He sees me, his Safiya, right beneath his nose. Maybe he never really knew me. Never really cared.
Something in his gaze shifts as if he’s reading my mind, and he shakes his head.
“No. No! You don’t look at me like that.” He curls his fingers around the waistband of my panties in cruel retaliation for insulting him. “Like I’m the one toying with you, when you… You provoke me in the worst way. A lesser man would kill you for desecrating what you’ve tried to.”
He brings one hand to my throat, toying with the thrum of my pulse. His thumb finds a spot Mischa taught me to recognize—a vital artery. He presses down directly over it, hard. Harder…
“Would anyone even care if I killed you?” he wonders in a cruel whisper. I brace myself as he lowers his weight over me, hoovers his mouth above where his thumb still lies. “You are at my mercy. Tell me your name, and I’ll let you go. Or gasp. Whimper. Anything to prove it. I’m begging you. I’ll get on my knees if that’s what you fucking want.” He chuckles madly at the thought of it. He sounds mad. Earnest. A man at his wits’ end with nothing to lose. “Prove to me you are not Safiya. Or… Prove to me you are her.”
He frowns as if he doesn’t even understand the question leaving his mouth. He tilts his head, his breath hot on my cheek, his hips pressed hard against mine, dominating the space between my legs.
“My Safiya wasn’t a fighter,” he says near the hollow of my throat, still pressing so hard I feel lightheaded. “She loved me like… She loved me—” His voice breaks, triggering an unexpected pain lancing through my chest. It builds and builds, spreading up my spine, setting my eyes on fire.
“She loved me,” he insists. “And do you know what I did to her? What I let happen to her? My Safiya? My sweet girl…”
Lace rasps against my hips, ruthlessly dragged over the tops of my thighs. I remember how to move, lurching against him, swatting at his hands.
“I sold her.” His eyes are unfocused, staring into space beyond me as his strength easily overpowers what little resistance I muster. He cinches a fistful of my panties and tugs. Fabric tears, making my stomach lurch before cool air replaces the thin barrier, and there’s nothing to shield me as his touch roams. He palms my thigh, and I go rigid again, my thoughts spiraling.
“I offered her on a silver platter to men who would tear her apart.” His voice goes hoarse with dread. Guilt. Agony. “I let them hurt her. God knows what they did to her.” His mouth finds the crook of my shoulder as his hand inches higher. Higher.
I pummel him, trying to clamp my thighs against the intrusion.
He doesn’t even flinch, so lost inside his own memories, I doubt he can feel anything. “I killed her in so many ways, tigre,” he whispers into my flesh, sounding like a broken man, a world apart from the ruthless finger prodding between my legs.
My lips part, my breathing harsh on the air. It’s an impulse I haven’t done in years. Try to scream…
My nails dig into the flesh of his forearm as he brushes his thumb against me. Soft. Harder, forcing my flesh to conform to the pressure. Fire ignites my cheeks. I know what happens between a man and a woman. I am well aware of the physical act my parents so obviously enjoy.
But rumors, or my classmates, or what snippets of romance I glimpsed in books made it sound so blasé. So simple.
This is punishing. Relinquishing your body to another. Feeling them force their way inside despite the sheer limitations screaming that it’s unnatural. They could never fit. Even a finger is too much. Too big.
“Ah… Sì,” Donatello declares in triumph. “You may hold your tongue, for you are not Safiya,” he states, drawing back so suddenly my head swims. “Count your blessings on that. I may be a fool. I may harbor pathetic hopes of her bestowing her forgiveness upon me from beyond the grave—but I am not that naïve.” He steps back, adjusting his askew suit jacket. Cold, his eyes sweep over me. “Go back to your employer, whoever he may be. Tell him that you failed. But know this…”
He starts for the door and pauses over the threshold, his back to me.
“Come after me again, and I won’t show the same restraint. Believe whatever lies your master fed you about me, but understand one thing, tigre. I am still Il Mostro. Attack me all you want, but if you ever insult the memory of my family again? I will kill you. With my bare hands, I will kill you. Slowly. Sloppily. I’ll have you praying to the devil himself for mercy before I’m through.”
He leaves, shutting off the light as he goes.
12
Don
By the time Javier and I reach the villa, it’s mid-morning, and Vin has the nerve to come skipping down the main staircase as I stagger into the foyer.
“You look like shit,” he declares while looking sufficiently bright-eyed and fucking bushy-tailed. “Where is your little friend?” He cranes his neck to peer beyond me, as if expecting the blond to come in through the front door.
I push past him in search of a couch to lie on, ignoring the question.
Where is the puzzling little tigre? Hopefully, on her way back to her master, sufficiently convinced to leave me in peace.
Peace…
That’s the name I’ve given to this hollowed state of being. Peace. Peace. I scoff out loud, feeling my upper lip quirk as I slump onto a leather chaise in the drawing room. As a relatively new property, it’s sparsely furnished with whatever the previous owners left behind.
“Looks like someone didn’t get any sleep last night,” Vin remarks from the doorway. I can practically hear his smirk. But, like always, he’s too kind-hearted for his own good. Already, he’s crossing to the large windows, drawing the curtains shut to block out the sunlight. “I wouldn’t either,” he adds from over his shoulder. “Because of sex, hopefully. Or the pain—there’s blood on your shirt, Don, and your cheek is scratched. You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine, smartass,” I grumble, letting my eyes shut. Behind them is a wealth of misery, waiting to follow me into my dreams. Safiya, her face blurred by years of neglect, her memory faded and worn. And an older, beautiful blond, her dark eyes taunting me with the threat of a reality too painful to imagine.
Too tempting to resist.
My Safiya back from the grave, willing to put me out of my misery for good. I’d suffer whatever revenge she’d bring my way. Anything. I’d suffer anything for her.
But as my little virgin tigre proved, my hopes are futile, as fragile as a hymen straining against my fingertip. I will admit that it was a shock, a welcome bitch slap to my senses. I’d almost fallen for her scheme…
She wasn’t Safiya.
But she was different. I can’t stop myself from flexing the finger I’d had inside her, recalling that tight warmth. My brain is a sick fucking thing, conjuring dangerous realities where they shouldn’t exist. Like that, my would-be assassin was a virgin, so tight I doubt she’d had a man touch her before, let alone fuck her. And her smell…
My forefinger is in my mouth before I know it, and I groan at the remnants of her taste. Sweet. Ripe. My cock stirs, and I regret leaving her there, though perhaps it’s for the best. I’ve kept Havienna in my possession for too damn long. Soiled by the memory of the imposter Safiya, it’s about damn time I burned it to the ground and let those ashes fade into dust.