A ring of fire tightens around my throat in the form of a man's hands wrapped tightly around me. I flail, my hands going automatically to where my circulation is already beginning to be cut off.
I can't see who's grabbing me, and I scream again as I'm dragged up to the window. I grab onto whatever I can knowing that whatever happens, I can't let myself be pulled through this window. I already feel the sharp edges of the broken shards beginning to dig into my neck.
But it's useless. I'm much too weak.
The door of the cabin slams open. My vision is blurry, nearly black with panic, but I make out a figure crossing the room in rapid strides. The way it moves makes me know it's Santo.
Suddenly, the pressure on my airways eases. I sink back to the couch, rubbing at the sensitive skin on my neck as I draw in desperate gasps. After my breathing evens out a little, I realize Santo is right next to me, reaching out the window. I hear gasps of pain from outside, and grunting as they both wrestle for control. The glass cuts into Santo's shoulder as he lunges and reaches all the way through with both arms, and I push into the back of the couch, my heart racing.
Then, I hear a horrible, horrible noise. I can only describe it as an otherworldly tearing, the ripping of a lifeforce.
Santo pulls back from the window, clutching a head in his hands. A decapitated head, gushing blood and other fluids.
And I scream.
Loudly.
I can hear the sick thud of the head on the floor and feel the panic as Santo comes closer. It's certainly a sight, him closing in on me, his hands dripping in blood. Breathing becomes difficult, and I feel like those hands are closing around my throat again. I think he's trying to say something to me but it all fades, everything does, as the world goes blank.
+
The planked, warm mahogany ceiling of the cabin comes slowly back into focus, along with the feeling of my limbs. I breathe, finding it only hurts a little bit, and suddenly, I feel a touch on my neck—
"Relax. Calm down. You're safe," Santo murmurs, and I don't know if I am.
"Who—what—"
"Breathe. Breathe for me, ragazza agguerrita. Then I'll answer your questions."
So, I try. He doesn't touch me and that helps. I gradually register that I'm lying on the bed, my head propped up on the pillows. Once my breaths are relatively evened out, I peer around cautiously.
If it weren't for the shattered window and cuts on Santo's arms, I'd think I imagined the whole thing. The head, along with all traces of blood, is gone from the floor. I finally relax. His eyes critically observe me, taking in the measured movement of my chest. Exhaling, he leans back.
"Where is the head?"
Santo's eyes trail carefully over my face before he answers. "Gone. I cleaned up while you were out."
"How long was that?"
"An hour."
I sigh, massaging my temples. A headache is beginning to pound there.
"And who was he?"
Santo seems to be treading lightly, eyes constantly shifting over my form like he can't decipher the calm timbre of my voice.
"Someone I was planning on killing. He followed me here. I didn't realize until I heard you screaming." Anger, barely restrained, has bled into his voice. His hands—blessedly free of blood—are clenching, as if around an imaginary neck.
I tip my head back, eyes fixed unseeingly on the ceiling. "And why would he... was he trying to—"
"Yes," Santo interrupts. "He was trying to kill you. It was nothing personal. He is an enemy to me and my family. He didn't know who you were—just saw an opportunity and took it."
"Right. Nothing personal."
Santo nods, and a small observant frown begins at his dark brows, like he's just now gathering that maybe I'm not okay.
"Yes. Nothi—"
"He almost killed me!" I yell, immediately regretting it as my throat aches.
"Yes. And he suffered for that," Santo growls.
"You have to give me some answers!" I explode, "I can't keep going on like this. I can't sleep, I'm constantly anxious, I'm stuck in this tiny cabin and you leave every day, coming back all beat up and—I deserve some answers!"
"I am giving you answers now," Santo says calmly.
"Okay, so what business do you have that involves me being here?"
"My business doesn't involve you. Don't be ridiculous."
Oh, this man. I could strangle him. "Santo. Why am I here?"
"I told you." His eyes blaze as he leans forward, head tilting that certain way that makes anyone he's looking at feel three inches tall. "If you want something done well..." he shrugs with an arrogant smirk. "I've been given specific orders from my brother to eliminate a threat. So that's what I'm doing."
"Okay, so you're going out every day and killing people. I'm pretty sure everybody and their dog knew that. What do you mean, if you want something done well?"
Honesty hour with Santo Romano must be coming to a close, because he stands, suddenly towering above me. He's wearing a scowl, his eyes are flitting to the door, and Lord help me, I know by now that he's about to book it.
"No," I declare, sliding my legs off the bed so quickly that my vision swims. I plant myself between him and the door. "You don't get to go. Tell me. Tell me this one thing."
He's a living, breathing wall, an impenetrable fortress, and I'm the tiny knight with the tin armor, poking at it with a toothpick sword.
"I thought getting you books would occupy your mind enough that you wouldn't bother me with meaningless questions."
"I'm always going to still bother you."
"I'm glad you recognize the effect you have on people," he mutters, gesturing to the bed. "Sit."
"No."
"Donna testardo, sit. I won't have you passing out again."
Wondering what he just called me, I sit carefully, attempting to not make it look like I'm obeying him. He must see the rebellion on my face, because I'm pretty sure I spot him bite back amusement in the form of a small quirk of his lips.
"Last time I was gone, Luciano sent somebody to harm you. Isaac Moretti was able to get past our security and into the fucking house. I will not be placing my trust in the incompetency that allowed that to happen. You come with me when I leave."
"Great. So I'm being held hostage, but I get to go on field trips. Am I supposed to thank you?"
His face hardens. "I wouldn't prefer your thanks. I wouldn't prefer anything except for your complete—and cooperative—silence."
My frustration flares. I'm a living human with my own emotions and reactions to things—something Santo seems to be incapable of realizing. "You kidnapped me. Tortured me. You're likely going to torture me again. Tell me, what kind of a person would cooperate with that? Pardon me if my self-preservation is trying to kick in."
"You don't have any self-preservation," Santo dismisses, and my mouth pops open in indignation. "If you did, you wouldn't have gotten yourself kidnapped in the first place."
"That's ridic—"
"And I'll tell you what kind of person might cooperate with everything you just described. Maybe somebody who knows that the men she's blatantly disrespecting have the power to kill her and her entire family without lifting one finger. Maybe that would inspire cooperation."
"Look, I get that you can't just let me go now because of your weird little vow of silence, or whatever. But I won't tell anybody anything. I don't want this. I want to be free of this life and men like you. That's all I've ever wanted, yet it's the only thing I've known."
Anger tightens the muscles in his face. He looks like a beautiful, cruel statue—one that a museum might hold in one of its darkest corners, with a plaque next to it detailing how this unimaginably cruel leader killed thousands of people.
"Your word means nothing. Neither do your pathetic wishes for your life. You're involved in something, Nina. Whether it be because of Luciano, the family you were born into, or something else in which you weren't given a choice—this is where you are. And there are much bigger things at hand than the whims of one girl unhappy with her life. So learn to deal with it. And in the process, stop asking me so many damn questions."
With that final, crushing blow, Santo leaves. I don't move, sitting in that position for the remaining hours of daylight with thoughts running back and forth in my mind at breakneck speed.
I think of what Santo said. Learn to deal with it.
I will.
And he'll have to learn to deal with me in the process.
+
We enter into a grudging routine, the two of us.
Santo hardly darkens the cabin with his presence, gone during the day and returning sometime in the murky hours right before dawn. Then he's up a couple hours after the sun, sometimes leaving before I'm even up.
I don't see him eat. He hardly sleeps. He doesn't have much to say to me, and whenever he comes back in the dead of the night, he stumbles in the dark to the couch and spends several minutes situating his large body on the tiny piece of furniture.
I've developed a habit of making iced coffee.
I noticed Santo's lip curling at me one morning as I was pulling it out of the fridge. So I used all the coffee grounds that day to make a huge pot, and stuck it in the fridge. I heard Santo cursing the next morning when he went to make himself some hot coffee before leaving. I'm sure me liking it iced is entirely offensive to his Italian roots.
That means iced coffee is my new favorite thing.
So is leaving my dishes in the sink. Santo is surprisingly neat, and it bothers him. He cleaned them the first few mornings, clanging them around noisily. After that, he started taking them out of the sink and putting them on my bed as I slept. The petty bastard.
I've also developed the habit of chatting with Michael whenever I see him. Whether he's dropping off food or miscellaneous things for Santo, I always make a point to hold a friendly conversation with him. He's a sweet man, and he always politely entertains me. He's wary—and rightfully so, with Santo glaring at him from across the room every time—but he always engages me.
When I'm not purposefully annoying Santo, my days bore me endlessly. I find myself missing the library in the Romano's mansion, its vast expanse of books and that huge, sinfully comfortable couch.
It's a weird feeling, missing a place. I've never missed one before. Living under Luciano's roof, and then with my aunt and uncle, I never encountered a place that felt like home. That felt worth it to come back to.
"We're going back tomorrow," Santo informs me the night that marks a week of us being here. He returned unusually early, disappearing into the shower for nearly an hour. "Be ready at seven sharp."
I acknowledge him with a nod, going over to the fridge. Santo glares at me as I pour myself a large glass of iced coffee.
"Do you really need that right now? It's 10 p.m." His voice is particularly hoarse today. I wonder if he spent his day screaming at people before he killed them. The thought makes me snort in amusement, and he tenses.
"Does it bother you?" I ask innocently.
He flinches as I pour heaping amounts of milk into my glass. I hate my coffee overly sweetened and watered down with cream, but so does Santo. And that's the only thing that matters.
"That's not coffee. That's coffee flavored milk," he mutters.
"It's flattering that you care so much," I smile sweetly, and his eyes nearly bug out of his head as I dump sugar into my drink.
"You're being ridiculous. You can't actually like it like that."
I resist the urge to gag as I take a sip. "It tastes amazing."
He scoffs, heading over to the couch. "Fucking disgusting. You Americans love your shit coffee."
"You Italians are so prideful," I shoot back. "Besides, haven't you lived here for most of your life?"
He cocks a brow. "I moved here when I was three. If you say that to imply that I should like the shit way this country drinks coffee just because I've been living here most of my life, that's the most ridiculous shit I've heard."
I shrug. "You'd think you'd be used to it. If you moved here so young, why do you still have an accent?"
He's silent as he shuffles the pillows and blankets around, attempting to set up his bed. His movements are sluggish today, and it's weirdly enthralling to see. It proves that he is human after all, that his grueling schedule this week has in fact been wearing on him. And perhaps that's what loosens his tongue and has him revealing parts of himself he wouldn't have otherwise.
"My parents had us speaking strictly Italian for years. Eventually I learned English once they were gone."
Gone?
I swallow my questions, finding no real reason to push. I don't need to learn more about him, his family, the way he was raised. Morbid curiosity isn't reason enough. What I need to learn more about is how I can avoid further torture and—best case scenario—leave the Romanos, and their ridiculous mansion, behind.
Wherever I go next, it would be preferable if I could look back on this brief hostage stint as an odd chapter in my life that I closed the book on. Moved on from.
Santo's breaths even out across the room from me, and I watch the large lump on the couch, rising and falling ever so subtly in the throes of sleep, wondering if I'll be so lucky to move on from this with no lasting scars.
+
We return to the mansion the next day, and Santo immediately disappears with Massimo. They're discussing something in low voices, likely whatever business the Capo had Santo doing in Vegas, and I can't help it.
My curiosity is piqued.
It has crossed my mind that whatever it was had something to do with Luciano. Why else would Santo need to be in Vegas?
That thought has effectively stopped all questions I might have had about what Santo was up to. If it's anything related to Luciano, I don't want to know. I'll choose blissful ignorance any day—if the alternative is having to hear about the dirty, fucked up business that man is getting up to.
"Welcome back," Tommaso smirks, sauntering into the room right after his brothers are gone. "Oh how we missed our pretty little token hostage."
I groan, realizing I took the last week for granted. The lack of Tommaso's presence was a blessing in disguise.
"You're not excited to be back? I get it, girl," he says loudly. Christ, is anything about him not obnoxious? "I will admit, I was fucking dreading it too. Until Santo told me that you're to be granted free reign of this place. No more babysitting duties for me! Thank fuck."
"I can go anywhere I want?"
"Yup! Do whatever, I don't fucking care. Of course, if you go to our wings of the house or Massimo's office, we'll fucking kill you. But otherwise, knock yourself out."
"Um, okay. Noted."
"Great. Now clear off the table, will you? Breakfast just came."
I do as he says, in a daze. Undeniable excitement is making me feel lighter, and I try not to let it be extinguished by my worries. They're giving me more freedom. That has to be good.
Breakfast comes in several large takeout containers that Tommaso sets up at the table. I watch in awe as he gets out plates and utensils. Either they have a guest, or he's expecting me to eat with them.
"Well?" he says, excitedly serving himself some food. He looks young all of a sudden, like a normal person. If it weren't for the fact that he's killed people, I would say he looks younger than me. "You gonna sit?"
"I'm... eating with you all?"
"Nobody wants to keep serving you your meals like a damn princess, so yeah, you're eating with us. Got a problem with that?"
Several, yes, but I deem it wise to do as he says.
"Good. Because Santo threatened me with bodily harm if you weren't comfortably seated at this table, and I'm really trying not to die."
What?
Tommaso's scowling, likely at the memory of his older brother bullying him, so I table that for another time.
"How old are you?"
"Why, you trying to get in my pants?" Tommaso smirks, and I squeak as a throat clears right next to us. Santo's glaring at his brother, who rolls his eyes. "I'm twenty-two," he informs me, sending me a wink. "How old are you, short stuff?"
"Twenty-three." I eye Santo and Massimo as they sit down. Nico comes to the table too, and suddenly we're all sitting here like some kind of fucked up family. "Do you guys not have a cook?"
"Damn, you ask a fuckton of questions," Tommaso rolls his eyes, stuffing his face with eggs. I blush, fidgeting uncomfortably. I'd been randomly wondering how they all remain so fit eating takeout all the time.
Santo's fork scrapes against one of the platters unnecessarily hard as he scoops out some fruit. "No cook," he rasps, glaring at Tommaso. "We have a full gym, complete with a track and multiple boxing rings."
I look down at my empty plate, wondering how he ascertained the true nature of my question.
"So, how was it living with Santo's miserable ass? How many times did he almost kill you?" Tommaso smirks, eyes glinting as he looks across the table at his brother.
Santo stabs a sausage with a particular amount of violence.
"A few," I mutter quietly, feeling incredibly awkward at this table with all of them. Am I just supposed to eat?
"Serve yourself some food, Nina," Santo orders.
I do, and breakfast passes with the men discussing vague, silly things completely unrelated to work. It's bizarre. I know they have a million things going on, so why don't they talk about work? I'm sure it's because I'm here—so why have me here at all?
As everyone is finishing up, there's a lull in the conversation. I'm practically dizzy with confusion, finding that I desperately need some kind of clarification. "So... can I go for walks? Like outside? Or use the gym, maybe? I need to be more active."
Massimo inclines his head. "You may use the gym whenever you want. If you would like to go outside, you'll need to go with someone. Santo runs every morning; you can join him."
My brows are creeping toward my hairline. This amount of freedom... it's almost like they're being... nice to me?
I don't trust it.
From Santo's glare, I gather that he didn't agree to me joining him on his runs. And this makes it all the more appealing. Suddenly, I'm all for daily runs.
I nod, hiding my satisfaction. "So, will we not be torturing me anymore?"
Tommaso chokes on a bite of sausage. Santo's looking at me as if I've just taken the platter of eggs and poured it over my head.
"Now that we've received Luciano's response, which I hear Santo has filled you in on, it is clear no amount of torture inflicted on you will accomplish anything," Massimo informs me.
Santo's glowering at his eggs like they're holding him at gunpoint, and I frown. "That guy, Moretti—"
"Luciano got to him first. Your father is smarter than we gave him credit for," Massimo interrupts.
"Which is saying a lot for someone as useless as tits on a nun," Tommaso mutters.
"Luciano isn't my father," I correct. "And why am I still here then? As far as Luciano knows, I'm dead, or have been raped and God knows what else by this Moretti guy."
"You've seen too much," Tommaso grins. "You know how I like my dick sucked."
Santo's knife clatters onto his plate. He seems quicker to anger today, and I find myself wondering why.
"What? She walked in on me the other day. Not my fucking fault," Tommaso shrugs. I'd blocked out that memory, of walking down a random hallway and finding Tommaso with a woman pushed up against the wall. It seemed entirely unnecessary to be doing that kind of thing all over the house.
"You'll keep your sexual activities contained to your wing of the house," Santo orders him with a butter knife pointed in his direction, and Tommaso rolls his eyes.
"And the unicorn floatie out in the pool," he whispers to himself, going back to his sausage.
"Tommaso is actually right, sexual comments aside," Massimo says. "Now that you've seen more of how we operate, we will be keeping you here until it is decided what can be done with you. I'm not speaking of death, Nina," he adds on, no doubt seeing the nervousness in my face.
"No one will touch you, Nina," Santo snaps. He sounds angry—no doubt at the fact that he won't be allowed to hurt me again.
My eyes widen at his weird attitude. "You know, you're the only one who's actually touched me." If not for him, I wouldn't even be in this mess. Sudden frustration makes me hot, prickling my skin. If only he'd let me out of the car, instead of deciding to drag me back to the house for some stupid power play, I'd be...
I'd be what? Still miserable with my life?
The look on Santo's face becomes thunderous, and he leaves the table abruptly. I jump at the slam of the front door. "Where is he going?"
"Probably to go find someone to kill," Tommaso shrugs as they all casually eat their food.
Except for Massimo. A chill cuts down my spine when I turn and find him staring at me. His eyes are lighter than Santo's, much colder, and they bathe my skin in ice. I don't like this. I don't trust him to not hurt me or do worse—not when he's looking at me like that.
"Oh, I know. Nina can be our cook," Tommaso snickers, and Nico shoves him. They start bickering but I am still frozen under Massimo's scrutiny, and at the thought of Santo on his way to commit murder.
As I look around the table, I'm in awe at this entire breakfast—at the way these men act like an actual family.
Well. Aside from storming out to kill people.
With my safety—apparently—newly guaranteed, I'm at a loss. I thought I'd have to endure more torture, agonize over ways to potentially negotiate me going unharmed, reason and plead with them... and now it has been granted to me over breakfast? By a man who is known as the coldest man east of Vegas? And his homicidal brother?
Yeah. Fat chance.