious. I didn’t even realize I lost it until I saw it on his little palm. I had it while I took a shower this morning so it must have fallen while I was fighting with those fuckers. I could have lost it. Why did he take it? Finding it safely lying in his hand made me feel unsettled. Enzinos taint everything they touch, then why do I feel grateful to him? So damn confusing and infuriating.
I move closer to the bed. A blond, unruly lock of hair fell on his forehead. I brush it away, staring at the large bruise and cuts.He has more on his torso, but nothing is broken—even though it looks like he took a pretty vicious hit in the ribs. Coretti fuckers.
Why I am so disturbed by all this is beyond my comprehension. I hate when people disobey me, especially when things get out of hand. Because of his cute and soft appearance, I keep forgetting how snarky and sharp he is. I told him to stay, but he left, and this is what happens for disobeying me once again.
So why did I turn murderous when I saw that asshole with his hand up his skirt? And when I realized he was all beaten up, lying on the ground, all I could think about was mutilating and pulverizing. Where is this uncontrollable fury coming from? This protectiveness? I feel overwhelmed by it. Ten days ago, I was the one slapping him around, and now? I still want to spank the hell out of him, but only because I know he wants it. Only me.
Porca puttana.
These feelings are just wrong. After what I discovered today, I know they are. So, why do I have them? I never wonder about the reasons behind my emotions, my actions. I’m not into inner-searching and all that psychoanalysis bullshit. But I have to ask myself: why him?Perché? What does he have that is different from others?
“Are you trying to get a personal best on your Fitbit, babydoll?”
His raspy voice makes me halt my pacing. I quickly close the distance between us, ready to open him a new one. But as I bend down he misunderstands and stretches his arms to hug me. It’s an intimate gesture, too intimate for us. Doc said he gave him something for the pain that would muddle his head a little, maybe even loosen his tongue. I shouldn’t hug him back, butmy arms close around him anyway. He feels so dainty against me, smelling of blood and apples. I find I’m sniffing his soft hair and closing my eyes while I’m at it. When I hear him sigh contentedly, I abruptly let go.
“Where the fuck were you going, eh?” I hiss in his face, trying to get a hold of myself.
“To buy donuts.” He grabs my cheeks and kisses the scar on my nose, looking not even a smidge afraid of me.
What the hell is he doing? “Donuts?” I pull away, fisting my hands.
“If there’s no rest for the wicked, why do I keep passing out?” he muses next, looking around the room.
What the fuck is he saying now? Did that medicine sloth-brain him? Or is he simply fucking with me?
“You got hit on the head, but there’s no sign of concussion,” I explain between gritted teeth.
“Where am I?”
“Nowhere,” I clip, grabbing the ointment jar.
“That explains the decor.” He points at the chair with the bowl of bloody water on top—which Doc used to clean a couple of Art’s cuts—the barely standing table, and the old single bed where he’s lying down.
We are in a warehouse that the Leones use for torturing and interrogating. This room is here in case of a long night or longer day.
