Page 41 of Bianchi

Straightening, I circle him again, watching as his shoulders reach for his ears and he tucks his chin. Smirking, I come to a stop in front of him, pocketing one hand. “I’ll ask you one time and one time only. Who placed the order on my family?”

Giorgio squeezes his eyes shut. His skin is clammy, and he flinches when I slam the pliers on the arm of his chair, demanding an answer. Stammering, he cries out, “I don’t know anything.”

“Cazzate!” My hand flies from my pocket, wrapping around his throat and applying enough pressure for his eyes to bulge. His mouth opens in a silent scream and his head rears back, pushing the chair onto its back legs. I stuff the pliers into his mouth, the metal clanging on his teeth. Muffled cries fill the room, his limbs fighting against the restraints, keeping him tied to the chair.

With as much force as I can, I pull out a canine this time. I ease up on his throat, holding the tooth up for him to see. “Thirty-one teeth, Giorgio. Tell me the truth and I’ll consider letting you leave.”

We both know it’s a lie.

A cocktail of Giorgio’s blood and saliva lands on my white shirt when he spits at me, his face transforming from fear to hatred in the blink of an eye. “Fanculo!”

Releasing him, I drop the pliers and his tooth into the metal tray before turning toward Massimo. He cocks a brow, and I crack my neck. Grabbing between the buttons of my shirt and ripping it open.

I turn back to Giorgio, shrugging out of my shirt and leaving me in nothing but my undershirt. With a calm that portrays none of the disgust and fury rushing through my veins, I say, “It’s clear you have nothing of use to tell me. So, here’s how it’s going to go. Aldo will slit your throat.” Giorgio’s eyes bulge, his breaths coming in rasping pants. “You’ll sit here until you take your last breath and then he’ll dissolve your flesh in hydrochloric acid. When all that’s left of you is bone, he’ll grind them down and Massimo’s gardener will make use of you. Your existence will be erased from this world and your family will be left wondering where you are until they, too, no longer exist.”

Giorgio cries out, begging and pleading as I walk from the room. Massimo is hot on my heels, a dark chuckle falling from his lips as muffled screams follow us back upstairs.

“I really thought he’d break after the first tooth. Maybe next time, I can take a crack at it?”

Grunting in reply, I push through the door into the main house. It closes behind us, blanketing the house in silence. The beginning of a headache pounds behind my eyes and I let out a heavy sigh.

Sensing my mood, Massimo doesn’t say anything else as we move through the house. In less than an hour, a man will be dead and we’ll be no closer to finding out who is targeting the family, much less what their end goal is.

Massimo strides into the office ahead of me, making a beeline for the drinks trolley. Pressing two fingers into my temple, I move them in small circles before taking a seat in front of his desk and staring out of the window at the rose garden. A three-finger pour of scotch is thrust under my nose, and I take it, slinging back the contents.

“I’ll have Aldo grab a couple of men and stake out the house again. It feels like our next best lead.”

It’s our only lead, but I don’t need to point that out to him. “We’ll need to put someone on Elio too. Reach out to Callum and have him do some digging to find him.”

Massimo nods, his mood just as dark as mine. This is a lot more tangled than it appeared when I first arrived. I have no doubt that Francesco built the bomb, but somebody ordered the hit. Somebody with enough sway to convince others that their plan will work. When he worked for Massimo’s family, Francesco was nothing more than a soldato. He followed instructions; he didn’t issue them. I don’t buy that he’d have the presence to pull off something like this.

I can’t help but feel like we’re missing a piece of the puzzle.

Chapter 24

Romeo

Aurora’s asleep, the curves of her body visible beneath the sheet when I walk into our room. Our room. The thought sends a possessive urge through my body. She’s mine and even though I know I shouldn’t have let her get this close, I do care about her.

I’m tempted to wake her and lose myself in her body, seeking out a release so I can rest. Having her so close, knowing how good it feels to have her heat wrapped around me, and not being able to have her has been my own personal hell. Every day I’m taunted by the memory of the taste of us on my tongue.

Cristo, our cum is my new favorite flavor.

Needing a moment to get my body under control, I move toward the window seat I’ve found her in every day this week; absorbed in the pages, the pad resting on her lap as her pencil glides across the paper.

I come to a stop in front of the window, her pad calling at me from its place on the cushion. Lifting the corner of the cover, I check on her sleeping form. It feels like an invasion of privacy and although I’d tell her I have every right to look at whatever it is that she’s drawing, there’s still a weight settling on my chest when I peel back the cover.

A detailed sketch of the view from the window at sunset stares back at me. My brows lift as I take in every minute detail. The drawing could rival the ones Massimo has hanging on his walls that cost five figures. Light strokes of oranges and pinks depict the skyline, and in the distance, green firs dot the scenery. A portion of the west wing of the house is visible along with the gravel driveway and the disused fountain, except water erupts from the cherubs dotted around it.

I fall into the armchair beside the table, picking up the pad, and flipping the page, enthralled by what I find. Portraits of a woman with features similar to Aurora stares back at me. It’s so lifelike that it could easily be mistaken for a photograph. There’s a familiarity to her as I study every aspect of her face. The gray-scale images show her with an array of emotions, from happy to sullen and then to resigned.

Turning the page, my body tenses and I shift in my seat. The colors are the same as the previous page, but there’s an obvious undercurrent of darkness to this one. These aren’t drawn with love or even fondness. The hurried strokes from the pencil speak of a fear that jumps out at me from the faceless man that covers the page. Some drawings show him with a hood up, others show him with it down, and the unfinished features of his face visible.

One in particular draws my attention and has my nostrils flaring. He’s holding a gun, pointing it at the observer. A water smudge is next to the drawing, and my chest tightens as I picture her crying as she sketches him out.

Who is he, and what has he done to hurt her?

“Rome.” Her voice is soft and filled with sleep, breaking through the haze of anger and concern. It’s the second time she’s called me that, and I have to admit, I like the way it sounds on her tongue.

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