Page 28 of Italian Mafia Boss's Virgin Lover

Mycastle. I’ve been here long enough to know it. Not every hidden passageway, not every sealed chamber—but most of it. It’s opened up to me like a flower, and now my knowledge of it is the only thing standing between me and the grave.

So I run. I twist through the labyrinthine hallways, through doors and corridors, up stairs and down, deeper and deeper until the castle has consumed me. I run until I can’t hear the gunfire or the shouting. I run until I’m steeped in thick, velvet solitude.

Rain batters the lead windows, thunder howling through the mountains. I stop to orient myself, choking on my own labored breath. I’m drenched in sweat, but it’s so cold in the castle that it begins to cool on my cheeks, my back.

I’m near Vittorio’s wing, the forbidden wing. Of all the places to hide in the castle, it may be the best. There aren’t any light fixtures in there, so it has to be navigated in candlelight. With all the thick velvet drapes closed, no daylight will break in, and the hulking furniture is draped with sheets. I’ll be able to hide. It’s my best shot.

I ease the door open and rush inside, racing down the familiar halls, which I remember from my first illicit visit. It’s then I hear a shout. It’s far enough away to be indiscernible, but close enough that I can hear it through the doors closed behind me.

Not good.

I look down, eyes adjusting to the bruised, dusk-like light. Horror bites through me.

The floor is covered in dust. My bare feet have left a clear trail straight through it—obvious enough that it would only take a bright flashlight beam to track me. I bite my cheek. Hear footsteps crashing down a hallway above me.Think, I command myself.Think!

My eyes find a notched bookshelf, half-covered by a white sheet. It looks sturdy enough. The furniture aligned along the walls is packed close together.

It’s a crazy idea. But it might be enough.

Somewhere outside the doors, something is upset. Porcelain or glass shatters cacophonously in the hallway, followed by a violent shouting back and forth between men. Allies? Enemies? Both?

I rush forward, leaving a clear trail of footprints. I don’t stop until I reach a towering double-breasted wardrobe. I yank the sheet conspicuously aside and creak open the door—but I don’t climb in.

Instead I turn back, retracing my footsteps as best I can in the near-dark. When I reach the bookshelf, I take a deep breath and carefully begin to climb up it. It teeters, but only slightly, and I don’t have time to rethink my strategy. Instead, I begin picking my way across hulking pieces of furniture: an armoire, a table, a chest, a wardrobe, a vanity. I creep all the way around the enormous room, passing two arched windows. I stop at the second, peeling back the dust-choked drape.

From this side of the castle, the drive is clearly visible.

Packed with cars, new ones arriving as I watch. I recognize Dario’s car, the one Santo most likely left in early this morning. Gunfire peppers the air. Men in black are rushing between the cars. It’s all-out war. I only hope Santo isn’t too late.

The door to the west wing slams open.

I swallow a gasp, quickly shutting the drape, steeping the corridor in darkness once more. I’m crouched on a table. I lean over the long, coffin-like chest in front of me, peeling it open as gingerly as I can. I’ve only just slipped into the dusty, moth-ball littered darkness and closed the lid overhead when I hear the voices.

“Gregorio,” someone says sharply. “They’re here.”

A low, amused chuckle. “Finally.” They speak in Italian, but I’ve picked up enough to understand. “Go on. Rally the men. Keep those bastards out of the castle until I’m done.”

Done?Fear paralyzes me, like a fist around my throat.

“Yes, sir.” Footsteps follow the voice, and then—silence. Brittle as ice.

Terror vibrates through my veins. My entire body is shaking, my breath coming in desperate little gulps. I clamp both hands over my mouth, trying in vain to muffle the sound. It seems an eternity passes before Gregorio begins to walk.

“I know you’re in here,signorina,” he coos in perfect English. His voice sounds closer than it did before. “You left me a little trail, Daniella. You led me right to you.”

He’s so close I can feel his voice in my ribs. Silence seeps into the room, his footsteps stalled. I don’t dare breathe, my heart clenched tight as a fist. Maybe I’ll suffocate in here, trying to save my own life. Maybe this chest will truly become my coffin.

Then I hear his footsteps, moving quietly away.

“Come out, love,” Gregorio calls, and now his voice isn’t beside me, but deeper into the chamber, beyond the wall where I climbed up the shelf. “Come on. Let’s make this easy on your precious Santo, why don’t we? Give yourself to me, and maybe I’ll be persuaded to be gentle.”

His voice is far now. Is he following the trail I left for him? I don’t have time to wonder. And I can’t stay here. It’s now or never.

I press open the lid of the chest, easing it as slowly as I can. A bobbing light appears at the far end of the corridor. Soon Gregorio will happen upon the wardrobe. Open it. Find no one inside—and begin looking everywhere else.

I creep out, suddenly grateful to be barefoot, despite the freezing cold. I close the lid, daring to take the time, hoping it will spare me. When I turn, I half-expect to find Gregorio waiting. But he’s not.

I swallow my fear and rush across the dusty floor, down the hall. When I look back, there he is, his back to me. He’s reaching for the wardrobe door, almost the entire length of the corridor away.