Page 9 of Ruined By Blood
Her shoulders remain tense.
"Rest," I say again, my hand on the doorknob. "No one will hurt you here. That's a promise."
Brightness stabs my eyes as I peel them open. For a moment, I don't know where I am. The bedbeneath me is too soft, the sheets too silky against my skin. Not my prison of a bedroom at father's house.
Memory crashes back like a wave—the casino, Cortez, the attack, and then him.
Enzo Feretti.
I'm in his house.
I bolt upright, immediately regretting it as pain lances through my ribs. The room spins, medication making my thoughts hazy around the edges.
A gentle knock at the door makes me flinch before the older woman from before—Ginerva—enters carrying a tray. She smiles warmly, but I pull the covers higher.
"Good afternoon, cara," she says, her accent melodic. "You slept well. Almost twenty hours. Your body needed the rest."
Twenty hours? My heart hammers against my chest. Father will be looking for me.
"I brought you something to eat," Ginerva continues, setting the tray on the bedside table. The rich aroma of herbs and tomatoes wafts toward me. "Ettore made his special minestrone just for you."
My stomach growls traitorously, but I don't move toward the food.
"Why am I here?" The question scratches through my dry throat.
Ginerva fills a glass with water from a crystal pitcher. "You were hurt, cara. Mr. Enzo brought you here to keep you safe."
Safe. The word feels foreign, dangerous to believe.
"What does he want from me?"
My mind races with terrifying possibilities. No man helps without expecting something in return. Does he know who I am? Maybe this is a long game—keepingHenry Sterling's daughter as leverage for whatever criminal enterprises the Ferettis run.
Ginerva's expression softens. "To help you heal, child. Nothing more."
I almost laugh. Men like Enzo Feretti don't provide sanctuary without price. I've learned that lesson through years of bruises and broken bones.
I eye the soup, hunger warring with suspicion. The liquid ripples in the bowl, steam curling above its surface. My stomach clenches painfully.
"You need to eat to regain your strength," Ginerva encourages, misreading my hesitation.
Strength is exactly what I need if I'm going to escape. Because no matter what Ginerva says about Enzo's intentions, I know better than to trust a man with eyes like ice and hands that could break me.
After Ginerva leaves, I drag myself from bed, wincing at each movement. The room is elegant but impersonal. Cream walls, dark wood furniture, and windows that reveal sprawling grounds surrounded by what looks like a high stone wall.
I shuffle toward the bathroom door, one arm wrapped protectively around my aching ribs. I need to clear my head, assess the damage to my body, and figure out my next move.
The bathroom is a marvel of marble and glass, bigger than my bedroom at father's. A gleaming walk-in shower with multiple jets sits opposite a deep soaking tub. For a moment, I stand frozen, torn between practicality and the siren call of hot water against my battered skin.
Practicality wins. A shower will be quicker, and I need to stay alert.
As I reach to turn on the water, I notice a neat stack ofclothing on the marble counter. A soft-looking heather gray sweater, simple black leggings, and... undergarments. All with tags still attached. Clearly new and never worn.
My fingers brush against a folded piece of paper tucked beneath them. The handwriting is strong, decisive—distinctly masculine.
I hope these fit you. There are more options in the closet if needed. -E
I place the note back on the counter, unsure what to make of this small, unexpected kindness. It could be manipulation, a calculated move to gain my trust. Or perhaps something else entirely.
