Antonio's POV
I DIDN'T EXPECT to be this affected by her. But from the moment I walk down the stairs and my eyes land on her, something shifts inside me. Seeing her strung up like a piece of meat at a butcher's shop fills me with an inexplicable fury. A different fury than when Carlos killed my dad. That fury runs through my veins like ice water, patient and waiting for the right moment to strike. The fury I feel on her behalf is hot like lava and all-consuming. It confuses the hell out of me.
She is nothing but a pawn. The only reason I'm even here is to ensure her father sends Carlos to prison. Yet, when I scoop her up and she leans her head against my shoulder, it feels right.
My men are busy setting up the warehouse to make it look like a fire broke out—an unfortunate accident. The woman in my arms has no idea, but right now, one of my men is taking the corpse of another woman down into the basement. Carlos will not only think that Scarlet is dead, but he'll also be busy bribing cops and the fire department to keep them from mentioning or investigating the find of a woman strung up in his warehouse.
The car is waiting outside for us, and again, I surprise myself by not simply putting her into a seat but keeping her on my lap. She is a pawn, I remind myself. Exactly, a very valuable pawn, so we're keeping her safe. I like that argument. I can get fully behind it. It makes more sense than me actually liking the way she clings to me or how her body feels pressed against mine.
I like tall blondes who giggle and think the highlight of their day is sucking my cock. Not damsels in distress. They are too much work and require too much time.
Yet, the entire drive back to my house, I can't stop myself from studying her features; I stare at her long eyelashes, her curved brows, and note how her forehead is wrinkled even now. My stomach knots and tightens at the sight of her bruised face. I'll make them pay for that, with blood and pain.
Her lips, currently drawn down in a frown, are full and luscious, and the way her nose slightly tips up makes me want to touch it with the tip of my finger. Touch it with my finger? What the hell is wrong with me?
I shake my head at myself; I have much more pressing matters to attend to than this wounded… bird.
Despite all that, I carry her straight to my bedroom, not one of the guest suites, and refuse to think about it.
Doc is already waiting for me, and I deposit Scarlet on the bed. Once she's there, he checks her bruised face, which sends another pulse of anger through me, and then she shows us her back.
This isn't the first knife wound I've seen, but this one fills me with murderous rage. My fingers curl into fists; the need to hurt someone claws at my insides. Scarlet's skin—so fucking soft, milky, and perfect—should have never been marred like this. It's like some puto vandalized a masterpiece and defaced something sacred. Nestor didn't just hurt her—he defiled her.
For that, I will make him bleed.
I won't just kill him. No, that's too easy. First, I'll carve his back open like a Thanksgiving turkey, each slice deeper than the last, until he's begging for death. Then, I'll take my time. I'll make him wish for hell because even the devil won't want his pathetic soul.
We captured two of the bastards who touched her. I saw their faces on the video Nestor sent Lambert, and I made sure my men took them alive.
Because I have something special planned for them. Unfortunately, Nestor wasn't at the warehouse.
But that won't be a problem. He caught a reprieve, not a pardon. It's only a matter of time before we find him. And when we do, I will personally flay every inch of his flesh for what he did to her. Her petite frame felt weightless in my arms. Fragile.
I don't deal with fragile things. I break them. Use them. Discard them. But her? Holding her was something else entirely—like cradling a stolen relic, something so precious I shouldn't touch it.
She looks so damn vulnerable that, once again, she reminds me of a bird.
No, not just any bird.
When I was a boy, I found a baby sparrow that had fallen from its nest. The tiny thing was so small that I worried I would break it when I picked it up.
My father laughed at me and told me I was a damn fool, that I was just setting myself up for heartbreak. He predicted the baby bird would never make it until morning.
I proved him wrong. With the cook's help, I fed the baby and built it a new nest, and the next morning, it was not only alive but doing well. I kept it with me every hour of the day, even at school, feeding and cleaning it. It grew into a regular sparrow, nothing special, yet it meant the world to me. It meant I could keep something small and fragile alive if I wanted to.
One day, it flew off and never came back, but the experience still lingers with me. Scarlet reminds me of that bird, and I will do anything in my power to keep her alive, too. I'll be damned before I allow her to fly away, though.
"This needs stitches," Doc mutters, probing Scarlet's skin. "I'm worried about an infection."
I barely hear him over the steady thrum of my own rage. I'm still watching the wound, memorizing every detail so that I can carve the same pain into Nestor's fucking skin.
"Don't leave a scar," I order.
He glances at me as if I'd lost my mind. "You know that's nearly impossible."
"Try."
My gaze flickers to Scarlet's face. She's slipping in and out of consciousness; her breathing is slow and shallow. I should be focused on revenge; instead, I'm focused on her. The way her lips part slightly when she exhales. The delicate rise and fall of her chest. The softness of her skin beneath my fingers when I hold her up so Doc can check the other parts of her body.
"Were you hurt anywhere else?" he asks her the next time she comes to.
She shakes her head numbly. She's still in shock and probably in a great amount of pain. "I'm not sure. I think they kicked me here," she points at her side.
Gently, Doc moves her shirt out of the way to expose another angry bruise.
The imprint of the tip of a shoe is visible, filling me with even more rage. I steel my features so neither she nor the nosy doctor can get a read on me.
"I'll give you some morphine. That'll take the edge off the pain and relax your muscles. I'll also want to add a drip of antibiotics," He explains his plan.
"Is that alright with you?" I ask her.
Her beautiful eyes are only half open. She's fading. Faster now that Doc put a drip on her and gave her the promised morphine.
I hold her up while I watch Doc. Every time the needle punches through her delicate skin, I memorize it. Nestor will pay for this with skin and blood.
Doc has been with the family for over twenty-odd years, ever since he was accused of killing a twenty-eight-year-old mother of two. It was her widower who came to my father asking for help. He told my dad that his wife had been in the end stages of ALS and that he had begged the doctor to release her.
The family was pissed at Dad for using company funds to pay for the best medical attorney to get Doc off until he started working for us, then they realized he was a lot better than the coke-addicted quack they had before.
Doc has long since quit his practice and works solely for us now, prospering in the process. He grumbles about it sometimes, but secretly, he loves his smaller patient base. He brings our children into the world, and they all call him Uncle Matto. He has become an uncle to our entire family, an uncle who just happens to be very good at digging out bullets in the middle of the night or stitching up knife wounds.
All the lights are turned on so that he can see better, and now I notice, frowning, an array of faint scars on her back. When he's done, I move her body to get a better look at them, turning Doc's attention to her back once again, "How do you think she got these?"
Gently, he probes her skin and looks at me. "You know what they're from."
I have an idea, but… "I need to hear it from you."
He nods, pulls up his glasses, and rubs the bridge of his nose where the frame has left a small indentation. "They are marks left by a switch."
Anger surges through me. Those marks are old. Carlos's men didn't do them. But if not him, who? The judge? If he did, I'll make him pay. The worst thing in the world is a child abuser. I can't stand those fucking cowards.
"They were done over years." Doc puts his instruments back in his bag.
Once Doc is gone, I find a T-shirt of mine and carefully put it on her. I have to cut the sleeve on the left arm to get it over the IV Doc put on her, but it's better than nothing. Then I arrange the pillows and turn her on her back, making sure none of her weight is on her bandaged wound.
That's when I realize how matted her hair is. It hits me that she's been held captive for two days with no means of cleaning herself. If it were me, the first thing I would want—after killing the bastards who did this to me— would be a long, hot shower.
I stare contemplatively at the sleeping beauty in my bed, marveling at how perfect she looks in it. I study her fine features. Her dark eyelashes are long, leaving feathery shadows on her dark-rimmed eyes.
A strand of brown hair sticks to the side of her face; it's hard from dried blood. I make up my mind. It won't be easy, but she needs a bath. I eye the IV stand. Yeah, it's definitely not going to be easy.
With a sigh, I rise and head into the bathroom to turn the shower on, then I peel out of my clothes. After a moment of soul searching, I decide to keep the briefs on. This is not about any sexual fantasy or satisfaction; this is about getting the woman cleaned up the way she deserves.
Back in the bedroom, I pull the comforter down and wrangle her back out of the shirt I just put on. God, she's beautiful. And you're an unscrupulous lecher, my conscience pipes up. Interesting, I haven't heard from that bastard in years.
But he's right; I shouldn't be doing this.
Not because I don't want to, but because I like the idea too fucking much.
I peel the shirt all the way from her body, and my breath locks in my throat.
Even bruised and battered, she's the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen. Soft, perfect curves. Skin like silk. Her lips are slightly parted in her sleep, oblivious to the effect she has on me or that I'm holding her naked in my arms.
I close my eyes and grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches. I've killed men with my bare hands and commanded armies of criminals, but somehow, this tiny, unconscious woman is my undoing.
I am allowed to look, aren't I? I mean, I'm not a pervert; I won't touch her, no matter how tempting those delicious high breasts of hers are. My cock hardens, and there's my answer. I definitely shouldn't be looking. A gentleman wouldn't. Then again, I never claimed to be a gentleman. I'm a ruthless mafia boss. I have a reputation to uphold, even to myself.
I pull her unconscious body up in my arms and carry her bridal style into the bathroom while rolling the damn IV stand with us. Like earlier, she fits perfectly into my arms and against my chest, making me marvel at how much I like this. Scarlet isn't heavy by any means, but it takes some maneuvering to get us in the shower with the damn IV stand nearby.
Then there's the fact that I've never bathed an unconscious woman before.
Well, I've never bathed a woman, period. I might have fooled around with one or two in the shower—a shower, not this one—but I've never had someone not participate, and I discover this is harder than I imagined.
Finally giving in, I slide us down to the ground. The warm water cascades down on both of us. My briefs are soaked instantly, clinging to my body, but I barely notice. All I see is her.
Even unconscious, she tempts me. Her skin is soft under my fingers, her breath feather-light against my chest. I shouldn't be thinking this way, not now. Not when she's weak and vulnerable. But I do. Because I'm a bastard with no soul, and she's the most beautiful fucking thing I've ever seen.
When I wash her, I force myself to be clinical. Efficient. But the moment my fingers glide over the curve of her breast and a small sigh escapes her, something in me snaps.
This is a mistake—a dangerous one.
But it's too late. Because I want her. And I always take what I want.
Toni, don't you fucking dare, I cuss at myself. Yeah, that's a no-no. Same with when it's time to wash her pussy. Fuck my cock. I close my eyes and grunt while another small moan escapes her. Shit. Fuck. Shit fuck, fuck. You can do this, Toni. You are a man of steel willpower.
Not getting the bandage on her back wet is even more challenging—I think I owe Doc one for having the foresight to make her bandage waterproof— especially when it's time to wash and condition her hair. All I have is what I use, but somehow, I like her to smell of my products.
More fine scars mar her hips and the insides of her thighs. This woman must have gone through years of abuse as a child. I don't care who the bastard is who did that to her. I will find and kill him. If it's the judge, his life will get an extension until after he announces Carlos's verdict, but not a second later. I fucking hate child abusers. They are the worst kind of criminals.
When she's finally clean—my dick tries to tell me that her breasts could use one more go-round of soap, but I resist—I wrap her up in a towel and dry her off. The t-shirt is next, and a deep sigh of relief escapes me now that she's dressed again. I congratulate myself for being able to resist her tempting body. Shit, a Venus statue has nothing on this woman.
Once she's back in bed, I face another dilemma: her long hair is all tangled.
I have enough experience with women in general and a little sister in particular to know this poses a major problem.
When did you become a handmaiden, Toni? My mind teases, and I want to beat the bastard to a pulp. Using my iron will, I brush her hair and put it into a braid. There!
Fuck me!
I pull the comforter back up around her, marvel one more time at her beauty, and then put on some dry briefs and sit on one of the armchairs with a glass of Blue Label in my hand.
As if drawn by a magnetic pull, my gaze returns to the sleeping woman on my bed. My bed. No woman has ever slept in my bed. No woman has ever been in my bedroom, period. What was I thinking? I should have brought her to one of the many guest bedrooms.
You wouldn't have been able to keep an eye on her there, my mind justifies, and I take a deep sip of the whiskey. I fully agree with that. Never mind that I could have stayed as easily with her in a guest bedroom as in here.
Yeah, but you have all your stuff here.
Another good point.
Still.
You're not going to sit all night on this chair, are you?
My fingers drum on the armrest. My briefs are already driving me insane— twisting, riding up, clinging in all the wrong ways. I always sleep naked.
Always. I hate feeling confined.
And this chair? It's made for aesthetics, not comfort.
It's your bed!
I finish the whiskey and decide that, yeah, it's my bed, and I'm not going to sleep on the fucking armchair. She invaded my bedroom. My sanctuary. The least she can do is share the bed with me. It's big enough. And in another defiant move, I chuck my briefs.