Page 32 of Italian Mafia Boss's Virgin Lover

The door creaks again, and closes. The sound is dense and final, and I realize just how trapped I am here. Cornered, like prey. My eyes alight on one of the desks lining the far wall, nestled beneath a window. There are books stacked there, a lamp, a paperweight, a pen. It’s the old-fashioned kind, with a two-pronged nib. It’s not a dagger, but it’s sharp. It’s something.

I pick it up, ducking deeper into the library, into the dark. I hear Gregorio’s measured footsteps. He’s not sneaking. He’s not rushing. Because he knows—I’m cornered. I’m his.

“I’ll make a deal with you, Daniella,” he says, drawing slowly closer. I crouch, creeping along a bookshelf. If I’m careful, could I hide as he passes? Make a run for the door? That’s it—that’s my plan. And if it fails? Well, I’ll fight. I already know I have it in me. “Come out, give yourself to me, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll spare that precious little boyfriend of yours.”

I bite the inside of my cheek, my raised arm stiffening, the bullet lodged inside of it beating like a second heart.

“Give yourself to me and we’ll walk out of here. We won’t hurt another one of Santo’s men. And more importantly, I won’t hurt Santo.”

I don’t believe him. If I did, I’d do it in a heartbeat. If I could save a life, protect Santo or any of his men from suffering, I would. But Gregorio is the man responsible for the ambush last year, the one that killed Vittorio and broke Santo’s heart. I don’t trust him. Not for an instant.

“Let’s make another deal then,” he says, and I realize he’s closer than I thought. I look sharply to the left, see his shadow catch on the stone wall. I grip the pen tighter, retreating slowly, praying to God I can duck behind this shelf as he passes, and make my escape. “Come out, Daniella, or else.”

His shadow moves, and I duck back, pressing myself to the side of the shelf. Can he see me? Hear the terrible drum of my heart? Smell my fear?

“Come out and face me,” Gregorio growls, “or I’ll make sure that whatever I do to Santo—you watch.”

I clench my teeth. The cold has bitten up through my feet, burrowed into my bones. I’m shivering, a combination of fear and pain and cold, and I know, I know he’ll hear me if I’m not silent. I know he’ll find me.

Does he mean what he’s saying?

Do I want him to find me then?

“I killed his brother here, you know.” Soft, soft footsteps. It’s impossible to tell whether he’s walking toward or past me, they’re so damn soft. And his voice, the coo of the hunter drawing near the wounded quarry. “He trusted me, and I killed him. Santo trusts his men, you know.”

Dread ices my veins. What the hell is that supposed to mean? He can’t be saying that Santo’s men have betrayed him.

Have they?

I think of Sabine, a furl of a woman, stoic and stern, and then dead, curled on the floor with a bullet lodged in her brain. It doesn’t matter, does it? How strong or brave or even good you are. In the end, if the bad guy has a gun, you’ll only be dead.

I don’t want to be dead.

I’m not ready.

It flashes before my eyes, and maybe I know then that Gregorio is not walking past me, but toward. I see the life I could have here. I feel the first seeds of it, planted deep inside of me. I was afraid when I came here, and angry, and full of hate. And in just a few short months, everything has changed. I’ve become a different person, stronger and more resilient and more vulnerable too.

And Santo? Who is he becoming? I see him soften, I feel it in the way he looks at me, the way he speaks. Am I enough, I wonder? To staunch the flow of blood? To heal the wounds this monster tore open in him a year ago?

Am I enough to live for?

“But trust is a weakness, you know, little mouse.” Gregorio’s voice is terribly near, and I close my eyes, and grip my pen, and I prepare to fight—knowing I am most likely going to die. “And so is love. Does he love you, do you think, Dani?”

A sticky hand brushes my cheek. Hard, rough knuckles and the brilliant tang of blood. My stomach turns. I grip the pen out of sight.

Gregorio kneels slowly beside me. I smell blood on him, and cold. His hand slides over my neck, into my hair. He grips a fistful of it and leans in close, his lips against my ear, burning breath against my face.

“I found you, little mouse,” he whispers.

I’m sorry, Santo.I probably won’t make it. I probably won’t survive this. Gregorio has a gun, and I’m wounded, and when I do this, he’s going to lose his mind. Whatever game he wants to play with me, with Santo, will undoubtedly end.I’m sorry.

I turn, opening my eyes. My gaze locks with Gregorio’s, and his cold eyes are burning with violent glee. His guard is lowered, one hand in my hair, the other locked around a pistol on his knee.

It’s my only shot.

I swing, lunging violently, and plunge the pen into the side of the man’s neck. I expect him to let go of me, but his grip only tightens. He stands, roaring, dragging me to my knees. I gasp as he wrenches me forward, slamming my entire weight into the wall. Pain explodes through my arm, fresh blood bursting through my sleeve. Almost distantly, I hear myself screaming.

“You little bitch,” snarls Gregorio. In one horrible motion, he yanks the pen out of his neck and throws it across the room. Blood pulses, so dark it’s nearly black, down his neck. He clasps his palm against it, face white and drawn back in a snarl. “Now I’m going to take my fucking time with you, Daniella.”