Page 4 of Ruined By Blood (Feretti Syndicate #2)

H er body feels like nothing in my arms as I climb the sprawling staircase of the mansion.

More concerning is the way she trembles even while unconscious.

"Ginerva!" My voice echoes through the marble halls. "I need you! Now!"

I make it to the guest suite at the end of the east wing, the one furthest from the main family quarters. The door stands open as if waiting for us.

The housekeeper appears in the hallway, her eyes widening at the sight of the broken woman in my arms. Ginerva's face shifts immediately from shock to efficient concern.

"Madre di Dio," she murmurs, but she's already moving, pulling back the covers of the bed. "Put her here, Enzo."

I lay the woman down as gently as I can, my hands coming away with more of her blood.

"The doctor is coming?" Ginerva asks, already gathering towels and a basin of water.

"Noah called Romano. He should be here any minute."

The woman whimpers, her eyelids fluttering without opening. The sound hits me instantly. It reminds me too much of Lucrezia after ? —

I cut that thought off before it can form.

Ginerva's lined face hardens. She's been with our family since before I was born, and has seen the darkest parts of our world. Still, there are lines even in our business. Women. Children. Certain codes remain.

The doorbell echoes through the mansion, followed by brisk footsteps climbing the stairs. Dr. Romano appears in the doorway, medical bag in hand, face as impassive as always.

"Mr. Feretti," he nods at me before his eyes shift to the bed.

"Found her at the casino. Someone worked her over pretty good and left her bleeding behind the fountains," I explain.

Romano approaches the bed, already pulling on latex gloves. "How long has she been unconscious?"

"In and out for about twenty minutes."

The doctor's expression tightens. He's seen plenty of our business injuries over the years, but domestic violence still gets under his skin.

"I'll need to examine her completely," he says. "You should wait outside."

I stand outside the room, pacing the hallway. I'm not a stranger to violence. In my world, it's currency. But there's something about her. Maybe it's the way she looked at me in the bar – defiant despite her fear. Or maybe it's the echo of Lucrezia I see in her vulnerability.

The door opens, and Romano steps out, his face grim. He pulls off his latex gloves with practiced precision.

"How is she?" I ask, keeping my voice even.

"Not good. She's suffered a severe beating. Extensive bruising across her torso and back. Split lip. Possible concussion."

I feel my jaw tighten. "Will she recover?"

"Physically, yes, with time. But her body's in shock.

The blood loss, combined with what appears to be tranquilizers in her system.

.." He shakes his head. "Someone drugged her before they beat her.

That's not all. There are... other marks.

Older injuries. Healed fractures that weren't set properly.

Scarring on her wrists and ankles consistent with restraints. Cigarette burns on her inner thighs."

My knuckles pop as my fists clench involuntarily. "How long?"

"The patterns suggest repeated trauma over months, possibly years." Romano meets my gaze directly. "I've seen this before, Enzo. Someone's been hurting this woman for a very long time."

I think of her words. The terror in her voice when she begged me not to take her back to "him."

"She needs to rest," Romano continues, breaking into my thoughts. "I've given her something for the pain. When she wakes, she'll be disoriented, possibly combative."

I return to the room after Romano leaves. Ginerva has finished cleaning the blood from her face, the stark white sheets making the bruising along her jaw even more pronounced. I hover at the foot of the bed, watching the gentle rise and fall of her chest beneath the thick comforter.

Her eyelids flutter open suddenly, panic flooding her features as she takes in the unfamiliar surroundings. When she spots me, her body goes rigid with terror, her gaze darting frantically between me and Ginerva.

"Where am I?" Her voice is barely a whisper, cracked and raw.

Before either of us can answer, she bolts upright, wincing as the movement jars her broken ribs. She scrambles backward until she hits the headboard, her eyes wild with panic.

"Please, I need to go," she gasps, struggling to untangle herself from the sheets. "He'll find me—he always finds me."

She manages to swing her legs over the side of the bed, but the moment she tries to stand, her knees buckle. I instinctively step forward to catch her, but she flinches away from my outstretched hands so violently that she nearly falls.

"Don't touch me!" The words tear from her throat, her breathing ragged and uneven.

Ginerva steps between us, her voice calm and steady. "No one here will hurt you, cara. You're safe now."

The woman shakes her head frantically, tears streaming down her bruised face. "I'm never safe. Please, I have to go."

I keep my distance, making sure to stay where she can see me clearly .

"You need to rest," I say, keeping my voice low and even. "Those ribs won't heal if you keep moving."

Her eyes never leave my face, watching me like a cornered animal. "Who are you? Why did you bring me here?"

"My name is Enzo Feretti. This is my family's home." I gesture around us. "And you were bleeding out behind my casino's fountain. You asked me not to take you back to him."

Recognition flickers across her face at my name, followed quickly by a fresh wave of fear.

"Ginerva and I will leave you alone for now," I continue. "There's a bathroom through that door if you need it. Clean clothes in the dresser. The doctor's given you something for the pain."

I move slowly toward the door and Ginerva follows. "I'll come back later. When you're feeling stronger, we'll talk about what happened."

Her shoulders remain tense.

"Rest," I say again, my hand on the doorknob. "No one will hurt you here. That's a promise."

B rightness stabs my eyes as I peel them open. For a moment, I don't know where I am. The bed beneath me is too soft, the sheets too silky against my skin. Not my prison of a bedroom at father's house.

Memory crashes back like a wave—the casino, Cortez, the attack, and then him.

Enzo Feretti.

I'm in his house.

I bolt upright, immediately regretting it as pain lances through my ribs. The room spins, medication making my thoughts hazy around the edges.

A gentle knock at the door makes me flinch before the older woman from before—Ginerva—enters carrying a tray. She smiles warmly, but I pull the covers higher.

"Good afternoon, cara," she says, her accent melodic. "You slept well. Almost twenty hours. Your body needed the rest."

Twenty hours? My heart hammers against my chest. Father will be looking for me.

"I brought you something to eat," Ginerva continues, setting the tray on the bedside table. The rich aroma of herbs and tomatoes wafts toward me. "Ettore made his special minestrone just for you."

My stomach growls traitorously, but I don't move toward the food.

"Why am I here?" The question scratches through my dry throat.

Ginerva fills a glass with water from a crystal pitcher. "You were hurt, cara. Mr. Enzo brought you here to keep you safe."

Safe. The word feels foreign, dangerous to believe.

"What does he want from me?"

My mind races with terrifying possibilities. No man helps without expecting something in return. Does he know who I am? Maybe this is a long game—keeping Henry Sterling's daughter as leverage for whatever criminal enterprises the Ferettis run.

Ginerva's expression softens. "To help you heal, child. Nothing more."

I almost laugh. Men like Enzo Feretti don't provide sanctuary without price. I've learned that lesson through years of bruises and broken bones.

I eye the soup, hunger warring with suspicion. The liquid ripples in the bowl, steam curling above its surface. My stomach clenches painfully.

"You need to eat to regain your strength," Ginerva encourages, misreading my hesitation.

Strength is exactly what I need if I'm going to escape. Because no matter what Ginerva says about Enzo's intentions, I know better than to trust a man with eyes like ice and hands that could break me.

After Ginerva leaves, I drag myself from bed, wincing at each movement. The room is elegant but impersonal. Cream walls, dark wood furniture, and windows that reveal sprawling grounds surrounded by what looks like a high stone wall.

I shuffle toward the bathroom door, one arm wrapped protectively around my aching ribs. I need to clear my head, assess the damage to my body, and figure out my next move.

The bathroom is a marvel of marble and glass, bigger than my bedroom at father's. A gleaming walk-in shower with multiple jets sits opposite a deep soaking tub. For a moment, I stand frozen, torn between practicality and the siren call of hot water against my battered skin.

Practicality wins. A shower will be quicker, and I need to stay alert.

As I reach to turn on the water, I notice a neat stack of clothing on the marble counter. A soft-looking heather gray sweater, simple black leggings, and... undergarments. All with tags still attached. Clearly new and never worn.

My fingers brush against a folded piece of paper tucked beneath them. The handwriting is strong, decisive—distinctly masculine.

I hope these fit you. There are more options in the closet if needed. -E

I place the note back on the counter, unsure what to make of this small, unexpected kindness. It could be manipulation, a calculated move to gain my trust. Or perhaps something else entirely.

Either way, I can't stay in this blood-stained dress any longer. I strip it off carefully, letting the ruined red fabric pool at my feet like spilled wine, and step beneath the hot water.

I let it run over my body until my skin turns pink and steam fills the bathroom. Every drop washes away another layer of fear, even if only temporarily. If I could stand here forever, I might.

But I can't.

Taking a deep breath, I turn off the water and reach for one of the plush towels hanging nearby. It's softer than anything I've ever touched, cloud-like against my bruised skin. For a brief moment, I allow myself to enjoy the small comfort.

The clothes fit better than I expected. The gray sweater drapes loosely over my frame, hiding the worst of my visible injuries. The leggings are a bit long, but they'll do. I avoid looking in the mirror, not wanting to see the damage Cortez left behind.

With one last steadying breath, I open the bathroom door—and freeze .

Enzo Feretti sits in a high-backed chair near the window, his presence filling the room like a physical force.

He's wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms covered in intricate tattoos.

His jaw could cut glass, all sharp angles and hard planes, while those brown eyes track my every movement.

My pulse spikes, fight-or-flight instinct screaming. I press my back against the doorframe, fingers digging into the wood.

"First things first," he says, his voice deep and controlled. "I need your name."

I say nothing.

His eyes narrow slightly, studying me. "The doctor says you'll make a full recovery, physically at least."

Still, I remain silent, calculating. The door to the hallway is too far—I'd never reach it before he could stop me. The windows are my only other escape route, but we're at least two stories up.

"You're safe here," he continues. "No one will hurt you under my roof."

A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. "I can't trust you."

"You don't know me."

"I can't trust anyone," I whisper, voice raw with truth.

He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. The movement is casual but somehow still predatory. "Tell me who did this to you. Give me his name."

"I want to leave." The words come out stronger than I feel.

"You'll leave when you're no longer at risk of collapsing," he says, authority coating every syllable. "And when you start talking. "

I wrap my arms around my middle, straightening my spine despite the pain. "I won't tell you anything."

Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, maybe curiosity. He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, and I can't help flinching back.

Enzo pauses, noting my reaction. Without another word, he walks to the door, his movements controlled and deliberate. At the threshold, he stops, looking back at me over his shoulder.

"This conversation isn't over," he says simply, then leaves, closing the door behind him.