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"This is really good," she praises, filling up the fork again.

I like watching her eat. It's mesmerizing and soothing.

She flicks her fingers at me. "You need to eat too."

With a grin, I obediently do as she commands, surreptitiously watching her through half-lidded eyes. Her posture exudes so much grace, making me wonder how she would be in bed. Would she act like the proper lady she tries so hard to convey to the world, or would she let loose those baser instincts I saw gleaming in her eyes at the prospect of exacting revenge? Shit, now my dick is all hard again. I have no idea how she does that to me. I mean, yeah, she's a beautiful woman, very fuckable, but there is more to her. She intrigues me. Something about her calls to a deep, long-lost part inside me. Again, an image of that stupid bird rises in front of my eyes. That thing was so fragile. I want to shake my head at the boy who took it everywhere with him. Part of me wonders if I really managed to keep it alive or if that was just a fantasy made up by a child who so desperately wanted to save the damn bird.

"I'm not a victim. I fought, Antonio. It wasn’t enough, but I didn’t go down easy." She suddenly says vehemently.

"I never said you were." I tilt my head, wondering where she's going with this.

Her face flushes, as if she, too, is surprised by her sudden outburst. "I ripped the one guy's face open. With my shoe," she tells me.

Ah, I remember noticing that. I thought it was one of my men who did that. My little bird truly is full of surprises. I raise my wine glass to her. "Salute to a fighter."

Her hand reaches for her glass of wine, but she hesitates, biting her lower lip. "I don't know why I said that."

"Not everything has to have a reason." I clink my glass against hers. "But if you want to talk about it…" I noticed earlier that she didn't want to go into details with her father, and I respect that. "I'm a good listener."

"Thank you, but I'm good." Her chin juts out. She is stubborn. The more time I spend with her, the deeper she pulls me in. She’s not just beautiful; she’s layered and complex, dangerous in a way I didn't expect. There are more facets to her than on a ten-carat diamond, and for reasons I can't quite put my finger on, I'm very tempted to lay them all bare.

"I doubt that," I tell her. She looks up sharply, and I nod. "Whenever you're ready, I'm here."

She twirls the pasta on her plate, over and over, not looking at me. I imagine her mind going to dark places, confronting her demons. Sharply, she raises her head and looks at me. "You asked me if I want to hurt them."

I dab my lips with a napkin and wait her out.

"I do. I want to make them feel the fear and pain I felt. They made me… they made me…" She breaks off and shakes her head. The pain edged into her features gets to me. I know the look inher eyes, too. I see it in my own every time I look in the mirror and think about killing Carlos.

She's a civilian, though. She's not Cosa Nostra. I don't think she's quite ready to torture or kill a man. There's a spark in her that says, maybe one day, but not yet.

I toss the napkin on the table. "I have an idea, come on."

"What is it?" She looks nervous now. Good, she should be.

She rises, but sways slightly, shit, for a moment I had forgotten how weak she still is. It doesn’t matter; this will only take a few minutes. I pick her up.

"I can walk, you know," she protests.

"Save you energy for what I have in mind," I reply, walking with her to the basement, realizing my words could be interpreted in two ways, as my dick can attest to.

"The basement is actually bigger than the house," I tell her as I walk with her down the stairs. Realizing too late that this might bring some traumatic memories back, I keep talking. "It's kind of a bunker. My old man had this end-of-the-world fear. Not zombies or aliens, but like a nuclear attack or an asteroid hit."

I have no idea why I'm telling her this. Only a few people know about the secret survival bunker Dad ordered built. I haven't had the heart to change it yet, but I do have some plans for it. That's not where I'm taking her, though. I turn left at the base of the stairs, down a long corridor.

"This is a big place," Scarlet says, taking in the many doors on either side of the corridor. "Please tell me you're not keeping prisoners behind those."

I chuckle, "I don't bring work home, passerotta."

"You called me that before. What does it mean?"

"Little sparrow," I say, not willing to elaborate. "Here," I open the last door leading straight into my private shooting range.

The wall to the left is lined with counters and cabinets, which are filled with weapons of all kinds and ammunition.

Across from it is the open range. "Have you ever shot a gun before?"

Her lips are parted in a perfectO, her eyes are wide as saucers, and she slowly shakes her head.