Page 26 of Dating the Don

I’ve never been in a truly dangerous situation before.

Sure, there had been the basement incident with Cristiano, but he would never hurt me or allow something to happen to me. I think I know that truth in my very bones. So even then, even with a man being tortured in front of me, I wasn’tafraid. Not of Cristiano. I think, actually, I was simply shocked that he was capable of such a thing.

But Cristiano isn’t here.

They took him away from me.

If he isn’t here, am I still safe? Is Cristiano safe?

I stumble along after the body pulling me but it isn’t pulling me to safety. Where’s Ada? Is she ok?

“Cristiano…” I mutter, nearly tripping over my own skirts. Only then do I fully realize that the hand pulling me is the man’s from the bar. His pale skin has freckles on the back of his hand. Limply, I try to push his hand off of me. He’s hurting me. I don’t want to go with him. He’s going the wrong way. The smoke is making me feel dizzy. My eyes and lungs feel like they are on fire.

We pass somebody with a piece of piano buried in their eye. Dead.

It takes everything I have left to not vomit right then and there. I think the shock of seeing another dead body breaks something in me. It’s enough to snap me out of my haze and realize that this person doesn’t want to help me.

“No,” I protest and dig my nails into his skin.

I don’t see his hand coming until he backhands me right across the face. He hisses in pain bitterly as I nearly collapse. He catches me by the arm and hauls me close enough to his body that I can smell the whiskey lingering on his breath. “Stop fucking fighting me, bitch, that hurt!”

“You’re hurting me!” I spit. It’s satisfying to see the spittle land on his face. “Let me go!”

The man’s easy expression from earlier feels like a distant and cruel joke as he snarls at me. His hand is going to leave fingerprints all over my upper arm. I can tell.

“Where are you taking me?! Get off of me!” I yell as loudly as I can. The smoke is getting into my lungs. Every word hurts.

“If you have an ounce of self-preservation left, I suggest that you stop fighting now,” he says, his accent thicker than it was before. “Your father wants you back, he has made arrangements for you. But he never said that you needed to be in one piece.”

Icy cold fear seeps into my gut as I realize just how serious he is.

“Who are you? Who sent you?” I gasp.

“You ask all the wrong questions,” he smirks and hauls me right off of my feet. His grip around my middle nearly knocks the wind out of me. I claw my fingers into his arm and kick my feet. I try to struggle as much as I physically can but it doesn’t seem to be making any difference whatsoever.

I free myself.

The man carries me out of the main room and down an adjoining hallway. There’s nobody else there. I have no idea where he’s taking me but I know that if he manages to drag me out of here, I’m never going to be seen again. The comments that he’s made about my father don’t make any sense. My father is dead. He’s been dead since I was a baby. He was the great love of my mother’s life, but he died. Clearly, this man doesn’t know who I am. I’m going to die because of a case of mistaken identity.

I can’t go out like this.

Another crack resounds loudly. The man holding me screams in pain and then I’m falling.

I yelp loudly, more out of surprise than anything else as the floor rushes up to greet me. One of Cristiano’s men starts advancing, and then runs right past me. I hear a door open in the distance and then Cristiano’s man runs after my would-be-kidnapper.

I try to push myself up into a sitting position, but then Cristiano is there.

I’m so relieved to see him that I think I’m going to cry. And I do. I don’t even think I can breathe properly. Tears roll down my cheeks and cut through the smoke residue left there. I can feel them leaving tracks but I can’t seem to stop them.

I flinch from the gun in Cristiano’s hand and he tucks it into the back of his pants quickly before he pulls me into his arms tightly. He helps me up to my feet and doesn’t stop touching me for a single second. I think if he did, I would fall to pieces.

Cristiano's man returns a bit later through the door at the end of the hallway. He looks up andshakes his head, as ifsaying, "he got away." As I tighten my hold on Cristiano's shirt, I can feel his angry snarl rumbling through his chest rather than just hear it. I don’t want to move away from him. To remember how to breathe, I need the assurance and security that he gives me.

Who was that man?

After my trembling mostly subsides, Cristiano pulls back from me just enough to look me over. His hands ghost over my face and the curve of my shoulders as he takes stock of my person, making sure that the man who tried to kidnap me didn’t injure me. Physically, I’m okay. Maybe a bruise or two. The ringing in my ears is already starting to fade. But mentally? I’m deeply shaken.

“W-who is S-Sullivan?” I stammer.

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