Page 115 of Thorns of Blood
“She taught us to have each other’s backs. Although, she was wrong about you.”
“What do you mean?” she questioned.
“She trained me to protect us both, thinking your soft heart was your weakness, when in fact, it was your strongest attribute.” She shot me a questioning look, so I explained, “When we were younger, she’d pull me for extra training and push me harder. She worried this world would swallow you whole, and look at you. You’re thriving.”
She struggled to find words, and I let her process what she just learned. It wasn’t for several minutes that she found her voice.
“She hated that you were taken and not me,” she murmured. “You give her too much credit because even as she faced the barrel of my gun, she thought me weak.”
I stilled. “You killed Mother?”
“I did.” She met my eyes with an unspoken challenge, and I smiled.
Mother was definitely wrong about my twin.
“One less evil roaming this earth,” I finally said. “Although, it was cruel men who made her.”
Lou nodded. “I agree, but she took it too far.”
“Agreed.”
My phone rang and for a moment, I debated ignoring it before I decided against it.
“This better be good, whatever it is,” I answered, assuming it was José.
“It’s Cristiano.” I stiffened. Giovanni’s youngest brother shouldn’t have a reason to call me. “It’s Giovanni. My mother kidnapped him.”
I shot off the bed. “Tell me everything.”
FORTY-THREE
GIOVANNI
Drip. Drip. Drip.
I peeled open my eyes and winced as flickering fluorescent lights assaulted me. I was strapped to a chair in a room that looked and smelled like it was underground.
Tilting my throbbing head back, I stared at the low plaster ceiling, marred by brownish water stains, jagged cracks, and creeping mold. The oppressive stench of dampness and urine hung heavy in the air, making each breath a struggle. My gaze landed on a cracked porcelain sink, its rusty faucet dripping with a slow, steady rhythm, as if untouched for decades. There were no windows—just the claustrophobic certainty of a single exit: a puke-green metal door, chipped and rusting, standing as the only way out.
I shook my head, trying to recall what had happened, but the last thing I remembered was my mother’s voice before someone knocked me out.
After that, nothing.
Anger crept beneath my skin, slow and searing. I had to take a second to swallow down the burning rage while the entireroom became distorted, my nausea almost unbearable.How hard was I hit?
I tested my bindings, trying to work on them, while red crept into my vision.
Just then the door creaked open and I narrowed my eyes as my mother walked in with four MMA-looking bodyguards. They were just her type—young, dumb, and male. They fit the bill for how she liked to spend her evening hours, that much I knew. And all the while, she was using them for her own agenda.
“Well, if it isn’t my eldest son,” was her greeting as she approached me in a white designer dress and red heels, her hair pulled up into a French twist. She folded her arms across her chest, causing her boobs to spill out of her neckline. One of her guards audibly gulped while the other two seemed hypnotized by her cleavage.Jesus Christ, give me a break.
“I’m disappointed in you, Mother.”
She slapped me across the face.
“You’redisappointed,” she screamed. “You have no idea what I have done for you. To ensure your succession.” Another slap across my face. “It is me who’s disappointed, Giovanni. Me!”
“Dramatic as always,” I said coldly. Fury wouldn’t help me now, but a cool head and reason might. I had to throw her off her game. “Why am I tied up?”
