Page 89 of Mila: The Godfather

The entire state has the best security system money can buy, plus Kelly and I are armed and ready to eliminate any threat to her safety. I highly doubt someone was able to trespass, but you can never be too sure.

Not when the woman who’s taken hold of my every thought had a million-dollar hit on her head.

She could have fallen and hurt herself.

Opening her door, the first thing I notice is the light on. Of course, I know she sleeps with her night light. That’s not unusual. What has my heart beating a mile a minute is that her bed is neatly made, the sheets without a crease on them.

Also, the bed is fucking empty.

Stepping farther inside the room, my eyes move everywhere in search of her. Nothing. Fuck.

Having decided, I search the whole damn house for her, I turn toward her door and notice the walk-in closet’s door slightly open.

And I almost don’t hear it. The sound is so low I almost miss it. A whimper. As if a defenseless animal was in pain and frightened. That is how it sounded.

The feeling in my chest, the ache, only intensifies when I move towards the closet. I open the door wider and there she is.

Mila is lying on the carpeted floor with only a thin blanket covering her body. She cries in her sleep, and her body twitches as if it hurts.

I’ve seen a lot of tragic shit in my thirty-one years of life, and it almost never moves me, but this sight right here does.

It tears my heart in two.

There’s a frown on her face that makes it look like she’s in pain while stuck in a dream state.

She’s having a nightmare.

I notice how she’s touching the barely visible scars on her hands while she cries out for someone to not hurt them. Them? Frowning, I wonder if she means her sisters? Who else could’ve been?

Fuck that family.

Fuck anyone who failed to keep her safe.

Someone will answer for this. For her pain.

I won’t fucking sleep right again until I give back every single scar she has on her skin and the ones you can’t see because she hides them with her sweet smiles.

Having had enough of watching her suffer in her dream, I gently pick her up from the floor and bring her closer to my chest. Holding her securely in my arms, I leave the closet, move toward her bed and lie on it with a still-in-distress Mila in my arms.

I’ve never been a man who feels comfortable touching or consoling others. It isn’t in my nature, or so I thought, because with her, it comes easy.

Naturally.

“Shhhh.” I whisper while pushing her soft curls away from her face. She’s cold. Dammit.

I hug her closer and drape the covers over both of us.

I watch her, wondering what nightmare is haunting her mind—what she’s seeing and feeling. I worry about what demons could be brainwashing her. I watch her sleep, taking in every delicate detail of her face, the length of her eyelashes, how they rest on her cheeks like little feathers, and the way her lips part as she breathes. I want her in my bed like this every day, with the sun shining down on her golden curls like a halo. “I’m here, butterfly. I’ve always been here and always will be.” I rock her gently wishing I could wipe away all the shit that she’s seen. All the pain in her heart and all the memories are currently haunting her.

Women as pure and good as this one should only have beautiful dreams. Sweet memories.

Not nightmares.

Definitely not scars.

Hatred runs thick in my veins at this moment while I’m holding my girl, and I make another silent vow to find Gabriele Parisi, wherever the fuck he’s hiding at, and slash his skins, returning every fucking scar he gave to his youngest child.

And I’ll take down anyone who gets in my way.

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