Page 131 of Salvatore

I’m unfamiliar with the endearment, but the warm way in which she says it brings respite.

There’s a squeak of mattress springs. A clink of her knitting needles. Then her outstretched hands brush mine and she drags me into the bars, her arms circling my shoulders.

I scrunch my nose against the raw agony of her kindness and quickly navigate my arms between the bars to return the hug.

“Sei un povero disgraziato senza cervello,” she soothes. “Non affonderai i tuoi artigli su mio figlio.”

The indistinguishable words remind me of my mother. How she used to comfort me in Greek when I was a child, the foreign language seeming to cast a spell over whatever had upset me.

I rest my head against the bars, traveling back in time, disappearing into a childhood where my mother doted on me. Where she loved and cared.

Things had been good back then. I hadn’t known of the atrocities enacted by a father I adored or how my brother was being groomed to carry the horror-stoked torch.

It feels like a lifetime has passed when one of Adena’s arms falls away.

I sniff and withdraw an inch, expecting the comfort to be over.

“Be still,” she coos, her other arm tightening, the strength of her hold increasing tenfold.

I force a smile, appreciating her enthusiasm, only to have her fingers grip my shoulder in a hold that’s less comfort and more… I don’t know… territorial, maybe.

I attempt to withdraw again. “Thank you for your kindness.”

Her nails dig into my shoulder through my satin pajamas. A clink of her knitting needles pierces the silence.

“Stai ferma.” Her tone gains a rough edge.

Foreboding skitters along my nape. “Thank you, Adena.” I make a more adamant attempt to pull away.

“Don’t thank me.” Her nails bite into me like claws, her arm wrenching around my neck, holding me hostage, yanking my face into the bars. “Just stay away from my bloodline, you Latina whore.”

28

IVY

“Adena.”Panic steals my breath. “What are you?—”

Pain stabs my hip in sharp doses.Once.Twice.

I cry out, fighting to escape, scrambling for leverage.

“Keep your hands off my son,” she snarls.

I blindly shove at her through the bars, scratching, grabbing, my cell clattering to the floor.

More sharp bites of agony lance my waist. My abdomen.

I scream, leaning my belly away, my forehead still plastered to the metal bars. I find her face in the darkness, my fingers scrambling over her cheeks, my thumbs gouging her eyes.

She shrieks, her hold loosening as heat stabs my bicep. My wrist.

I wrench my neck backward, and slam a foot against the bars, the strength in my legs finally allowing me to break free.

I stumble away in retreat.

Then there’s nothing.

No sight. No sound. No pain. Only the callous rasp of my breaths as I stand on cold concrete, panting into the darkness, adrenaline coursing through me like a flash flood.

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