Page 35 of Brutal Legacy

Carefully, I pulled my jeans down, trying not to cut myself.

I rose, only in my underwear.

The man was watching me with an unreadable expression. I tossed my glass-littered clothes in the corner and folded my arms over my chest, trying not to blush from the tips of my toes to the roots of my hair.

It’s underwear, Georgia. Just like a bikini.You’re okay.

“Why did you call metopolina?” I asked in Italian.

The man stared for so long, I started to think he wasn’t going to answer. But then he did.

“You live in a filthy attic, you’re malnourished and scrawny… like a little mouse, scurrying this way and that, desperate to survive. It’s a fitting name for you.” He spoke in English, with only the slightest trace of Italian to his voice.

The subtext was clear. He didn’t want to communicate with me in anything other than English. I shouldn’t look to build any camaraderie in both of us being Italian.

A jagged laugh left me at his cruel description.

“I guess I am,” I mused. “But I’m just doing what I need to, to survive. You can’t blame me for that… someone important to me once told me that.”

The man was quiet again. Not even a hint of a reaction showed on his perfect face.

“I think you’re misunderstanding something, Signora Conti. I don’t care what you do, or don’t do. Before today, I wouldn’t have cared if you’d starved in this shithole. I don’t care about you beyond taking you where I need to take you.”

“And where is that?” I immediately pounced, relief hitting me so hard I nearly had to sit down.

He had to take me somewhere. He wasn’t going to kill me here and now, tonight.

“You’ll find out soon enough.” He eyed me up and down. “Put some clothes on and go to sleep.”

“It’s five in the evening.”

“I don’t care. Sleep, or don’t, just don’t leave this room. I’ve had enough of you today,” he tossed over his shoulder and headed toward the door.

“Elio — wait,” I called, unable to stop myself.Elio.Why had I called him Elio again? He clearly wasn’t, no matter how sure I was.

“I’m not your Elio… whoever he was.”

I scoffed softly. “He was never mine… but yeah, I won’t you call you it again. I just don’t know what else to call you.”

“You don’t have to call me anything.”

“No, I do.” Try to humanize yourself to your attacker, wasn’t that the advice?

“I’ll call you the mercenary, then, if you don’t suggest something.”

“Call me De Sanctis, if you must call me anything.”

“You’re a De Sanctis? You work for Renato?”

“Enough questions for tonight. Sleep, read, tear your hair out… just don’t bother me.”

He shifted, and in the light from the hall, I made out an odd shape in his hand.

A spoon?

Suddenly, it clicked. He’d used the spoon to pretend he had a gun. He didn’t have a weapon. He didn’t have a fucking weapon.

I didn’t think, I just went for his eyes.

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