A Flower Between the Thorns: A Mafia Romance [REWRITING]

Chapter 17: Prisoner

Alberto's POV:

Walking into my bar half an hour later after getting the call from my men, I find everything out of place. Bullets through the bar, my bartender, whatever her name was, one of my men carrying her outside, and chairs and tables toppled everywhere. More men came to guard the place in case Fillip and his men decided to show up again. He is not that stupid, though. He would pursue trying to find Emma, just not today.

The rest of the dead men were getting carried out in cars to get rid of their bodies. My men...and one of Fillip's. Only one was left standing. Raffael.

Raffael had his head laid backwards as a doctor was healing his gunshot wound. The only one of my men left alive—a coincidence? I don't think so. Ever since he came to work with me instead of Fillip, problems have been all over my head. This was just another problem, although not the least passable. My bars have never been attacked in broad daylight like that before.

Pushing the doctor off of Raffael, I press my hand on his wounded shoulder, applying pressure as his hand flies up to mine, trying to remove it, but he can't. Instead, he groans, removing his hand. "I would rather say that problems keep getting in my way since the fucking moment you stepped foot on my doorstep. Don't you think Raffael?"

"I don't."

I applied more pressure. "You don't? Because them not killing you was quite the surprise given that you left them to come work for me."

"They wanted to know about Emma; they thought I was close enough to you that I would know."

"They haven't guessed."

He looked at me, repelled, before answering. "No, they didn't."

"Get this shit done and to my office immediately. I want a way to get back at them. The moment I am back, you better have a fucking plan, or I will finish their job for them."

"Where are you going?"

"You aren't close enough to know." Until I have proof that he was connected to any of the attacks and failed exchanges I have been having, he's done. Rather than that, I am a modest man; he is still of minor use to me, and if I plan to get back at them, then I would need him.

Getting into my car, I said, "Get me to my hill house quickly. I need to be back at the mansion in half an hour."

The streets weren't clogged, so we got there quickly. I unlock the hill house door, and I find her sitting there on the couch. Coal-black hair has fallen on her shoulder, just like the ridiculous tears on her cheeks every time I see her. She was waiting for me—how sweet! Her knees were tucked up to her chin, and she sat on the couch, looking at the closed curtains. I told her a lot to keep them open.

"Sweetheart," I lean in for a kiss, but she only backs away, so I grab her face, "Careful, Emma, you've been making me quite angry lately." Her eyes shut, and her petite nose wrinkles in pain.

Emma's POV:

I sat silently counting the seconds, the minutes, and the hours as they passed so achingly slowly. The very small seep of air through the tightly locked windows caused me to shiver, but I didn't even have the energy to change into something warmer. Maybe if I get sick enough, I will finally leave this world.

Everything was red. He loved that colour. The colour of blood, the colour of violence, the colour of death. His leather couch was crimson, and his curtains were all cherry red. If he could, he would have painted the oak wood that held this house together red. I'm starting to see this colour everywhere. Not just in my sleep, but even when I closed my eyes, instead of the trapping darkness, I got choked by his violence.