Page 14 of Dangerous King (Savage Kings of New York #2)

I wonder how much more of the Giordanos' mistreatment of her she will divulge if I keep pressing her.

However, my anger at them is already at a boiling point, and I'm afraid that if I find out more, I might not stop at Giovanni's death, which would not be in my family's best interest. Edoardo's call this morning was a summons.

He wants to see me. After I hung up with him, my father called.

He wants to see me, too. And I still have to deal with Kingsley.

All of this means I don't have time to be sidetracked.

Still, it's hard not to press the woman further. She is so painfully thin, and now that I understand why, the urge to punish Giovanni and his entire rotten family is growing by the second.

"Alright, so you heard them talk about Izzy?" I press on, not wanting to hear what else the Giordanos did to her. Not right now. Later, I will have her tell me every detail so I can file it away. I want to know everything they did to her. And I will pay Giovanni back with interest.

I don't know why I'm reacting this way. Why I feel an urge to protect her, why I feel so drawn to her; she isn't even my type. Too young, too.

I try to tell myself it's because she saved Izzy, but that's a lie.

Once she puts a little bit more meat on her bones, she will be the most stunning woman I've ever laid eyes on.

Her beauty alone isn't what's getting to me, though—beautiful women throw themselves at me every day—there's more.

Her gracefulness, her inner strength, the bravery and defiance she kept like a prisoner inside her.

She nods. "Yes. I heard them say they were waiting for Ringo." A shudder moves through her. Ringo was the Giordano's enforcer. Like all Enforcers, he was a ruthless sack of shit. "One time he came to the house, and they tortured a man for days, his screams…" She lowers her head and shakes it.

More anger rises. Not that I haven't done or witnessed my share of torture, but to bring it to the house? His home? Where his women live? Fuck, that's a line I'd never cross. Ever.

My prisoners are held in a warehouse, just in case their people come looking for them. I would never do anything that might risk an attack at my house, where my family lives.

"It was terrible, and when they mentioned a young girl… I couldn't… I just couldn't stand by." Her eyes are wide and open, staring right into mine. I don't see any trace of deceit in them. Their amber color beckons me.

To distract me from where my mind is going, I shoot the next question at her, "You were staying with the Giordanos as a hostage." It's not a question, and I don't wait for her to confirm. "Weren't you afraid of the repercussions to your family if you helped my sister?"

"I've been afraid of them for the last fourteen years of my life.

" She straightens, showing me the backbone that made her go down those basement stairs.

"Last night… I realized the Giordanos would kill me and my family one day anyway.

If my father couldn't get reelected or if something happened to him, or for whatever reason he wouldn't be an asset to Giovanni any longer, he would kill all of us. "

Her chin lifts, making me notice the stubborn streak to it. "There was nothing I could do about it. But I thought maybe if I could save this girl, your sister, Izzy, I might be able to get back to Sicily, to warn my family. I was hoping that maybe we could run."

"Did you know who she was?"

She shakes her head. "No. I just thought… I thought maybe if we could get away, I could call my family. Tell them I'd escaped and that they needed to run. You see, that's how Giovanni kept us all in place. If I had run, he would have killed my family. If my family had run, he would have killed me."

She impresses me more with every word she utters. I admire how raw and honest she is. The steel in her spine, even when her voice trembles.

"Your family is not Cosa Nostra?" I already know the answer, but I need to hear it again from her.

"No. My father was never involved with the Cosa Nostra. He fought them until…"

"Until they took you."

She nods, her eyes darting away from me.

I've seen it before; she's acting on instinct to hide her pain and quiet rage from me.

The thought of what her life has been like for the past fourteen years makes my blood boil.

Her answers are cautious, and now and then she flinches, like she's still expecting someone to slap her for speaking.

It's the way trauma speaks, and I recognize it too well.

I'm trying to be patient. Until she shifts her hand. And I see it.

I blink, slowly, then look again to be sure I'm not imagining it.

On her right hand, her pinky's gone. The last knuckle is clean. Scarred over.

What the fuck .

A slow-burning rage rises like smoke in my chest. "Cat." My voice is low and hoarse. "What happened to your hand?"

She flinches and pulls it back, tucking it into the folds of her lap like that might erase what I saw. "It's nothing. It was… years ago."

" Cat. " I lean in, eyes locked on hers. "What. Happened."

She hesitates. Then, quietly, she says, "Giovanni did it. My father lost an election, and Giovanni wanted to remind him what was at stake."

I go still.

Not just still, ramrod still. My jaw tightens until it aches. Giovanni. That fucking bastard. He did that to her. Her! Cat . A child, at the time, judging by the scar tissue. An innocent. Just trying to survive his goddamn house of horrors.

God help me, I'm glad I left him alive.

Because now? I'm going to make sure he suffers. Really suffers. And he'll know exactly why. Cutting off this girl's finger means he bought himself a slow death—a personal one.

"You don't hide that from me," I growl, reaching gently to pull her hand back out. "You don't ever hide from me."

She looks down, ashamed. "It's ugly. I know. I used to wear gloves when I was younger. I didn't want anyone to see. It made people stare."

"Let them stare," I snap. "You didn't do this. He did. And I swear to God, Cat, he's going to pay."

My thumb runs gently over the ridge where her finger used to be.

She shudders but doesn't pull away this time.

"You're not damaged," I say. "You're a survivor. And that scar? That's proof. But he, he's going to wish he'd never laid eyes on you."

She nods, small and unsure, but she's listening. And I can see it in her eyes; she's not used to anyone being angry for her.

But I am.

And I will be.

For as long as she lets me.

I take a deep breath. Now comes the hard part. The shift from personal to tactical. I hate that I have to pull her into this, but I don't have a choice. And she deserves to know the truth, not just about what happened, but what comes next.

I keep her hand in mine, my thumb still brushing over the scar.

"Do you understand why I need you now?"

Another nod. "Yes. You attacked another family of the Cosa Nostra, and Don Edoardo will not be happy about it. You need me to tell him that Giovanni kidnapped your sister, because her statement won't… they won't believe it. She's your sister."

My eyes drop without permission. The curve of her chest rises with every inhale she takes, soft and full. The pink flesh swelling at the edge of her shirt tempts me—no, it fucking taunts me. My fingers twitch, craving the texture of her skin, the weight of her breast in my palm.

Fuck. Where is my head going? I've never been this distracted by a woman before. Yet here I am, wondering how her nipple would feel against my tongue while discussing a potential war.

"If I testify," she says quietly, hopefully unaware of my lascivious thoughts, "Don Edoardo will punish Giovanni, and I can return to my family."

She doesn't know. She doesn't realize that I took Giovanni. He's still alive, for now. But he can't hurt her anymore. Or ever.

"I don't want there to be any misunderstandings," I say, my voice colder now. "Giovanni is in my hands. But his son, Roberto…" Her mouth twitches. A barely-there tell. What did that fucker do to her? I stiffen. "...has already called Don Edoardo, crying for retribution."

She pales. Her throat bobs as she swallows. "But then… then my family. Me?"

I lean forward slightly, let the weight of my presence press against her like heat from a fire she's too close to. Not touching. But close enough to feel the danger.

"You're not safe," I say plainly. "Not yet. Not until this is over. And not until I decide what happens next."

Her fingers grip the edge of the chair so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

She's scared, like she should be. But she doesn't cry.

She doesn't beg. She holds herself together like a soldier bracing for the next strike.

I should offer her reassurance. Tell her no one will touch her or her family now that they're under my watch. But I don't. Not yet.

She needs to understand the cost of stepping into this world. The weight of the protection I've just promised her. Because once you're under my shield, there's no walking away.

There's another part of me, too. One that finds something dangerously alluring in the way she shakes, but refuses to break.

Her pupils dilate, and her face pales. She's terrified, and still— still —she meets my gaze.

I lean forward without thinking, gripping her perfectly folded hands in her lap.

The moment I touch her, electricity arcs up my arm and punches low in my gut, straight through to my cock.

Her head rises, bringing us eye to eye, and for a second, the air between us shifts.

Close. Too close. Close enough to see the tiny freckles across her nose.

The gentle part of her lips. I can practically feel her breath against my mouth, warm and sweet.

I want to kiss her. No, I want to devour her. I want her to be mine in ways I've never wanted anyone before. The vision terrifies me more than anything else in this fucking mess.

Her eyes, wide and uncertain, pull me back.