Page 30 of Last Hand

I wrench free from Vittorio’s grip with strength born of desperation and throw myself between Adrien and the approaching man. My back presses against Adrien’s chest, my arms spread wide, as if my small frame could somehow shield him from what’s coming.

“If you want me,” I say, my voice steadier than I feel, “then you leave him alone. Or I swear to God I’ll fight you every step of the way. I’ll make your life hell. I’ll?—”

The blow comes from the side, a fist or maybe something harder connecting with my temple with stunning force. Painexplodes through my skull, white-hot and blinding. I hear Adrien shout my name, the sound distorted as if coming from underwater.

My legs give way beneath me. I feel myself falling, only the impact never comes. Instead, there’s just darkness, creeping in from the edges of my vision, consuming everything until there’s nothing left just the echo of Adrien’s voice and the certainty that I’ve failed—failed to escape, failed to protect him, failed to change the course that was set for me long before I understood what it meant to be a Morretti’s daughter.

The last thing I hear before consciousness slips away completely is Vittorio’s voice, calm and satisfied: “Take them both.”

And then nothing.

I wake to the soft hum of a heater, my mind swimming through the fog of disorientation. Pain blooms across my face, my ribs screaming in protest as I try to shift positions. Where the hell am I? The sheets beneath me feel expensive, not the scratchy cotton blend I have at my apartment. This isn’t my bed. This isn’t my room.

The air smells of leather and expensive cologne, the kind that costs more than my monthly rent. I blink against the warm light leaking through a crack in the curtains, my vision still blurry around the edges. Hotel room. Definitely a hotel room, and not the kind where you find a bible in the drawer and mysterious stains on the comforter.

My tongue feels like sandpaper, my mouth as dry as cotton. I try to lift my hand to my face, wincing as pain shoots through my wrist. Every inch of me aches, like I’ve been tossed down a flight of stairs. My fingertips find my cheek, tender and swollen.

I push myself up slightly, the movement sending knives through my ribcage. Fuck. Breathing hurts. Existing hurts. Theroom spins for a second before settling into focus—cream walls, dark furniture, one of those generic hotel prints of a seascape that’s meant to calm you down but just reminds you that you’re nowhere near home.

Something feels wrong against my skin, and I glance down. My heart stutters. I’m in my bra and panties, nothing else. The pale blue lace looks obscene against the white sheets, like a bruise on snow. I jerk the thick blanket up to my chin.

“South Africa perhaps. Coastal. It would be quiet there.”

I freeze. I’m not alone. A figure stands by the window, his back to me. Broad shoulders taper to a narrow waist, the muscles shifting beneath skin as he peels off an expensive watch and sets it on the desk.

“I know someone who owes me a favor in Cape Town.” His voice is thoughtful and conversational, as if erdiscussing vacation plans over coffee. “Or we go to the Dolomites mountains. I have a property there. Snowy this time of year, and remote.”

As he turns slightly, I catch the profile of his face, his sharp jawline, straight nose, and dark hair swept back from his forehead. Vittorio Pressutti.

I lie perfectly still, barely breathing, taking inventory of the man who’s apparently kidnapped me. He’s shirtless, revealing a body that looks carved from stone and inked heavily. A crown of thorns wraps around one lean, muscular shoulder, the detailed barbs seeming to actually pierce his skin. Roses coil around a dagger that runs along his ribs, each petal showing in perfect detail. Between his shoulder blades, the bold Pressutti family crest sprawls like a declaration of ownership over his flesh.

“You’re awake.” He doesn’t turn fully, just casts the words over his shoulder like crumbs. “Good. We need to move soon.”

I swallow hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. “Where am I?” My voice cracks, betraying the terror clawing at my insides.

“Somewhere safe. For now. How do you feel about mountains? The air is clean. No one will hear you scream.”

“I don’t—” I start, then stop as he finally turns to face me fully. His eyes are darker than I expected, almost black in this light. “What happened? Why am I here?”

His mouth quirks up at one corner, not quite a smile. “You’re asking the wrong questions, Gina.”

What does he want with me, my father already refused his hand, so why all this?

“The right question is why you’re still alive.” He steps closer to the bed, and I press myself against the headboard, clutching the blanket like it’s bulletproof. “Most people who cross my family don’t wake up at all.”

“I didn’t—” I try again.

“Didn’t what? Didn’t humiliate me at that restaurant with your parents last summer?” His voice remains calm, conversational even, yet there’s an edge beneath it sharp enough to draw blood.

He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. I curl my legs up tighter, making myself smaller. “Your father chose wrong for you, and I’m fixing that mistake.”

His hand reaches out, and I flinch. He only traces a finger along the bruise on my cheek. The implication turns my stomach. I feel naked in a way that has nothing to do with my state of undress. “What do you want from me?”

Something catches my eye. A shadow. Movement. My gaze drops to the corner of the room and freezes there, my breath stopping mid-inhale. No. No, no, no. How did I miss it before? The slumped figure cuffed to a metal chair isn’t a pile of discarded clothes or luggage. It’s a person. A man. Adrien. Hishead hangs forward, dark hair matted with blood, fresh cut leaking blood over his pants. I blink hard, willing the image away, only he remains—broken, bound, and bleeding.

“Who—what is he doing here?” The words tumble out before I can stop them.

Vittorio doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he strolls over to Adrien with the lazy confidence of a man who’s never had to hurry for anything in his life. He yanks Adrien’s hair, jerking his head up like he’s inspecting a piece of meat at the market. Adrien’s face comes into view—one eye swollen shut, lips split and crusted with dried blood, a strip of silver duct tape sealed across his mouth. His one good eye flutters open, unfocused at first, then locks onto me with desperate recognition.

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