He turns his face toward the window, hands fisting the blanket.
“Was he the one who hurt you?” My balled-up hands shake at the memory of the multiple scars I saw on his back.
He nods. His fingers go to his bruised temple. A light touch, and he drops them back on the blanket. “When something bad happens,” he suddenly says with a flat tone. “I need to distract myself.”
“Punishing you is on my agenda,” I let him know. And it will happen soon.
“Hold your testicles there. I have been kicked and punched by three shitbags, that is punishment enough. Plus, you know I wasn’t trying to escape, I left a note! I stuck it to Nacho’s collar since he was, as always, sitting outside the bathroom door while you were taking a shower. And do you really think I’d ever leave my dog with you?”
I bend down, getting so close to his face that he has to press his head back against the wall.
“That’s not the fucking point here,” I snarl. My hand is itching to grab him around his neck, but the loud scream coming from outside the door reminds me where we are.
“What’s that?” He frowns as I straighten up.
“The shitbags.” I guess it’s time. “Put your clothes on.” I point at the garments on the side of the bed. Doc had to remove his jacket, sweater, and skirt to check on him. The stockings he was wearing were torn, and his boots ruined.
He quickly finishes the burger, enjoying a couple of fries, and then slowly sits and grabs the kilt-like, thick, yellow-and-pink skirt. The mesh shirt he’s wearing does nothing to hide his piercings, and that skirt is barely covering him. It would be all too easy to hike above his waist. He’s super picky about what he wears, and it takes him forever to get ready—and thenthat’swhat he chooses?
“I have seventy-five pairs of shoes at my place, four at yours,” he announces for some reason, pulling on the black sweater. “And here I have none!” He stares with a scrunched-up nose at the plastic slides near the bed.
“Go barefoot then, but move,” I deadpan.
He glares at me and stands up, swaying so hard I have to wrap an arm around his waist to stop him from falling.
“Be fucking careful,” I rumble before letting him go.
Silently, he wears the slides and that hideous fringed jacket before following me out of the room. We walk down the corridor, Vince nods at me when we reach the main room where the two Coretti guys are hanging from the ceiling, shirtless. Blood covers part of their face and torso. Carlo is punching one of them in the gut, the thick metal chains around the man’s wrists rattle every time he takes a hit. I stop ten feet away from them with Art next to me. He’s looking at them with an empty gaze, lacking any emotions. I expected anger, fear, disgust, but he doesn’t show any of that.
“This view is one I’ve seen a few times,” he says. “My old man is not the only one who likes to command with an iron fist.”
Is he comparing me to his piece of shit of a father? He should be more careful. The beast inside me is ready to play.
“That iron fist will come down soon.” I pause. “The third one escaped. He was an Enzino soldier.”
Art
My head still feels a little foggy, better than when I woke up, but my tongue can’t relay any thoughts. Am I saying this out loud? My eyes dart around. No. I’m good.
I’m in a warehouse, probably near the port; the smell of ocean and fish is strong. There are some wooden crates and large plastic trays piled up on one side of the large room, and a few closed metal doors on the right. Two men I’ve never seen are sitting around a table; they stood up when Luca and I entered, so I assume they are soldiers. The place feels cold and creepy. The two beaten men dangling from the ceiling add to the eeriness—Coppola is hanging by his feet, short guy from his hands.
I’m not really used to this scenario, but I don’t seem to feel anything right now. They must have given me something very strong; I’ve always been very sensitive to painkillers, though. They sort of numb not only my body but my brain as well. But I’m slowly getting its functions back. I remember my phone, but when I stealthily slid my hand into my panties before, it wasn't there. Did Luca find it? He would have gotten rid of me already if that was the case. Did I drop it, then? Did craggy face take it when he ran away? And what is my father going to do when he gets his hands on me? Right now, though, the question that needs an urgent answer is: what’s up with Luca?
From the outside looking in, his ice-cold demeanor seems intact, but I can see the cracks forming on the facade, and the layers and layers of assholeness wrapped around him. It scares me. Something is off. When I woke up, seeing his bunched-up eyebrows aimed at me created such warmth inside my chest. His subtle hints of attentiveness, peeking from beneath that cold anger that he wears like a second skin with his rough, unpolished ways, almost made me giggle with happiness.
Happiness. Warmth. Is this a side effect of the painkiller?
Being taken by those men this morning—whether they were Coretti’s or Enzino’s—it would have meant never seeing Luca again. The thought almost guts me. Oh crap, am I into him? Not only his dick. Him. The vindictive wacko. The ruthless gangster. The bleeding man.
When he asked if Mario was the sick, sick fuck who hurt me, the urge to simply tell him everything, every bit of it, washed over me like an unexpectedly large wave on a calm shore. But I didn’t, not wanting to add more fuel to the blazing flames.
Oh crap, I am into him! I’m truly fucked. Fear and denial spread quickly inside my chest. My heart is racing, my mouth feels dry and it’s kind of hard to breathe. I must’ve made some betraying sound, or some unconscious motion, because Luca suddenly turns his attention to me.
“Have you ever seen them before?” he asks, his gaze firmly on Carlo working the two men.
“No.” I swallow down the ball stuck inside my throat. The air around us has suddenly turned thick.
“Why were they getting heavy with you?”