Page 10 of Ruined By Blood
Either way, I can't stay in this blood-stained dress any longer. I strip it off carefully, letting the ruined red fabric pool at my feet like spilled wine, and step beneath the hot water.
I let it run over my body until my skin turns pink and steam fills the bathroom. Every drop washes away another layer of fear, even if only temporarily. If I could stand here forever, I might.
But I can't.
Taking a deep breath, I turn off the water and reach for one of the plush towels hanging nearby. It's softer than anything I've ever touched, cloud-like against my bruised skin. For a brief moment, I allow myself to enjoy the small comfort.
The clothes fit better than I expected. The gray sweater drapes loosely over my frame, hiding the worst of my visible injuries. The leggings are a bit long, but they'll do. I avoid looking in the mirror, not wanting to see the damage Cortez left behind.
With one last steadying breath, I open the bathroom door—and freeze.
Enzo Feretti sits in a high-backed chair near the window, his presence filling the room like a physical force. He's wearing a black button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing forearms covered in intricate tattoos. His jaw could cut glass, all sharp angles and hard planes, while those brown eyes track my every movement.
My pulse spikes, fight-or-flight instinct screaming. I press my back against the doorframe, fingers digging into the wood.
"First things first," he says, his voice deep and controlled. "I need your name."
I say nothing.
His eyes narrow slightly, studying me. "The doctor says you'll make a full recovery, physically at least."
Still, I remain silent, calculating. The door to the hallway is too far—I'd never reach it before he could stop me. The windows are my only other escape route, but we're at least two stories up.
"You're safe here," he continues. "No one will hurt you under my roof."
A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. "I can't trust you."
"You don't know me."
"I can't trust anyone," I whisper, voice raw with truth.
He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. The movement is casual but somehow still predatory. "Tell me who did this to you. Give me his name."
"I want to leave." The words come out stronger than I feel.
"You'll leave when you're no longer at risk of collapsing," he says, authority coating every syllable. "And when you start talking."
I wrap my arms around my middle, straightening my spine despite the pain. "I won't tell you anything."
Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, maybe curiosity. He rises to his feet in one fluid motion, and I can't help flinching back.
Enzo pauses, noting my reaction. Without another word, he walks to the door, his movements controlled and deliberate. At the threshold, he stops, looking back at me over his shoulder.
"This conversation isn't over," he says simply, then leaves, closing the door behind him.
CHAPTER 5
Istride through the hallways, my mind still replaying the woman's terrified expression when she woke in my guest room. I don't bother knocking before pushing open the heavy oak door to Damiano's office.
My brother sits behind his massive desk, sleeves rolled up to reveal the intricate tattoos covering his forearms. His normally immaculate hair looks slightly disheveled, evidence of the interrupted weekend plans. Zoe stands by the window, her blonde hair catching the afternoon light as she turns toward me.
"You didn't have to come back," I say, the guilt hitting me as I take in their casual clothes. "I could have handled this."
Damiano's dark eyes assess me with that calculating gaze that misses nothing. "When my consigliere calls about an unconscious, beaten woman in our territory, we come back. Period."
Zoe offers a small smile. "We can have another weekend."
"What I need to know," Damiano continues, leaning forward on his desk, "is who she is. Did you know her before last night?"
