Dark Blood: A Mafia Hitman Romance (9 page)

M
y father’s
fist smashes into the wall. He is cursing in Italian, some words that even I don’t recognize. I know I'm going to have a black eye tomorrow from the blow he delivered to my face, but I'm past the point of caring. All I want is Bianca. Her soft skin pressed against mine, arms wrapped tenderly around my neck.

"We have to find her," I say. "Someone took her."

"You stupid son of a bitch," my father snarls at me. I don't correct his wording, since he just insulted himself as well. Then again, he still doesn't see me as his son, which explains his words. "She ran."

"She didn't fucking run!" I bellow back at him. "She's been taken. Are you fucking blind, old man?" I point around to the mess in the room, the shattered window, the blood covering the floor. "Can't you see there was a struggle?"

"That could've been staged easily enough," he says, pacing the room, a wild look in his eyes. His shoulders are tense and he's pissed off as hell. I know he blames me for this. "She ran from you, and from me. Back to her Daddy. What makes you think she didn't?"

"Shut the fuck up!" I snap. "She didn't run. She wouldn't run from me."

"Sure." My father snarls in anger and pulls me closer, grabbing a fistful of my shirt. "You're going to find her. You're going to fix this goddamned mess if it's the last thing you do!"

I don't disagree with him. Finding Bianca and bringing her back safely is my first priority right now. I need to make sure she's all right. Need to bring her back to me.

"Where do we start?" I ask, already planning what to do in my head.

"Call the brothers," my father says, already sounding defeated. "Have them search for her. One place at a time."

"I don't think this was Da Costa or his men," I say, furrowing my eyebrows. "Her daddy never would've hurt her. She told me — he really loves her."

"Who then?" My father looks like he's about to be violently sick all over the floor, and I assume I have the same look about me. "Why would someone kidnap her, again?"

"Does Da Costa have any other enemies?" I wonder out loud.

"I'm sure he does, but no one who would try to hurt his daughter," my father says.

"Yeah, only you're crazy enough for that." I feel fucking angry, even though I don't really have a reason. Had my father not decided he needed to have Bianca, she never would've walked into my life.

We're looking around the room aimlessly, not sure what to focus on, not sure what to do. After a few minutes, my father excuses himself to make a call and steps outside. I remain in the bedroom, the signs of struggle my beautiful girl went through making my blood boil. I kneel down on the floor and find her lingerie still discarded there. So when they took her, she must've been naked....

My fingers form a fist around the skimpy piece of fabric and I feel angrier than ever. I have never been consumed by so much rage. That girl is mine. I will decide her fate. I will keep her safe. And no-fucking-one else.

Father walks back into the room, stopping when he sees me kneeling on the floor. I don't attempt to hide the pain I feel from him this time. I know he considers me weak. He probably thinks I'm ridiculous for developing feelings for a captive girl, but.... He just told me he's experienced love at least once in this life.

Wait a fucking minute.

Love?

This can't be fucking love.

Love shouldn't feel like this.

Love isn't a primal urge to protect her, fuck her, save her, show her what she means to me, and give her everything I can. Love isn't supposed to be so wrong. Love doesn't leave your heart bleeding when she's taken away. Is it?

"I don't understand." The words leave my mouth without me meaning to say them.

My father's heavy palm comes to rest on my shoulder. "It's all right," he tells me. "You will, son. In time you will understand."

He just called me his son, and I can't even respond. I'm too caught up in this, in the fact that she's gone. I need her back. I need my princess back. At any cost.

We stay like that for a long time, me on my knees with my father’s hand on my shoulder, until I stop thinking about time passing by and find comfort in my father's touch instead. I wait until I've calmed down, which coincides with a knock on the door.

I get up slowly, bracing myself against the bed. I feel like a weak old man, unable to do anything. Too broken to react when the three brothers walk into the room. I try to focus on them to stop thinking about my predicament. I need something to distract me instead.

Antonio, Francesco and Pietro are all staring at me like I'm some kind of wounded animal. My father helps me get on my feet, and I feel them wobble under me. I feel destroyed, but at the same time I know if Bianca's kidnapper revealed himself to me right now, I would have the strength to kill him with my bare hands.

"What the fuck?" Pietro asks. He's the smallest of the three brothers, the middle child. He's the one I would most likely be friends with, if that were an option.

"He took Bianca," my father explains. His voice is tired. "You three pricks were supposed to be watching her, and Matteo took her to his apartment.”

"So? Where is she?" Francesco wants to know. The youngest, and also the boldest. He's the one I'd be intimidated to fight. It's not his brawn, it's the sheer anger and hatred that radiates off him, and also — I assume — the reason he got himself and his brothers involved with the mob.

"She's gone," I admit. "Someone took her from my apartment."

"You weren't watching her?" Pietro scratches his head. "Fuck man, why?"

"I just left to go see him." I point towards my father. "I needed to talk about something. I assumed no one knew where she was.... No one knows about this apartment."

"It's all right." Antonio steps closer, placing a heavy hand on my shoulders. The only one out of the three brothers I consider a friend. The oldest, the strongest, and the kindest. "It's not your fault, Matteo."

"Damn fucking right it is!" Francesco exclaims. "If he were keeping a closer eye on her, this wouldn't have happened."

"Shut the fuck up," my father tells him. "You don't know shit. You were called here to find her, so get to work. Scour this room and the apartment for evidence. Ask the people who live here if they saw anything, bribe them if you have to."

They all nod silently and file out of the room to do as they were ordered. I head to the living room of my now destroyed apartment, feeling defeated. So fucking helpless. There's nothing I can do but wait until the person who took her reveals himself. And then I can tear him to pieces.

My father joins me on the old sofa, and his look of disgust on his face as he sits down doesn't escape me. But I appreciate that he's trying. It's more than he's ever done for me his whole life. I know there's some selfish intent behind his actions, but for the first time in my life, I feel like he actually cares about my feelings.

"We need to find her," I tell him. "I fucking need her next to me."

"What happened between you two?" my father asks.

"You…I.... You don't need to know." I cover my face with my hands, having trouble breathing properly.

"I can assume."

"I didn't sleep with her," I say abruptly, and my father simply nods. "She's...she's a virgin."

He doesn't say the words we're both thinking. If someone took her, she might not remain one for too long.

"You sure she didn't run?" my father asks again. I shake my head almost violently, pissed off at him for even asking.

"She wouldn't. She...she had chances before, and she never took them," I say. "She wanted to stay here, with me. She didn't want to go back to the cell or even to her father."

"We'll find her," my father says confidently.

"We have to," I reply. My words are somber, and I mean them. She needs to be back where she belongs — next to me. I'll do anything. And if someone hurt her, I will....

"Found something." Antonio walks out from the other room and presents us with a gun. I widen my eyes. There was no gun when my father and I were in the room.

"Where?" I bark.

"Under the bed." Pietro joins us in the living room and gives me an apologetic look. "Looks like someone kicked it under the bed during the murder."

"Murder?" My father is staring at the men with a confused expression on his face.

Francesco walks in, looking uncomfortable as fuck. "Given that there was a gun.... We think she was killed."

My heart constricts with pain. I feel drained as fuck, completely helpless. It can't be true, though. If she were dead, surely I would know. Surely I would feel the loss of her life, even if her body wasn't nearby.

"She's not dead," I snap. "She's not fucking dead. Take that back."

All three of them look uncomfortable as fuck, and I can't help myself. I lunge for Francesco, who is standing the closest to me. My hands wrap tightly around his throat and I barely hear the screams of the other men in the room. I need to kill, kill, kill. It won't bring her back, a small voice inside my head tells me, but I shut it up. I don't fucking care. I need to hurt, kill, maim.

Three pairs of hands are barely enough to drag me off Francesco. I'm screaming curse words at him as he grabs for his throat, choking on his words.

"Jesus fuck!" he yells. "Don't kill the messenger."

"Shut up!" my father shouts him, his voice sharp. "Keep looking. Go talk to the neighbors. Find any clue you can. She can't be dead. He would've left her body here. She's worth more alive, anyway."

The brothers scatter out of the apartment with Francesco clearing his throat, trying to recover from my attack. I feel embarrassed as fuck now. It wasn't his goddamned fault this happened. If it was anyone's fault, it was mine.... And that's why it's so hard to accept.

My father sits me back down on the couch, joining me again. "Calm down," he speaks to me in Italian. "You need to calm down or you'll be of no help to anyone."

I understand his words, though they aren't making any sense to me. How the fuck am I supposed to calm down in this situation? I need her.

"I know what we need to do." My father's voice is heavy, and I look at him, trying to search for an explanation in his eyes.

"What?" I ask.

He takes a deep breath, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows thickly. "We need to speak to someone else."

"Who?" I ask, feeling pissed off. "No one knew about this apartment. No one but you knew I was the one who took her."

I give him a long look and he stares right back. For a second, I wonder if it was my father who took her back. I search for answers in his eyes, coming up empty every time. It couldn't have been him, I decide. It feels like my father sees the revelation in my eyes, and he smiles slowly, as if to corroborate the story in my head. I smile back weakly.

"It wasn't me," he says simply.

"I know." My voice is weak. I'm embarrassed of it.

"We need to talk to someone else," he repeats.

"Who?" Who could possibly help out here? There isn't much we can do except have the brothers search for clues, possibly find out who took her, and exact our revenge.

My father takes a deep breath before answering me. "We need to speak to Nicolas Da Costa," he finally manages to get out. "We need to go to Bianca's father."

T
he first day
passes by in a haze. I’m scared, shaking with every sound and unable to get a moment of peace. I’m shaking each time I hear something, so afraid he’ll come here again. My eyes hurt from the artificial lighting in the room, and I’m growing really hungry.

I’m surprised to find the bathroom fully functional, but I’m too paralyzed by fear to explore my surroundings any further. Instead, I spend hours crouched in a fetal position on the bed, thankful that he at least untied me.

I still don’t know who the man is – he never told me his name. But I know I’m very afraid of him, and I’m dreading the moment he comes back in here.

I guess I eventually fall asleep despite my fear, feeling exhausted after the horrible few days I’ve had. I’m a deep sleeper, and I don’t wake up even once until I’ve gotten some proper rest. As soon as my eyes fly open in what I assume to be hours later, I spring upright in bed, encased by a paralyzing fear. But I’m still in one piece, and nothing hurts.

However, there is a platter with some food sitting on the nightstand, and I know he came in here. I shudder at the thought of the man seeing me in such a vulnerable position and pull the duvet up around me to protect myself. I wonder briefly whether the food he brought in to me is drugged, but I don’t have the option of leaving it. My stomach is rumbling, and I need some sustenance.

I eat the lukewarm chicken noodle soup and follow it up with a grilled cheese sandwich. They’re not hot anymore, but they feel good in my starving belly. I wash it all down with a glass of milk that accompanied the food.

Once I’m done, I’m wide awake and unsure what to do with myself. I know I need to try to find a way out of here, though. The way that man spoke to me…it was obvious he wanted to hurt me. And the longer I stay, the greater his chance of doing just that.

I climb off the bed and find some clothes neatly folded in a stack on the chest in front of the bed. They’re my size, in pastel pink and white. I put them on reluctantly, only because I don’t want to prance around naked. It would only make the situation more dangerous and disconcerting.

The outfit consists of pink yoga pants and a white T-shirt. Too girly and childish for me, but I put it on nonetheless. There’s a set of lacy lingerie, as well, and I put that on first. The more clothes that separate my skin from this madman, the better.

I pace the room, treading softly, trying to make as little noise as possible. I want the man to think I’m still asleep and not come back in here for as long a period as possible. The fact that there are no windows means I don’t know what time it is, though, and I can only guess when he’ll be back.

It could be any second, or it might take hours. I need to use every chance I get to familiarize myself with my environment. I’m too scared he’ll put me in the binds once he comes back, preventing me from trying to find a way to escape.

The room is very generic. Pretty and nicely decorated, yes, but there is not a personal touch in sight. The only place I deem worthy of interest is the bookcase, filled with books I’d read myself when I was a younger girl. Little Women, Pride and Prejudice, the Little Princess. So many books I remember from my childhood.

My fingers trace the pretty spines, noticing all the books are quite old. They’re not ancient, but definitely about as old as I am. I even remember some of the covers from the editions I have on my shelves back at home that I’ve kept from my childhood.

Curious, I pull out one of the tomes and the spine cracks open in my hands. It falls open to the title page, and I stare at it in wonder. A name is written down the page in swirly writing, hearts dotting the I’s.

This book belongs to Lottie!

I stare at the writing before setting the book down. I pull another one out, and sure enough, it also has the same writing on the first page. I wonder who this mysterious Lottie might be. By the time I’ve gone through most of the collection, a big pile of books sits beside me on the floor, and I feel like I know Lottie’s taste already. She sure liked her classics, and she must’ve been a younger girl, judging by her childish, bubbly handwriting.

Once I get through the first row of books, I realize there’s another one hidden behind them. I start taking them out one by one. These books are different. They all have a dedication on the title page along with Lottie’s handwriting, as if someone gave them to her as a gift.

There are several names there, and I keep track of all of them in my mind.

To sweet Lottie, Pietro.

Dearest Lottie, enjoy! Francesco.

To the best sister in the world… Lorenzo.

I don’t recognize their names, but I slowly start piecing the story together. It all starts coming together in my head and I feel like I’m about to have a revelation when the door flies open. It’s so sudden, and I am so immersed in the books I don’t even hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

The monstrous man looms in the doorway, and I lurch to my feet, book in hand. I retreat backwards like a frightened animal, all my senses on high alert.

“What are you doing, little bird?” he asks me. His tone is menacing, and I’m frightened. I try not to let him see that, though. My instincts are telling me this man gets off on fear.

"N-nothing," I stutter. "I was just looking through the books here."

"You like them?"

He approaches me slowly, reminding me of a snake getting ready to strike. My heart is pounding as the man advances towards me. "They belonged to a very special girl, once upon a time."

I nod, trying to hide how badly I'm shaking. "Yes, they look great," I manage to get out. "Some of them I read when I was younger."

Oddly, he seems pleased by my answer and I relax a little. It doesn't look like he's gearing up for an attack. Instead, he crouches next to me on the floor and pores through the books with me. I can't relax though, and my fingers shake.

"This one was her favorite," the man tells me, pointing to A Little Princess. I blush, remembering the nickname Matteo used for me. I nod, trying not to let it show.

"Who was she?" I ask in a whisper. The man doesn't answer, instead handing me the beaten-up copy of the book and pointing for me to open it.

"Read for me."

With trembling fingers, I open the book to chapter one. I begin to read slowly, my voice shaking and stuttering when I speak the words. He doesn't seem to mind though, and I sneak small glances at him. The enormous monster of a man has become less tense and is now sitting on the floor. At least for the time being, he isn't an immediate threat to me.

I get to the end of the page, finally feeling a little more relaxed. "More?" I ask him. I need to get on his good side. I'm quickly realizing it's the only way I'll ever get out of here.

"More." He reaches forward and strokes my hair. It repulses me, but I try not to let my disgust show. I force myself to sit still and not shy away from his hands. I'm pretending it's nothing, though my mind is screaming in its shackles, begging me to make him stop this intimate interaction.

I reach for the yellowed page and turn it, but my fingers are too rough for the old tome. The page rips, falling out of the book and landing in my lap.

For a moment, everything is still. It's like we've been frozen in time as we both stare at the ruined page in my lap. Then, everything happens in a flurry of actions.

"I'll f-fix it," I stutter.

The man growls and the book topples out of my lap as he lunges for me. He grabs my hair and pulls hard, and I scream. He's so rough I'm sure he'll tear my hair out of my scalp. He drags me to the bed and I try to fight, but I'm helpless against his toned body. My scratches don't do any damage at all, and my heart pounds as he throws me onto the bed.

"You stupid bitch," he growls at me. "You ruined it. You ruined it. You ruined it."

Each sentence is punctuated with a blow. One on my face, one in my belly, one in my chest. I heave, holding my center as I topple over and nearly fall off the bed. It hurts. It hurts so fucking bad.

I'm trying to catch my breath, hot tears streaming down my face. The man is breathing heavily, and I don't dare look at him as I sob quietly. He is insane. An unpredictable, violent monster who would stop at nothing to get what he wants. And now I've pissed him off, and I'm honestly scared for my life.

"P-please," I manage to plead.

"Shut up, you whore." His words are filled with disgust and I shiver, crawling to the other end of the bed, as far away from him as I dare to go. I curl up in a fetal position and cry my eyes out. It's too much. My daddy, losing Matteo, losing everything at the hands of this madman. I need to escape. I need to get away, or he's going to kill me. Might be in a minute, might take years. He's unpredictable as fuck.

"It's okay, hush now." I look up through teary eyes, droplets of my sadness clinging to my eyelashes. His expression has changed completely. He's somber now, almost sad as he reaches for me.

"It's okay, Lottie."

I stare at him, my eyes wide, too stunned to move. He reaches for me and strokes my hair, his touch as soft as it was hurtful just moments ago. His eyes are glazed over, staring. He strokes my hair, wipes away my tears. Tears that he put there in the first place.

He's insane. I want to tell him, I want to scream my head off telling the world how crazy he is. I make myself remain silent. I give him what he wants. I curl up in a ball and whimper as he touches me as if I'm a kitten.

He covers me up with the duvet, gently laying the cool fabric over my shaky body.

Insane.

Violent.

Unpredictable.

"Get some sleep, Lottie," he tells me.

I nod and shut my eyes, willing all of this to go away. Maybe if I sleep long enough, this won't be my reality anymore. Maybe I'll wake up and it'll all be gone, and I'll be with Matteo, his fingers inside me, his hand on the back of my neck. I moan softly, picturing myself in his strong arms. It'll be okay. It'll be fine.

"Sweet girl. Get some rest. I'll be back with your dinner," the man says smoothly. Delusional. Fucking crazy. "I won't let him hurt you anymore, Lottie."

Who? He's the only one who's hurt me thus far.

I keep my mouth shut. I look at the man through teary eyes, my gaze wide and scared. He smiles patronizingly at me. I hate him. I want to kill him.

"Who is Lottie?" I ask, already reeling back as soon as the words are out of my mouth. He's going to hit me again, and it's really going to hurt this time.

His eyes drain of the fairy tale he's imagining for himself. He looks at me blankly, a hard edge to his gaze. I can't tell whether he knows I'm here or not.

"Lottie," he says, the hurt coloring the name in deep sorrow. "Lottie was my sister."

He gets up from the bed, not giving me a second look as he leaves the room. I just stare at his retreating back until he closes the door and the lock clicks back in place. My whole body hurts from his vicious attack. I'm scared he'll come back. I need to find something to comfort me.

I lie on my side, the position in which my ribs hurt least from his violent blows. My fingers find the edge of the bed frame, and I stroke it in slow motions, trying to calm myself . It is only after a while that I discover ridges in the wood, long lines in the perfect white lacquer.

I can't help my curiosity. I get off the bed, crawling on the floor until I can see what I was just touching. There are lines in the wood, long lines covering the whole side of the bed. Someone carved it in the wood.

I stare at it. Lines upon lines upon lines. Several groups of them. And names.

Patrizia. The most lines. I can't even count them all.

Annabella. Five lines.

Kate. Three lines.

Lily. Only one. Only one line.

Something's tucked into the bed frame. I pull it out. A dull pocket knife. Not enough to attack him with. He must know it's here, since he must've changed the bedspread. I bet it amuses him, to think of me trying to hurt him with the dull blade.

I repeat the names in my head.

Patrizia. Annabella. Kate. Lily.

All here. All prisoners. All counting the days, or months, or...years they spent here.

And Lottie. The key to the mystery.

I hold the center of my body. It feels like I'm holding myself together, and if I let go, I'll just fall apart.

Patrizia. Annabella. Kate. Lily.

And the lines carved in the wood.

Each one getting less time.

And now it's my turn.

I reach for the knife with shaky fingers, and I carve the first line into the wood. And I hope I'll be around long enough to carve a second one.