Page 20 of Caged Captain

While none of the cops are dead, they’re all incapacitated to some degree. They won’t strike back right away, but I just moved up the timeline for taking them down significantly. I don’t regret it. Enrico’s level-headed plan brought my Imogine to safety, and I’m confident he has something more in mind to tie up loose ends, possibly for good.

I know I’ve created a mess for Aurelio and Enrico to clean up, but right now, my focus is on getting Imogine to safety. Then I need to apologize and grovel, do everything in my power to let her know how sorry I am and how I’ll never abandon her again.

9

IMOGINE

I’m still shaking and barely able to breathe as Marco drives away from the nightmare in the abandoned casino. I remember waking up when someone slapped me. I was yelled at and questioned for what felt like an eternity. Then they put tape over my mouth to shut me up while they figured out what to do with me.

I thought I was hallucinating when Marco burst through the glass doors—literally—and took down my captors.

Gunshots echo in my head, and I still smell the copper scent of fresh blood as I curl up further in the front seat

Marco reaches out, his warm hand covering both of mine. Every emotion, thought, and insecurity of the last three days emerges at once as if his touch has unlocked the door I was trying to hide everything behind.

I choke out a sob and jerk away from him, even though I still want his hand on me. I want to fall into his arms and also slap him and scream at him. I want his love and attention while also wanting to be alone to wallow in misery. In truth, I don’t know what I want. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

“I’m so sorry, Imogine,” Marco says, his voice soft and filled with regret. “Please, please let me fix this. I have to fix this.”

This time, when he places his hand over mine, I squeeze it, clinging to the one thing anchoring me in this tidal wave of emotion. Tears stream down my face, and I don’t try to wipe them away. I gasp for air as another sob racks my body.

Marco looks like he’s in pain, and I swear I see him blink away tears. I didn’t think anything could break this man down, but apparently, seeing me like this is more than he can handle.

“Are you hurt?” he grits out, pressing the gas pedal. “I mean, I know you’re hurt. Those fuckers put their filthy hands on you and…”

I tug on his arm, bringing him back to the moment. Marco’s dark eyes focus on me for a brief moment, and it pains me to see how destroyed he is. Yes, I’m angry and confused and deserve answers. But this moment is so raw, his regret and shame etched in his features.

He focuses back on the road, weaving in and out of traffic until we pull into the gated Caparelli compound. The last time I was here, I got my heart stomped on. I’m not sure I can survive that again.

Marco parks in his garage and is by my side the next instant, unbuckling my seatbelt and carrying me inside his home. We head straight to the bathroom, where he sets me down, keeping his hands on my hips to steady me.

“Need to get you cleaned up,” he says more to himself than me. It’s like he’s making a checklist of things to make it up to me.

He leaves my side long enough to turn on the water in the tub. When he returns to me, I place my hand on his chest, right over his heart. It pounds against my palm as the tall Greek god of a man trembles before me.

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out except a pathetic whimper.

“Let me take care of you,” he pleads. One hand cups my cheek, his thumb brushing away the dirt and tears.

I nod, surrendering to him as the last of my energy leaves me. My knees buckle, but Marco is there to steady me, pulling me into his arms and surrounding me with his strength.

Slowly, almost reverently, Marco peels off my shirt, wincing when he sees the marks on my wrists from being tied up. He continues undressing me, guiding me to the bathtub and helping me climb in. I look up at the man who has captured my heart and soul, knowing he’s in as much pain as I am. Maybe not physically, but the version of Marco kneeling next to the tub and grabbing a washcloth is tormented by his choices.

Unlike my father, Marco is a man of his word. His apology means something because it’s followed up by action. My heart softens toward him with each beat.

My eyes land on his white button-up shirt and black tie, both splattered with blood. He follows my gaze and quickly removes the offending garments without me having to say anything. His muscles tense and flex beneath his taut, inked skin, but it’s the look in his deep brown eyes that makes me inhale sharply.

“I don’t deserve a second chance after the way I left you, and certainly not after everything you went through today. But I’m a desperate man, Imogine.”

I blink up at him as he pours body wash on the washcloth and gently cleans my shoulders, arms, and back. I relax at his touch, each swipe of the cloth wiping away the trauma of the day.

“I thought I was protecting you,” he continues, the low timbre of his voice hitting me in my core and resonating deep within my soul. “I thought I was leading the danger away, not directly to you. I’ll never forgive myself for letting this happen. Fuck, I’m so sorry. I…”

He trails off when I take the washcloth from his hand and wipe the dirt and specks of blood from his cheek and chin. Marco closes his eyes, leaning into my touch.

“I forgive you,” I whisper, the words coming out scratchy and broken.

“No,” he says, surprising me. “You can’t forgive me yet. I don’t deserve it.” This man. Stubborn as ever, even when he’s apologizing.

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