Page 5

Camilla Vivaldi

My head spins as I lower myself into the car, so I hold on to the oh shit handle until I plant my ass firmly in the seat. I drop my head back against the headrest and close my eyes, too exhausted to handle the anxiety linked to the front seat.

Loretta says goodbye to her husband, Ermanno, before plopping into her seat and shutting the door. Bitterness tries to creep into my chest, but I push it away.

I’ve known Ermanno from afar for most of my life. He’s always been Nico’s right-hand man, so no one felt surprised when Nico gave him the title of consigliere.

How different would my life be if I had accepted Ermanno and Nico’s protection when they offered several years ago? I pushed them away, too focused on my dream of being a model.

Loretta shifts in her seat when I sigh. I open my eyes and meet her concerned gaze.

“You’re probably exhausted and just want to go to bed, but I’ve been with you all day and know you haven’t eaten, so we’re getting a meal before I take you home,” she says.

Serenity offered to feed us, but we stayed too long and Perla was getting cranky. I drank a glass of water and some juice, which is probably the only reason I haven’t fainted from exhaustion.

I give her a halfhearted nod before closing my eyes again and melting into the seat as much as my nightmares will allow.

Although the driver no doubt maneuvers through the busy evening streets as safely as possible, tension coils through me until my fingers ache from white knuckling my purse in my lap.

Several minutes later, the car stops and Loretta unbuckles.

My hands cramp, but I unlatch my seatbelt and open my eyes.

The sky holds the last rays of sun, and every streetlamp and front business light shines.

After orienting myself, I slip out of the vehicle before either the driver or Loretta can open my door for me.

The hairs on my nape rise. I study the bustling sidewalk and stand with the door held open, ready to jump back in the car if I find anything suspicious, but Loretta stalks around the back of the vehicle and joins me on the curb.

Her eyes never stop scanning the crowd. I force my shoulders to relax and shut the door.

Loretta leads me into a soup and salad bar I’ve never been to before.

When she chooses a corner booth, I give her a thankful smile and look through the specialty menu before ordering a molten lava cake with extra ice cream.

I don’t normally eat sweets, but after the day I’ve had—and the lingering sourness on my tongue—extra sugar seems appealing.

Loretta’s satisfied smirk warms my soul.

Despite the empty calories and sugar overload headed my way, I follow Loretta to the line and grab a tray.

Unease travels down my spine. I glance over my shoulder and stiffen as I meet the eyes of a man from across the restaurant. He looks away so fast I wonder if I imagined the eye contact, but ice infects my veins as I register his expression.

Worms crawl under my skin.

Was he there that night? Did he witness my downfall? Is he one of my rapists?

I don’t have words to explain how filthy his glance makes me feel.

Loretta nudges me, but I watch as the man saunters over to a table full of frat boys. He looks out of place, but they accept him into their conversation as though he’s a familiar friend, so I turn my attention back to my tray.

Loretta leans into my space and asks in a low tone, “Are you okay?”

I nod and slip a plate and two bowls onto my tray with no intention of filling them but wanting to appease my companion, although halfway down the line, food overflows all three.

My stomach growls for the first time in months, not from nausea or fear but from hunger.

After purging so much theoretical weight from my shoulders, my body demands nutrients.

I slip a croissant onto my napkin and return the tongs to their holder before leading Loretta back to the table.

Even though the man I made eye contact with is on the far side of the seating area, a chill washes over me when his face lurks in my periphery.

Loretta reads my expression and offers to swap seats.

I accept and slip into the other side of the booth so I’m near the wall and out of sight of most of the seating area.

She doesn’t pressure me to eat when I pick at my food.

After a few minutes, my nerves settle enough for my hunger to return full force, so I eat with more gusto but carefully pace myself despite how delicious everything is.

I haven’t eaten such a large meal since before my accident, so my stomach complains rather quickly.

The cozy atmosphere lulls me into the most relaxed state I’ve been in in public for over a year. As a model, I once thrived as the center of attention, but now I just want to hide in a deep, dark hole and never be seen again.

When I realize my train of thought, I silence my mind and use the arrival of my cake and ice cream as a distraction.

I only manage a few bites of the sweet concoction, but I savor every single one.

With my belly fuller than ever before and my mind beyond exhausted, I follow Loretta out the door and into the car as though in a daze. She sends a few texts on the drive back to the mental health facility while I sit halfway catatonic beside her.

When the car stops, I open my purse and pass my identification card to the driver as he rolls his window down.

The guards perform the usual check—scanning our IDs inside the guard hut, opening the trunk and ensuring we hid nothing in the lining, and checking the undercarriage before giving us our cards back and allowing us through the gates.

Unexpected tears scratch the back of my eyes. My sister isn’t taking chances with my safety. I’ll never be able to repay her.

After the driver parks in the drop off roundabout, Loretta shifts as though to get out, but I shake my head.

“I’m sorry, but I’m done for the day. Thank you for everything, Loretta,” I say.

She studies my face for a moment before nodding.

“You don’t need to apologize or thank me. Just call or text if you ever need anything. Capisci ?” she demands.

A smile ghosts across my face. I nod.

“I’ll be waiting for whenever you’re ready to start self-defense lessons, too,” she says.

Emotionally stretched beyond my limits, I give her another nod and exit the vehicle.

Knowing the driver won’t leave until I’m inside the building, I walk through the double glass doors and turn to give them a small wave goodbye.

The moment the car pulls forward, I walk through the lobby and head straight to my room.

My brain remains blessedly silent as my body moves through my bedtime routine, and less than two seconds after my head hits the pillow, I drop into a much needed sleep.

I wake shaking and covered in fear sweat as deep voices echo in my mind, but I keep yesterday’s dinner down. The peace I found while meeting Perla and visiting with Serenity is nowhere to be found. My demons hound me as though furious I escaped their grasp for even a millisecond.

After a cold but lengthy shower, I dress in clean sweats, smooth my hair back into a tight bun, and don my usual armor of makeup, but when I approach the door to the hall, my stomach twists.

Nurse Shelly knocks right on time. As soon as I open the door for her, my mind shuts down enough for me to enjoy the attendant’s rambling, and I stay in a light disassociated state all the way to the garden.

When the picture-perfect morning and fragrant roses don’t pull me from my trance, I begin a slow circuit around the path furthest from the buildings. Sweat trickles down my back. I absently push my sleeves up my arms.

Movement flashes across my vision, halting my forward momentum. Sticky warmth sprays over my exposed flesh. A look down my body confirms the liquid is dark crimson with a coppery scent.

I wait for the familiar sting to rise as more blood coats my skin, but it doesn’t.

With a sharp inhale, I pull myself out of my trance. I stopped cutting myself when Serenity found me half dead in my childhood bedroom. She saved me from my parents’ home and sent me to this mental health facility. I needed it. I still need it.

But I can’t stay here anymore.

A man lies gurgling his last breaths at my feet in the back garden. Sunlight streams down on us. A chilly breeze ruffles my hair.

This was my haven. The only place I could go away from prying eyes. My only refuge from my thoughts and emotions.

It’s gone now.

And not only because of the man dying at my feet.

I look up—and up—past a broad chest, impossibly wide shoulders, a square jaw, thin lips, and a crooked nose, to the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

A spark of heat flares in my veins, but it dies under the icy onslaught of my memories.

I’ll never trust a man again.

When he opens his mouth and speaks with a heavy Russian accent, every cell in my body freezes in terror and my mind replays the brutality I barely survived a year ago.

“I have found you, so?lnyshka . You will come with me.”

I’m doomed.

Sheer terror locks me in place, and for several harrowing moments, I forget how to breathe.

Visions of my niece cradled in my lap snap me out of my stupor. I bolt toward the nearest security cameras hidden in the fountain.

My joints fail me and my muscles seize, ending my pathetic attempt at escape before I even make it halfway to the fountain.

White-hot agony spears through my ankle, hip, and arm as pain radiates from my abdomen.

The metallic scent of blood fills my nostrils.

I fall to my knees in the grass and vomit, expecting cruel hands to grab me at any second.

A fabric handkerchief lands in the grass beside my hand. I flinch before my brain registers what it is. With fear, pain, and trepidation pounding through me, I spit to clear my mouth and curl my fingers into the lush green grass, unwilling to accept anything from the man.

I blink in shock as a bloody knife thumps to the ground beside the handkerchief.

The knife he used to kill the other man. I gasp as a fresh wave of adrenaline hits me.

The other man. I saw him at the salad bar. He recognized me because he hurt me that night a year ago and followed me because he wanted to hurt me again.

My head spins as I realize another monster from my nightmares is dead. Murdered in cold blood. His demise was too quick. Too easy.

But he didn’t get to touch me again because of the massive angel of death looming over me.

A tremor wracks my spine, but I grab the handkerchief, wipe my mouth, and lift my head.

The mountain of a man stands further back on the trail, watching me with his icy-blue eyes. He doesn’t have a speck of blood on him.

His accented voice echoes in my mind and I fight the urge to scramble away again, but with herculean effort, I sort through my demons’ taunting and try to match him with one of my attackers.

I can’t. His deep, smooth tone is nothing like the rough, guttural voices of the men who hurt me.

The man takes a small step back, but the movement only makes him seem bigger.

“My knife is yours now, Camilla, as are my hands,” he says.

The ground drops an inch, taking my stomach with it, but the urge to vomit again never rises.

Heat curls through my abdomen and my pulse leaps as wicked delight courses through my veins, his voice so rich it clears the echoes of violence from my mind, but I shake my head and dispel the urge to accept his offer.

He knows my name. He speaks Russian and English. He knows I need protection.

This man is dangerous. His intense eyes brook no argument, but I shake my head again.

“Who are you?” I manage in a hoarse voice.

“I am Dimitri Volkov, eldest son of Nikolai Volkov and ubiytsa of the Volkov family. My brother has harmed you. You are mine to protect now,” he says.

I blink in shock. Part of me expected him to growl and refuse to answer me, so I need a moment to process his straightforward, honest reply.

“Why should I trust you?”

It’s a ridiculous question. His bloody knife and the dead man should be enough proof. Add in the distance he gives me and the handkerchief crumpled in my fist, and any sane person would trust him.

But I can’t.

It took me too long to trust Nico Russo and Ermanno Mancini because of men like my father and my attackers, and now I can’t trust my own judgment.

“You should not. I am a stranger,” Dimitri says. “But I will not be for long. Come with me, so?lnyshka, and I will keep you safe long past earning your trust.”

By the intensity in his blue eyes and the tone of his voice he means the words as a vow.

I wrap my fingers around the hilt of the knife. The warmth lingering from his palm thaws the ice in my veins.

My heart lurches as the corner of his lips shift upward, the movement barely discernible, but with my senses locked on him, the change completely morphs his features.

I rise and wobble on shaky legs but find my balance and square my shoulders.

I can’t trust him, but I want to. A small, quiet voice inside me demands I get closer to him even as my skin crawls at the thought.

With a shuddering breath, I realize this man is more dangerous than all the rest. Not because of the lethal knowledge in his eyes or the brutality lurking behind his every action, but because every cell in my body naturally attunes to him.

As tiny as it may have been, he inspired the first spark of arousal I’ve felt since that horrible night a year ago.

I should get as far away from Dimitri Volkov as possible, but I can’t.

I want to get closer.