Page 39 of His Dark Vendetta

The most intensely beautiful man I’d ever seen, Luca was even more breathtaking when he played the violin. He transformed into an angel, however fallen, who laid his heart bare through his instrument. My bruised and broken heart beat for him once more, a metronome he controlled no matter how hard I tried to break free.

I didn’t want to die, and I didn’t want Luca to kill me. I didn’t want Luca towantto kill me. How could someone create such beauty, pour so much emotion into their music, and kill an innocent woman?

But he hadn’t killed me. Not yet. He hadn’t pushed me off the bridge that first night. He hadn’t dragged me into the woods with a knife. He hadn’t taken advantage of me in my drunken state. Who knew what went through his mind, but forty-eight hours after being kidnapped, I was still alive. And as scared as I was, I knew one thing for certain, one thing I believed deep in my gut—Luca Moretti wasn’t going to kill me. He couldn’t.

The somber notes slowed and quieted, and the piece ended. He lowered his bow and lifted his chin. I swiped at my eyes to hide the evidence of tears. He must have noticed the motion in his periphery, because he dropped his arm, letting the violin hang at his side, and faced me.

We stood on opposite sides of the glass, separated by the invisible barrier. His calm, relaxed features assessed me without surprise, anger, or delight. But I drank Luca in like I was seeing him again for the first time. His sculpted torso and powerful arms. The breadth of his chest dusted with dark, trimmed hair. The gold chain and pendant ending between his pecs. To its right above his heart, words etched in black ink.

The sun peeked out from behind a cloud and illuminated his skin’s golden hue, the olive undertones a rich base for a tan marred only by a handful of birthmarks on his shoulders and the ridges of his stomach. He appeared mythical in the morning light, as bright as Apollo, the god’s lyre replaced by a violin.

He shifted the bow into his other hand and walked inside. A cool spring breeze wafted into the kitchen and pebbled my skin. He set the bow on the table and, with surprising care, placed the violin into its case.

“That was beautiful,” I said.

He folded black velvet atop the strings.

“You must have started playing when you were very young.”

He closed the case, clasped it shut, and rested his hand on the back of the chair. He glanced over his shoulder and held my gaze for no more than a heartbeat before his eyes dropped to my body. His eyebrows drew together, and he canted his head. He reached across the corner of the table and took the collar of my shirt between his fingers.

“I needed a shower.” My whispered words broke, and I cleared my throat. “And something to wear.”

His fingers traveled from my collar to a piece of hair stuck to my cheek. He tucked it behind my ear, and I shivered. “I didn’t know you had freckles,” he said.

“I didn’t know you played the violin.”

The corner of his mouth tipped up, a cocky bend to his pouty lips—Luca’s signature smirk. The one that made women around the world drop their panties and follow him like puppy dogs. The same sexy smile that caught my eye across the lobby of Terme di Boston two years ago.

But there was a sadness in his eyes that belied his flashy charm and the tempting turn to his mouth. The real Luca, trapped behind the face he showed to the world. The Luca I’d seen in brief moments when we shared lunch. The Luca I’d seen talking to Marco when no one else was around. The Luca I’d played pool with at Vesuvio, free of pretense and inhibitions if only for a night.

“How often do you play?” I asked.

“Often enough.”

I arched an eyebrow. “If you don’t want a conversation, fine. I’ll find some breakfast and go back to my prison cell. But lose the fake front. We’ve known each other too long and been through too much at this point to be anything but real.”

The muscles in his jaw twitched, reminding me of Marco, and his near-black eyes held mine, sincere and unwavering. “Whenever the mood suits me. Whenever I need to clear my head.”

“Doesn’t a clear head come for free with your pretty face?”

His lips turned into a wry grin, genuinely amused, and his body relaxed as though my snarky comment came as a comfort. “You weren’t the only one who had a rough night.”

I huffed. “Excuse me if I’m unsympathetic. No one’s threatened to throw you off a bridge or is holding you hostage without clean clothes or a toothbrush.”

He scowled. “There’s a spare toothbrush in one of the cabinets, and I’ll get you some clothes. Today.”

“Or”—I held up a hand—“here’s a crazy idea—you could let me go.”

He shook his head. “I can’t do that.”

Disappointment hit hard. I bit the inside of my cheek and looked past him to where the violin case sat on the table. “Well,” I said and shrugged, “I don’t know much about music. At least, not classical.” I glanced at him sideways.

He folded his arms, and it drew my attention to his chest. His pecs and biceps bulged. My lips parted on an intake. Why did he have to be so unbelievably hot on top of everything else?

I ripped my gaze away from his body, and that cocky smirk of his resurfaced. I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, you play beautifully. With real feeling.”

“My father put me in lessons as soon as I was old enough to hold a bow. I could barely wrap my fingers around the neck.” The lines around his eyes and mouth softened, steeped in nostalgia.

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