by Reilly, Cora
Serafina stared at me, wide eyed. I moved closer, and she stiffened but otherwise didn’t show her fear, despite the exhaustion on her face. “Tomorrow we will start playing, Angel.”
I left, wanting her to ponder my words. Nino waited in the corridor as I closed the door. I raised my eyebrows in passing. “Pizza’s arrived?”
Nino followed close behind me then grabbed my shoulder. “What kind of video do you have in mind for tomorrow?”
I regarded him, trying to gauge his mood, but even now it was still difficult. “I’ll give her a choice.”
Nino shook his head once, almost disapproving. “This woman is innocent. She’s not a debtor. Not a whore who steals money. She hasn’t done anything.”
“Kiara changed you.”
“Not in this regard. We’ve never preyed on the innocent, Remo. We’ve never laid a hand on someone who didn’t deserve it, and this woman, this girl ... she did nothing to deserve that choice.”
I held his gaze. “You know me better than anyone else,” I murmured. “And yet here we stand.”
Nino tilted his head, gray eyes narrowing. “You’re playing a dangerous game. You don’t know your opponent well enough to be sure of her choice.”
“She will choose what they all do, Nino. She’s a woman. She’s been coddled all her life. She will take the easy way. I want to hear her say it in front of that fucking camera, want Dante hear his niece offer her fucking body to me, want them all to hear it, and she will.”
Downstairs, I grabbed one of the pizza boxes before I returned to the guest bedroom in my wing. This time, Serafina sat on the bed and didn’t look up when I entered. She held the silver nightgown in her hands. “What if I refuse to wear it?”
“You can wear your nightgown for the show or be naked. Your blood will look just as enticing against your white skin as it would against the nightgown.”
A small shiver rippled through her body, and she let the piece of clothing flutter to the ground at her bare feet.
I walked closer. “Here. You haven’t eaten in more than a day.” I set the pizza box down on the nightstand.
She eyed it suspiciously. I waited for her to shove it away, to try punishing me by starving herself, like my mother had always tried with our father. It hadn’t worked with him, and it wouldn’t work with me.
“I hope it’s poisoned,” she muttered then reached for a slice and took a big bite. She chewed then raised her eyes to mine. She swallowed almost defiantly. “Are you going to watch me eat?”
Maybe breaking her wings wouldn’t be as easy as I’d thought.
Early the next morning Fabiano came over. I was doing kicks against the punching bag in our game room, needing to release my pent up energy.
He leaned against the doorframe, assessing me for a couple of heartbeats.
“Say what you’ve got to say,” I growled and landed a hard kick.
“Jerry called me into the Sugar Trap a couple of hours ago so I could deal with the mess you created. I found Simeone with his cock stuffed into his mouth. I’m not sure I want to know what happened.”
I narrowed my eyes. “If you didn’t want to know, you wouldn’t be here.”
He pushed away from the doorframe and moved toward me. “Did he touch her?”
I stopped my kicks. “He didn’t. He thought he could watch Serafina showering.”
Fabiano evaluated my face. “Where is she?”
“In bed.”
His eyebrows rose. “In your bed?”
I didn’t say anything, but I met his eyes straight on.
He sighed. “So, you ...” He searched for the right word then gave up. “I thought you wanted to use her virginity as leverage against Cavallaro and her fiancé?”
I tried to gauge Fabiano’s feelings, but he was too good at masking them. If he put that kind of effort into hiding his feelings, he would only disapprove of me taking Serafina with force.
I stalked toward him. “Do you harbor feelings for her?”
He grimaced. “Really? I have Leona. I’m not interested in Fina.”
“But you don’t like the idea of me hurting her?”
“You are Capo. You do with her whatever you want, but no, I don’t like the idea of you punishing her for something the Outfit did.”
I respected Fabiano for his honesty. Most men were too cowardly to tell me the truth to my face. “Then you should leave now because I have a call set up with Dante and her family in two hours, and Serafina will play the leading role.”
He looked away, a muscle in his cheek twitching. “I should return to Leona.”
“You do that. Go to your girl. And I will go to mine.”
“She isn’t yours, Remo. She didn’t choose you. That’s a big difference,” Fabiano said before he turned and left. I returned to the punching bag and kicked it harder than before.
SERAFINA
Even the next morning, the pizza lay heavily in my stomach, but at least now my stomach was churning for another reason than terror. I considered eating another piece for breakfast. I needed all the energy I could get if I wanted to figure out a way to beat Remo at his own game because no matter how sheltered I was, I knew Remo wouldn’t have set up a video call with my family if he didn’t know he had something to show them that would hurt them.
I barely slept through the night. Remo hadn’t locked my door after he left, but I didn’t try venturing outside, fearing it was a trap. I was still too shaken to plan my flight in a way that would guarantee its success.
I slid the satin nightgown over my head, even if I didn’t want to give Remo even that small victory, but I’d have to pick my battles if I wanted to survive.
Steps in front of the door made me stiffen, and I got up from the bed, preferring to stand when facing Remo, but it wasn’t the scary Capo who entered. Savio Falcone stood in the doorway, his brown eyes taking in the length of me. I wrapped my arms around my chest before I could think better of it.
“Come,” he ordered with a nod toward the open door.
I walked toward him, and he made a move to grab my arm. “Don’t you dare touch me,” I hissed.
His eyebrows shot up, and he smiled arrogantly. “Then move your pretty ass. And take my advice, don’t ever talk to Remo like that or you’ll find yourself wishing you had never been born.”
I sent him a scathing look as I followed him through the house, taking in my surroundings. It was a spacious, twisted place that quickly left me confused. I could feel Savio’s eyes on me occasionally, more curious than sexual, but still his presence made me nervous. He was tall and muscled and too confident.
Eventually he led me down a steep staircase into a basement.
“Of course you Falcones have your own underground torture chamber,” I muttered, but even I could hear the undercurrent of panic in my voice.
A desolate, abandoned smell hung in the air. Thankfully no excrements or blood.
Savio didn’t say anything, but he motioned for me to enter a room on the right. Remo was already inside. “Here she is. I’m meeting Diego. Tell me how it went,” Savio said with a laugh.
“You’ll get to see the recording,” Remo said, his dark eyes locked on mine. “Stand over there,” he ordered, pointing at a spot in the center of the room. I followed his command, my brain whirring. The room was empty. No mattress, no chair, nothing except for a table with a camera that was pointed at me.
Remo walked around me, scanning my outfit. The silvery satin nightgown clung to my body, and as my nipples puckered in the cold basement, Remo’s eyes were drawn to them. I shivered.
Nino came in as well, and my terror increased as I watched him re-adjust the camera and put a big screen on the table in the corner. He turned the screen so it was facing our way. “Remo,” he said, and his brother went over to him. Nino frowned, but Remo touched his shoulder then looked at me. My nails found their way into the soft flesh of my palm.
The screen flashed to life, and on it I saw my family and Danilo, and my legs alm
ost buckled.
Samuel jerked, his eyes so full of despair it tore at me, and Dad had dark circles under his eyes. Dante and Danilo were better at controlling their emotions, but they, too, didn’t look their usual composed selves.
“I’m so glad you could make it,” Remo said in a British accent, all posh and sophisticated. Wrong. A man like him shrouded in an air of violence and cruelty was anything but an English gentleman.
Remo smiled cruelly at them then turned to me, and his dark eyes flashed with excitement. “Serafina, in Las Vegas women get a choice ...” His voice had returned to its normal, low, threatening vibrato.
“Don’t you dare!” Samuel shouted, lunging toward the camera as if it was Remo. Dante gripped his arm to stop him, but even my uncle appeared at the edge of control.
Remo ignored them, except for a twitch of his lip. He pulled out the knife he’d used to slaughter Simeone and showed it to me. “They can pay for their sins with pain or pleasure.”
I shuddered. “You have no right to judge other people’s sins,” I whispered harshly. Remo slowly walked behind me, too close, his breath hot against my neck. My eyes landed on the screen and met Samuel’s desperate gaze. He looked on the verge of breaking. I needed to be strong for them, for him and Dad, and even Dante and Danilo. For the Outfit.
“What do you choose, Serafina? Will you surrender to torture or pay with your body?”
I held Samuel’s gaze. I’d take my pride to the grave with me. Women were built to give birth. These men could brave pain and so could I.
Remo stepped back into my view. “If you don’t choose, I will make the choice for you.” His eyes and face said he knew my choice, was sure of it, because I was a woman, weak and insignificant.
I smiled arrogantly. “I will choose the bite of cold steel over the touch of your unworthy hands any day, Remo Falcone.”
His eyes flashed with surprise, respect ... and terrifying excitement. “I will enjoy your screams.”
“Remo, this is enough,” Dante ordered.
Remo only stared at me, murmuring, “We have only just begun.” Without a warning he gripped me, whirled me around, and jerked me against his body—his chest, every inch of him pressing against my back and ass. His hand cupped my chin, tilting my head up so I was forced to look at him. He wanted to see my eyes, my expression, my fear and terror when he made me scream.
I returned his gaze with all the hatred and disgust I could summon. I hoped I’d be strong enough to deprive him of my screams, prayed for it. “Where would you like to feel my blade?”
He held the gleaming steel right before my eyes, letting me see the sharp edge of it. I had seen that both Remo’s and Nino’s Camorra tattoos covered scars on their forearms. Maybe it meant something, maybe not. I had nothing to lose at this point.
“Or did you change your mind about your choice? Will you pay with your body after all?”
I didn’t trust my voice because terror clogged my throat, and Remo could see it. I gripped his wrist and guided the knife to my arm until the cool blade touched the soft skin of my forearm, close to my veins.
Something flickered in Remo’s eyes and triumph filled me, because for some reason this spot got to him. I kept my hand on his as the blade rested against my sensitive skin.
Remo pressed and I tensed at the slight burn, but he wasn’t really cutting yet—as if he couldn’t bring himself to do it. I couldn’t believe it was because he had reservations about hurting me; this was the cruelest man in the west after all. And it definitely wasn’t because he couldn’t bear to destroy my unblemished skin. I was sure he’d love to be the first to leave a mark. There was something else holding him back, something dark and powerful. I pushed against his hand, pushed it down on my arm, and the blade cut my skin, but Remo resisted.
I searched his dark eyes, wondering what went on in their depths, terrified of ever finding out. Remo’s eyes hardened, turned harsh, brutal, and finally he pressed the blade down and it cut through my skin. Sharp pain burned through me, and I shook under the force of it, my hand still on top of his as he drew the knife across my skin, but not stopping him. For some reason his eyes reflected my pain as if he could feel it more profoundly than I did.
Remo released my chin, his arm snaking around my waist to keep me upright, but I kept my head tilted up, my eyes burning into his. I bit down on my lower lip as a scream clawed up my throat. Copper filled my mouth. Then it spilled over my lip, down my chin.
Remo stopped the blade, something in his eyes keeping me frozen.
“Enough!” Dad roared. “Stop it. Stop it now!”
Remo’s brows drew together as our gazes remained locked. He released my waist and stepped back. My legs buckled, and I fell to the ground, my knees colliding with the hard floor. I barely registered the pain. I sat back on my haunches as I cradled my arm in my lap. The cut wasn’t as deep as I thought, but blood soaked my silver satin gown, and the blood from my lip quickly joined it. I looked up to see Remo turning off the camera then the screen. Samuel’s desperate face disappeared from view.
Nino stood against the wall, his eyes on my wrist and an unsettling expression on his face. Remo had his back turned to me, facing his brother, but his shoulders were heaving.
I forced my body to stand, despite the shaking of my legs, and let my bleeding arm hang in front of me on display.
Nino tore his gaze away and stared at Remo. I wasn’t sure what passed between them, not sure I ever wanted to find out.
Remo slowly turned his head, his cruel eyes meeting mine, dark pools of rage leaving me breathless. For once he didn’t smirk or smile, didn’t look superior or furious. He looked almost confused in his own terrifying, otherworldly way.
And I swore to myself that no matter the price, no matter what it would cost me, one day I would be the one to bring Remo Falcone to his knees, the one to break the cruelest man I knew.
CHAPTER 6
REMO
Nino’s expression was strained, but he wasn’t about to lose his shit again. He was staring into my eyes, no longer at Serafina. He swallowed then the cold mask took hold of his face and he straightened. My eyes fell to the scars on his wrist covered by our tattoo, then to similar scars on my skin, not as straight, not as focused. I almost touched the fucking scar over my eyebrow like I’d done in the weeks after...
“You will have to stitch her up yourself. You played this game and lost. You underestimated your opponent,” he drawled then left, leaving me standing there, fucking furious and fucking ecstatic.
I turned around slowly. Serafina was swaying but trying to stand tall. Her chin was covered in blood from the wound in her lip, from biting down on it to stop a scream. She didn’t give me a single one. My gaze dipped lower. Her nightgown was stained with the blood still trickling from the cut in her arm, which she cradled against her chest.
She was supposed to choose differently like all the other women always did. Instead, she’d caught me off guard, had taken the painful road, had forced my fucking hand. She hadn’t given me the triumph of offering her body to me on a silver platter in front of Dante fucking Cavallaro and her fiancé. Nino was right. I’d underestimated my opponent because I compared her to the women I’d dealt with so far, but Serafina was nothing like them. Proud and noble. I wouldn’t underestimate her again.
And I would get that fucking scream. I would get more than that.
My eyes were drawn to her arm. Why had she chosen that spot? When I looked back up, Serafina met my gaze with one of triumph. She knew she had won.
I stalked toward her, anger simmering under my skin. She tensed, swayed again but didn’t fall. I took her arm and inspected the wound. It wasn’t deep. I hadn’t put enough pressure behind the blade to cut deep. I hadn’t wanted to cut her at all, which was a new experience. Seeing the blood on her perfect skin didn’t give me the deep satisfaction it usually did.
“How did it feel to hurt me? Does it excite you?” she asked fiercely.
I leaned clo
se, cupping her chin. She held her breath as I trailed my tongue over her lower lip, tasting her blood. I smiled darkly. “Not nearly as much as this.”
She jerked back and stumbled, but I caught her, because this wasn’t the fall she would take.
“We need to treat your wound.”
She didn’t protest and followed me silently back upstairs to the first floor, and my grip on her arm held her steady. I led her into my bedroom then my bathroom, where I kept the only medical kit in my wing. Nino was the one who usually handled this kind of shit. She leaned against the sink. “You should sit down,” I told her.
“I prefer to stand.”
I let go of her and she clutched the edge of the sink to steady herself. I bent down to retrieve the medical kit, but my eyes were drawn to the high slit in her nightgown revealing a long, slender leg. She shifted so her front faced me. I smirked up at her, but her skin was pale and a fine sheen covered her face. I grabbed the medical kit and straightened, regarding her more closely to judge whether she was going to pass out or not. She narrowed her eyes at me and straightened her shoulders with obvious effort.
The corner of my mouth twitched. I took out tissue adhesive. The wound wasn’t deep enough to require stitches. I couldn’t remember the last time a cut from me didn’t lead to stitches—or a funeral.
I took out disinfectant spray, and she stiffened but didn’t make a sound when the stinging spray hit her wound, but she did bite down on her lower lip again.
“If you keep doing that, the result will be twice as painful.”
She sent me a scathing look but released her bottom lip.
I began to put the adhesive on her wound, feeling a strange aversion to seeing the cut I had inflicted. I couldn’t quite define the feeling; it was foreign to me.
“So is this how it’s going to be? You cutting me open and stitching me back together?” she seethed.
“I’m not stitching you up. I’m gluing you together.”
She didn’t say anything, but I could feel her eyes on me. She tapped my forearm with my Camorra tattoo, brushing the crisscrossing scars there. “I wonder who inflicted those cuts,” she mused.
