Page 6 of The Sicilian Brotherhood I

So much for getting my bearings.

He got out of the back of the car. The driver, Giac, came around to the other side and opened the door.

“Get out.”

“Giacomo,” Raimondo started, “Don’t you think she’ll run?”

He chuckled, “Where’s she going to go?”

My kidnapper, Giacomo, chuckled and reached for the knife in his belt pocket and cut the zip ties loose. The marks didn’t show up clearly on my mahogany skin, but the indents had cut deep. My arms were stiff and my wrists ached.

“Thank you,” I muttered.

Giac chuckled, “No need for manners around here. Come. Don’t try anything.”

I nodded. I didn’t want to give him reason to worry. I could tell he’d underestimated me. He thought I was some stupid tramp. You didn’t have a relationship with Franco Beronicensi for five years and not pick up a few useful skills.

Franco... He could rot.

The moment he’d left me vulnerable enough to get picked up by the Sicilian Brotherhood was the moment our relationship ended. As I stood there rubbing my wrists, my heart filled with rage for him.

I'd fought so hard to believe he loved me. He never had.

We walked up to a large white farmhouse, cold and stark as if it hadn’t been lived in for years. Giacomo opened the door and the dust settling on every surface told me that I was right. This had to be one of their safe houses, one of the places they’d lay low from the law or take thugs who had screwed them over and end them.

Thugs like Franco. He was the one who should have been here. I didn’t know how he’d screwed over these guys, but he had to have. Messes like this were typical of him. Back in 2010, he'd been kidnapped for a week by an Albanian biker gang for attempting to kidnap one of their women.

I exhaled sharply. I wasn't Franco, so maybe if I led them to what they wanted, I'd have a chance at survival.

I'd do anything.

Once inside, Giac gestured to Raimondo to go get firewood for the fireplace.

“Thirsty?” He asked me.

“Yes.”

His arctic blue eyes pierced right through me, like a wolf. He was gruff and spoke in a low voice with a thick, Southern Italian accent.

He walked over to the sink, his boots heavy on the hardwood. He turned on the sink which sputtered before ejecting a clear stream of water.

He brought me a metal cup filled with water.

“Drink.”

I took the water and greedily spilled it down my lips. I got water all over my face and on the front of my dress. My lipstick stained the cup and when I set it down, I exhaled a sigh of relief.

“You’ll need to get out of that thing,” Giacomo said, watching me struggle with the water.

“Nice try, bastard. I’m keeping this on.”

He smirked, bemused.

“There are clothes for you upstairs.”

I stood up. I wanted to fight him more. I didn’t want to defer to him just because he’d decided he was in charge around here. But if I managed to escape at all, I wouldn’t be able to escape in this wedding dress or these heels. My feet had swelled up like bratwursts and my toes throbbed.

“I don’t want you following me.”

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