Page 4 of The Sicilian Brotherhood I

“Stay away from me! My fiancé is Franco Beronicensi!”

“Franco? The bastard who set you all up today. That’s rich.”

He lunged forward, so I grabbed my phone and threw it at him.

“Back off!”

He laughed.

I took my heels off and threw those too. They only bounced off his chest and landed on the floor. They were pitiful weapons against someone of that size.

“Quit it,” he grunted, “That won’t make this any easier.”

“Stay away from me.”

“You’re in no position to make requests.”

“STAY AWAY FROM ME!” I screamed.

By then, he’d reached me and he picked me up off the ground effortlessly, swinging me over his shoulders.

“Put me down,” I yelled.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

He lumbered out of the room, ducking just enough so that my head only grazed the arch. He stalked down the hallway as I continued to scream and pound my fists against him. He turned into the room where we were to be wed.

“Kill them,” he ordered.

“NO! PLEASE! NO!”

I blubbered and wailed as he held me, unmoved by my pounding against his back. I couldn’t wriggle free. I couldn’t move. I screamed as I heard a gunshot. I screamed again when I heard another one.

There were only two.

“That’s for what happened in Pompeii. When that sick fuck Franco shows up, tell him what I said.”

Then he walked out, whistling for his men to follow him, still carrying me over his shoulder. My voice was hoarse from screaming and I could do nothing but cry and pound my fists weakly against his back, accepting the futility.

When we walked out of the room, I saw the two people he’d shot. Paolo law slumped over in his chair, blood soaking through his white button-down shirt. Then Ana. I cried out again when I saw her blue eyes staring back at me, wide and glassy, and permanently transfixed with a haunting gaze.

She blinked, just once, and I screamed so loud that I knocked myself unconscious for a few seconds.

When I came to, the man who had slung me over his shoulder strapped me into the backseat of his SUV. All the biker gangs in the region kept a few vehicles like this one for "business". "Business" entailed anything they didn't want a cop to catch wind of.

Disposing of their kills was high up on that list. I shivered.

Clear zip ties bound my hands together in front of me. The ties dug into my skin, leaving dark purple bruising already. To my left, sat a tall deeply tanned man with a cut through his eyebrow from a healed scar and thick dreadlocks. Unlike dreadlocks in Afro hair, his were matted and knotted with no particular pattern to them. A golden hoop linked through one that fell across his eye.

He leaned over and whispered something to me in Italian.

I didn’t respond.

“You don’t speak?” He asked in English.

I shook my head, trembling in fear as he leaned in again.

“That’s okay princess,” he whispered, “My name is Raimondo. You don’t have to be afraid.”

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