Artur’s grip on my hip tightened, his anger rising. “Bite what you can swallow, old man.” His voice was low, almost menacing, and with that, he led me to the stairs.
“You look amazing, Miss Romero,” Leonid called out in a whisper. He spoke in Italian so Artur wouldn’t hear, but I suspected he did.
The words hung in the air, and I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to respond. I did, though. “Thank you,” I muttered.
Artur tightened his grip on me again, his silent fury clear in the way he held me. We walked away, but I couldn’t shake the weight of their exchange. Artur hated Italians. I knew that, but now it was clearer than ever. Could that be the reason he kidnapped me? Or was he thinking of me as a suspect? But suspect of what? I was innocent.
Still, I whispered, “I didn’t kill anyone.”
His grip on my waist never loosened.
“Maybe not yet,” he replied.
“You know I’m innocent.”
“Shut up,” he spat.
Whatever Leonid had said had struck a nerve. He was fuming, and he would take it out on me. I stopped before he entered a room.
My voice trembled as I asked, “Did Marco kill someone? Is that why I’m here? Because of him?”
Artur’s expression darkened as he grabbed my hand, pulling me toward the door with force. He slammed it shut behind us.
“I told you, you talk when I say so. Your job here was to smile and breathe.” His words cut through like a blade.
“But I did. I did as you asked. Please, tell me—” My voice broke, and a sob escaped before I could stop it. “Did Marco kill someone?”
A tear slid down my cheek, and I quickly wiped it away.
Artur’s eyes locked onto mine. “What will you do with the answer?”
“I just need to understand why this is happening to me.”
He moved closer, and my back hit the wall as he loomed over me. “I’ll give you a reason,” he said as he ran a hand roughly over my cheek. His touch was painful. He gripped my throat, tightening his hold. “I hate Italians. Every single one of you is an enemy, and you crossed my path. Does that answer you?”
“I’m innocent,” I choked with tears.
His smirk was chilling, and the weight gnawed at my insides. “I know. You’re innocent and useful. I’ll make sure all Italians know their place. And you know.” He curled his other hand around my hip, pulling me closer. I gasped when the space between us closed. “I’m glad I met you.”
The bitter taste of helplessness crept in. “I want to leave. You know I didn’t do anything—”
“Shh,” he pressed a finger against my lips. “When you cry like this, they’ll think I’m being rough.” I clenched my fist, fighting against the frustration that bubbled within me. But I didn’t havethe strength to fight this man. He released me. “Go wash up. You still need to smile.”
I stumbled out of the room, the weight bearing down on me. My heels echoed in the empty hallway, and before I knew it, I was on the rooftop, gasping for air.
The cool night wind did little to cool the fire burning inside me. I was suffocating. The tears I had been holding back for days finally spilled over, tracing the lines of my face.
God knows I tried to stay strong. I reminded myself I was innocent, but the flood of emotions overwhelmed me. My chest felt like it was caving in under the pressure of the memories.
The blood, the screams, and the lives lost around me. All the while, my life hung by a fragile thread. It was too much to bear. I cried until my body shook.
In the middle of my outbreak, a handkerchief appeared before me. I gasped, stepping back.
“You need this.”
It was an Italian. I should have been comfortable around my people, but Marco had poisoned that trust. This happened because of him, and I wasn’t about to fall into another trap. I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me cold.
“Marco wants to talk to you.”