Page 60 of Protected By the Mafia

That had been how she’d fought. That was who Tristán thought he was facing now.

He was wrong.

Felicity stomped up to him and smacked him hard across the face. It certainly was less than what he deserved, but it was more than she’d ever done. “You son of a bitch! You had your buddy come and kidnap me out of my therapy appointment? What the hell’s the matter with you?”

Tristán’s eyes widened and he rubbed at his cheek, rolling his jaw as if she’d hurt him. “You hit me.”

She glared at him. “You had me kidnapped.”

He dropped his arm back to his side. “You disappeared, Lissy. I was worried ‘bout you. Some real scary dudes have been breathin’ down my neck lately, and one of ‘em was seen recently around your place.” He reached out and curled her hair around his finger. “I couldn’t have them puttin’ hands on my baby sister, ya know?”

Felicity smacked his hand away, simultaneously fighting down the instinct to step back and put distance between them. She was not the weak, timid girl she’d been the last time she’d interacted with this monster. She was the future Mrs. Cristiano De Salvo. She would get through this, even if it scared her. Even if it hurt. “The only scary guys who’ve been haunting me lately are you and the sickos you send after me.” She lifted her chin. “Did you even know about the way the guy in the apartment across the hall would talk to me? The guy you and your gang friends sent to spy on me.”

Tristán’s head tilted to the side. “He mistreated you?”

She fought not to shiver. It was almost worse the way he presented like some caring, protective brother at times. “Only every time I had the misfortune of running into him. And he made a point to come greet me whenever he saw me in the hall.”

“I’ll fucking kill him.”

Felicity gave him her most unimpressed look. “Don’t pretend you care. You had multiple spies set up in my apartment building, including my landlord. Who thought it was apparently more important to keep me locked down than protected, and that bruise took a whole damn week to heal.” She took a sharp breath and plunged ahead, letting herself rant. “But obviously the absolute worst is sending Grumpy Asshole back there to barge into my therapist’s office and kidnap me at fucking gunpoint, even murdering a man right in front of me because that guy had the bad misfortune of walking in before we could leave. Yeah, that screams ‘my brother cares about me’.”

“I only asked Cezar not to be too rough with you,” Tristán said. He shot out a hand and twisted it in her hair until her scalp stung. “You’ve gotten mouthy while you were away. You learn that at the grocery store?” He tugged her closer, into his space, and lowered his voice. “Or did De Salvo teach you that?”

Shit. She’d really hoped he somehow didn’t know about that connection, despite where she’d been found. But she refused to assume what he knew. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

His eyes narrowed until they were little more than slits and he promptly twisted, dragging her toward the bed by her hair. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do, Lissy. Let’s get comfortable.”

Fear and adrenaline surged through her, fueled by not-old-enough nightmares. She wrenched herself painfully, throwing her elbow into the first part of him she could reach until his hold dislodged and she was free. Her whole body reared back as his grunts of pain filled the air and she sprinted around to put the bed between them. It was imperfect, but she had no desire to let him touch her, and even less desire to allow him to get her on a bed.

“Goddammit, Lissy,” he snarled. He stalked around the bed, absently rubbing his side. “I’ve told you a hundred times, you belong to me.”

She backed around the next corner, matching his pace. “I am not property! And what the hell is wrong with you, acting like that toward your own sibling?” It was a wasted argument. She didn’t even care about his answer anymore. She just wanted to keep him talking and not fighting.

“That’s what’s so wrong with this world,” he said. He came to a stop, watching her with nearly half the bed between them. “This fucked up society’s tryin’ to tell us we can’t have each other, but they’re wrong, Lissy. Just like they were wrong about Manny. His girl deserved what she got for steppin’ out on him like some whore. And me? I deserve you!” He lunged over the mattress as he shouted, arms outstretched.

Felicity screamed on reflex and bolted, abandoning the bed strategy in favor of the kitchenette. She couldn’t see any obvious weapons, like knives, but there was a small pot on the counter. She snatched it up, not bothering to remove the lid, and spun around swinging.

The pot connected with Tristán’s head at a slight sideways, upward angle. The clear, faux-glass lid popped off and flew halfway across the floor, skidding to a stop beneath the suspicious curtain. Tristán himself reversed course abruptly, dropping to the ground and groaning in pain. His eyes fluttered, as if he struggled to maintain consciousness.

Felicity hesitated, not sure what she should do next. Trying the door was out of the question—even if it was unlocked, she had no friends out there. So, keeping one eye on her psycho sibling, she carefully shuffled through the drawers in search of anything potentially useful. She found a few towels, a concerning selection of rope and zip ties, plastic cutlery in a box, an old and stained recipe book, and to her amazement one item with a metal point. A potato peeler. It wasn’t ideal, but perhaps she could use that and the rope to her advantage.

Tristán coughed, rolling slowly onto his side and raising a trembling hand toward his already swelling face.

Or maybe I’ll stick with the pot.

nineteen

Fighting Back

Felicity would be the first to admit she was not in any way trained or mentally, let alone physically, prepared for whatever the situation was she’d landed in. But she was determined to survive, and that meant gritting her teeth and crossing all her digits. She had no idea how long Tristán would be out of it, or if he’d snap back to mostly alertness like a raging bull at any moment, so she went with the first most logical course of action she could wrap her brain around. She took the rope, grabbed him by the arm, and put all her weight into hauling him closer to the bed.

He let out a groan of protest, his head partially dragging against the concrete tile floor. He was dribbling blood out of his mouth, she realized. She hoped it wasn’t bad of her that she felt kind of gleeful about that.

When she judged he was close enough, Felicity hurried to wind some rope around his wrist. Then she extended it to the base of the bedpost she’d dragged him to, winding it several times around that. There was plenty of rope left and she hated the idea of just wasting the rest, but she doubted very much that a potato peeler could cut through the new-looking rope with any expediency. So she set to work tying the sturdiest knot she could.

By the time she was done with all that, Tristán was groping at her legs with his free hand and making more consistent, intentional sounds. He still wasn’t speaking, but she took the behavior as a sign that his threat level was rising again regardless.

Felicity stepped quickly out of his reach, moving back to the counter where she’d left her pot, and raised it up so he could see. “If you manage to get out of that,” she said, “I’ll hit you again. I’ll hit you until you stop moving if you make me hit you a second time. I’m completely serious, Tristán, I don’t ever want you coming near me again, do you understand? Not. Ever.” She didn’t know if he was even cognizant enough to comprehend her words, but it made her feel a little better to say them. If nothing else, he did seem to recognize the pot as the weapon that had struck him down.

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