Page 19 of Thorns of Desire
During my hour-long flight to Spain, I tried to distract myself with writing, but each time it came to my hero’s point of view, my mind wandered to the man I spent a single, incredible night with.
Manuel Marchetti.
Of all the men on this planet, why did it have to be him? And why hadn’t I recognized him?
The man had gotten even better looking with age. And imposing. Manuel Marchetti was tall, handsome, and sinful. And oh lord, between the sheets, he was the devil himself.
Slamming my laptop shut, I gave up on writing. The last thing I needed was to get turned on thinking about the man who’d caught me and my mother in our little lip-syncing—although justified—scheme.
I brought a hand up to my face and sighed. I’d been drifting back to the memories I’d repressed from all those years ago. The evening that seemed to start my nightmare.
My blood ran cold as I watched the scene unfold through the crack in the closet door.
I stared at my mama in shock and horror as men wearing masks and dressed all in black surrounded her. She’d shoved me in here, disoriented and still half asleep.
But I was awake now, and I was terrified.
Why were these men here, and why was Mama on the floor on her hands and knees? She was crying and pleading in words I couldn’t comprehend. They weren’t English.
My breathing was labored and my heart raced against my chest, pounding painfully against my rib cage.
“I don’t know anything,” my mom screamed—in English now, I realized. “I have nothing to do with Atticus.”
Was she talking about my father? The man who abandoned us?
Mom never spoke about him; she wouldn’t even tell me whether he was alive or dead. Nothing. I’d dreamt about him my entire life, hoped he’d come and find us. He never did.
The only thing that followed us was trouble though, and something told me it had everything to do with him.
A scream filled the air as I silently fell to my knees, watching my mother tortured.
“Where is the child?”
I reached for her, fighting the urge to go to her, but I made a promise. I had to stay hidden.
My mother wrapped her arms around her waist as if to shield herself, but before she had a chance, a booted foot connected with her abdomen. I bit into my hand, holding my screams back.
I wanted to kick them and set my mom free. I was already back on my feet, ready to push through, when Mom’s voice stilled me. “I’m okay. Promise, I’m okay.”
A cold metal blade touched the side of her neck while I stood frozen, my eyes locked on the gun pointed at her temple. She wasn’t okay, yet I didn’t know what to do or how to save her.
My lips moved, wanting to yell out for her, fear widening my eyes as tears streamed down Mama’s beautiful face.
“I’m okay,” she croaked again, her slim body that could produce the most beautiful soprano notes shaking terribly. I wished I was strong enough to protect her. I hated seeing her scared, her body trembling like a leaf in the wind.
A laugh vibrated through our terror, and my mother’s eyes shot up to the man pointing the gun at her.
“So sweet,” he drawled, his voice muffled behind the mask. “But you won’t be fine unless you give me what I came for.”
My eyes focused on the man as our apartment quieted, matching the midnight hour of the little Italian town we were visiting for Mama’s performance at the opera house. My gaze slipped up to the tattooed hand holding the gun—an odd-looking symbol settled in the mouth of a skull.
Before I could dwell on it, a voice sent ice down my spine.
“Let’s make sure the great Alexandra Bottelli can’t sing tomorrow,” he purred, a wicked smile curving behind the thin material of the mask.
My throat bobbed, my heart thudding. The men began to laugh harshly and my eyes fell to the matching tattoos on their hands. There were four other men in the room—two with guns and two with blades.
“I don’t know anything,” Mom whispered quietly. “Please spare??—”
