Page 192 of Dark Romeo

My blood froze. Oh my God. He was going to do it. Had he turned on me?

No, Roman would never. He would figure out a way to get us out of this. When? How? If he refused to cut my finger off, he’d be punished.

Abel rubbed his erection into my back. “Go on, girlie,” he whispered in my ear so only I could hear him. He let go of my throat to caress my cheek with his gloved hand. “Scream a little. Bleed for me. You’re in good hands when you pass out. I bet your blood tastes like your pussy will.”

No. No fucking way. I turned my head and sank my teeth into his hand. Soft leather, warm flesh and wetness spilled into my mouth.

He let out a scream and shoved me away. I heard tearing. His glove and part of his palm came away in my teeth. I spat it onto the ground, a mess of black leather and blood.

“You fucking bitch,” Abel said. He backhanded me with his uninjured hand so hard that my head rang. I fell to the cold floor at Roman’s feet.

“Back off, dog.” Roman stepped in front of me, the knife meant for me aimed at Abel.

Don’t defend me, I wanted to scream. You’ve given yourself away.

“I knew it,” Abel yelled. “I fucking knew it. You’ve got a thing for her. You’re the one who had Tate and Eddie killed.”

Tate and Eddie. The two men who had been hired to kidnap me. Giovanni Tyrell had been behind it after all.

“We need her alive, you fucking idiot,” Roman scowled. “We can’t return her to her father all broken.”

“You’re cutting off her finger. What’s another bruise or two? Or are you too soft to do it?”

“Enough, Abel,” Giovanni called out, his voice calm and steady. “Roman is right. We need her alive. And relatively unharmed. I know that you can often…get carried away.”

Only then did Abel back down. “Yes, sir,” he said as he clutched his shirt with his right hand, now gloveless and bleeding down his inner wrist in rivulets.

I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

“You…” Roman’s voice shook. I snapped my face towards him. He looked like he’d seen a ghost.

I looked towards where he was staring, where the knife was now pointed. To the back of Abel’s hand.

There in the center was a raised pink circular scar.

A circular burn.

Like a cigarette lighter.

Roman spun towards his father, his face a crumpled mask. “Why did you do it? Why?”

Giovanni straightened up, his chin thrust abnormally high. I swear I saw a flash of fear in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“My mother, my fucking mother,” Roman yelled. “Why did you have her killed?”

“I didn’t?—”

“The night she was murdered, the night I watched her die, she attacked her murderer with a cigarette lighter, leaving a circular scar on the back of his hand. Like the one that Abel has.” He pointed at Abel with the knife that was meant for me. “That’s why you wear the gloves.”

“Fucking bitch,” Abel hissed, glaring at me, his other hand covering up the scar as if it were a mark of shame.

“Your dog doesn’t do anything without your instruction,” Roman said, his dark eyes fixed on his father.

Oh, Roman. My heart twisted. His own father had his mother killed. He sat back and watched as the media crucified Roman, as rumors spread around of a little boy so monstrous that he killed his mother at the age of twelve. How could he do that? How could his father do that to his son? The throbbing in my cheek faded as I became overwhelmed with rage for Roman. I burned for Roman. I shook where I sat.

Giovanni’s face curled like the withered leaves of a poisonous tree. “She was going to leave me, leave us. She was going to run off with that bitch prosecutor and leave us all behind. But I fixed it.”

Bitch prosecutor.

---