Page 22 of The Don's Soulmate

"Good," he says, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “Then you’re coming with me.”

Wait… what?

Going with him?

“But –” I try to protest, to explain I’ll call my family for aid. Yet before I can even get a word in, Ettore suddenly reaches for me. His strong arms encircle my waist, lifting me off the ground as if I weigh nothing. He throws me over his shoulder in a swift, fluid motion.

"Put me down!" I cry out, my voice laced with panic. My hands grip the back of his jacket for balance. What is he planning? Where is he taking me?

"Stay calm, Carlotta," Ettore growls, the vibrations of his voice against my body only adding to my terror. "I'm doing this for your own safety. Don’t resist."

I can't help but resist him, my legs kicking against his muscular chest and torso. Images of what could happen to me flood my mind—violence, pain, submission to his whims. Father always said no one doles out favors without wanting something in return.

Perhaps I misread Ettore. Perhaps he wants more than what Ugo did.

"Please, Ettore, let me go!" I plead, tears streaming down my face. I feel powerless, like a caged bird desperate for freedom. How do I end up moving from one cage to the next?

Ettore's grip on me loosens for a moment, as if he senses my inner turmoil. "I won't hurt you, Carlotta," he murmurs, his voice deeper and rougher than before. It sends a shiver down my spine. "But I can't leave you here. That man could wake up at any moment, and I’m afraid…"

“Afraid?” I whisper, wondering what Ettore could possibly be scared of. He could take Ugo blindfolded.

“Afraid that I might not be able to hold myself back anymore,” Ettore explains. “Afraid that I might just kill him.”

My heart twists at how matter-of-factly he says this. My movements freeze, suddenly afraid as a thought crosses my mind: How many people has Ettore killed?

Since he’d loosened his grip, and I’ve stopped fighting, I almost fall off. I gasp as his hands grip onto my upper thighs, holding me in place. The slit that Ugo ripped has ridden up high, too high, and Ettore’s fingers now graze, pinch and dig into the skin right under my ass.

His grip sends a jolt of pain and arousal coursing through my body, mingling in a way that leaves me feeling both terrified and deeply aroused. I try to arch away from him. But Ettore holds me tightly, his grip unyielding.

"Don't do that," he warns gruffly, taking his other hand now to keep me in place. This hand lingers right on my ass, and I shiver, wishing the slit was higher. I tremble, afraid to know why I like how easily I fit into his arms. “You’ll fall off.”

“Where are we going?” I whimper.

I don’t know if my voice doesn’t reach him, or if he chooses to ignore me. I’m still afraid, aware of how I’ve just escaped one man to find myself at the mercy of another. And yet, I'm caught in a predicament, torn between my need for safety and my inexplicable attraction to this dangerous man.

I hear him tell someone to open a door. The next thing I know, I’m unceremoniously shoved into the backseat of an expensive car. It smells like new leather, and champagne.

I grab at the door, trying to get out, but it’s already locked. Up ahead, a driver takes his seat. I scurry over to the other side of the door, to escape, when Ettore enters and slams it shut behind him, his face showing a hint of anger as he frowns in my direction. “Sit still,” he commands. “This is all for your safety.”

My body trembles as I struggle to understand why he's doing this. What kind of man would tell me he's doing this for my safety while simultaneously causing such fear?

“Please…” I whimper, now crouching away from him. “Please don’t hurt me.”

I feel naked and vulnerable, my body and soul longing for safety, but Ettore's eyes never leave me. He looks at me with a gaze that's both protective and carnal. It's a dangerous mix, this protectiveness and arousal.

His lips curl into a smirk, his voice low and filled with tension. "Do you really think I want to hurt you? I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” my voice quivers, wondering what home he’s talking about exactly. His? Have I just been kidnapped by a total psychopath?

He leans over, his fingers now reaching for my upper thigh. I shiver, but sit still, at war with myself as he gently grazes the skin Ugo had clutched so many times this night. A warm heat pulses between my legs and every breath is a struggle to keep even.

But his hands don’t travel higher. His gaze remains where his fingers touch me, twelve inches above my knee. I look down, to find him caressing a bruise left by Ugo.

“Dammi il tuo indirizzo,” -Give me your address- he growls, still transfixed on the bruise.

And suddenly, any and all fear I felt melts away. He means to take me tomyhouse. If only he’d told me earlier.

“It’s 612, Appia Antica,” I tell him, in a small whisper.

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