Page 9 of Savage King

Nestor just earned himself a spot at the top of my shitlist. That thought alone lifts my spirits. Edoardo may have tied my hands when it comes to Carlos, but Nestor? He’s fair game.

A slow grin spreads across my lips.

I’ll have it all—Carlos will die in prison, and Nestor will be bleeding at my feet. And then, whether she realizes it or not… Scarlet is mine to save.

Pain is the only constant.It claws at my shoulders, sears through my arms, and sets my toes on fire from holding my weight too long. Time has lost all meaning. Hours? Days? I don’t know anymore.

Hank hosed me down like an animal, laughing while I gasped from the cold. My clothes are still damp, clinging to my skin like a second layer of shame. He enjoys breaking me down, especially when he forces me to relieve myself in my underwear. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life. I tell myself it doesn’t matter, that my body is just a shell, and my mind is still my own… but I know it’s only a matter of time before that, too, is stolen from me.Now and then, I drift off, thankful for any small reprieve from the pain, but it never lasts long.

Earlier, when Hank and Marco were talking, I’d caught a name—Marcello. Something about him and Carlos being at odds. I think Marcello is the son who returned from Sicily last year, but my mind is too foggy to be sure.

“Marcello won’t like this,” Hank said, his voice eager to gossip.

“Doesn’t matter. Carlos is in charge,” Marco muttered back, though there was a tightness in his tone that told me he wasn’t so sure.

"Yeah, but for how much longer? He's going to jail." I guessed theheHank was referring to was Carlos.

"Idiot, that's why she's hanging there, so he won't." Marco had slapped Hank over the head, and that had been the end of that conversation.

I don't know what good that information will do me in my current situation, but I file it away. Thinking about the mob's dynamics gives me a short reprieve from having to contemplate hanging here like a helpless animal waiting to be slaughtered. I have no doubt that soon I will start losing body parts, and the prospect scares the shit out of me. What's worse, though, is that there is nothing I can do to stop it from happening. I'm at these men's utter mercy, just like I was so long ago at my mom's. I hate being the helpless victim.

I know my dad loves me. We've been through so much shit together. He'd do anything for me, even throw a trial. The thought of what that will do to him is almost worse than the pain I'm going through. So many people have tried to bribe my father over the years, and he prides himself on refusing all of them.

I'm sorry, Daddy, so, so sorry.

But even knowing Dad will do anything they ask, he can't deny every objection or refuse every piece of evidence. He just can't, and that means they will cut me more. And when they're done…

Is this it then? Is this how I will die? Cut into pieces?

I hope Dad understands that they won't let me go, not even after he gives them what they ask for. The mafia doesn't let people go, ever.

I haven't seen the accountant lookalike again. Hank and Marco have taken turns watching me. Marco is a little bitnicer,for want of a better word, though I’m hesitant to apply it to a criminal like him. He brought me water and bread earlier. I had to force myself to eat the bread he held in front of my face. It was only because I knew I needed the sustenance that I put up with the humiliation of him feeding me.

A loud bang from upstairs has both Hank and me looking up. More bangs follow, and he pulls his gun, throwing a demonic grin at me, "Stay here."

Do I dare hope that Dad has called a SWAT team? My heart beats a hundred miles a minute against my ribs. I should have known Dad would find a way to save me. He always does. He is the only man in my life I can rely on, if my two exes are any example to go by.

More banging comes from upstairs; men are yelling and screaming, doors slam open and shut, and I hear furniture being overturned. The need to know what is happening is almost as great as the pain that's ravaging me.

Time stops when the door to the basement creaks open. A flare of hope rushes through me, immediately followed by dread. If whoever is coming down is Marco or Hank, they will kill me. I'msure of it. Alright, I resign myself. This is it. Moment of truth. Life or death.

I gather up what strength I have left to lift my head. Such a simple task, yet it takes all I have left in me, but I refuse to go down like a coward.

I can’t help but hear heavy footfall descending the stairs, and with each step, my heart beats a little bit harder, faster. The steps are slow and controlled. The sound announces someone who knows he owns the space he's entering. Black leather shoes come into my field of vision first, then perfectly tailored pants that mold to muscled thighs. I swallow; that does not look like a SWAT team uniform. My stomach tightens in dread. Broad shoulders hugged by a crisp black suit follow. It’s not the cheap kind of suit Marco and Hank are sporting. This suit has been perfectly tailored for this man.

Next, I make out a sharp jawline half-hidden in the shadows. And eyes—blazing green. They zero in on me, and suddenly, my rapidly beating heart stops. It feels as if time is suspended as his eyes meet mine.

He takes me in from head to toe, his jaw working hard, and anger comes from him in waves. I want to shrink back, but I can't. I can only hang here, helpless, and watch him approach me. His pace picks up a little, and fear tightens my throat. He reminds me of a predator closing in on his prey.

He radiates power and danger, a mix that makes my stomach flip and heats up a part of me that should be lying low right now. "I’m Antonio DeLuna. Your father made a deal to get you back, and now you’re under my protection." He introduces himself, pulling out a wicked-looking knife. I'm beyond fear now; I knowwho Antonio DeLuna is. Everybody knows who he is. He is one of the heads of the New York Cosa Nostra, a capo.

His right hand grabs my wrists, and with his left, he uses the knife to saw through my bindings. His hands are rough, but the way he cuts through my bindings is… careful. The moment the rope snaps, my legs buckle, and I brace for the pain of hitting the concrete floor, but it never comes. Arms like steel catch and lift me as if I weigh nothing. He scoops me up, and I lean my head against his chest. I can feel the heat radiating through his suit, warming my freezing, battered skin. I want so much to believe I'm safe, but I'm scared to. His words of having made a deal with my father bounce through my mind like a ball on a squash court. I'm too tired to think about all the implications his short sentence holds. Right now, I'm at the end of my rope, and I just want to feel like I’ve been saved. I close my eyes and listen to the steady beat of his heart. All the while, my traitorous body melts against his chest, craving warmth and safety, while my mind screams at me to pull away.

“You’ll be safe,” he murmurs in a low, steady voice.

My mind wants to believe him; my weak, broken body already has as it relaxes in his firm grip, starved for warmth and any form of caring.

We reach the top of the stairs, and he warns, "Don't look."

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