Page 78 of Brutal Devil
It’s almost like being in a grave.
The thought sends a chill down my spine, and for the first time since Priest brought me to this safe house, I wonder what happened to my father. Was he cremated? Are they just holding him in a funeral home somewhere until next of kin appears? For some reason, the logistics of what comes after death escaped me.
Saint is on a laptop, sitting at the kitchen table, typing away and muttering to himself when I walk in.
He doesn’t bother to look up. “She lives.”
Tears prick my eyes.
I’m alive. Or something like it. But my father is dead.
I stop where I am, all the walls feeling like they’re closing in on me, my chest constricting. Oh God, I think I may be having a panic attack. It’s getting harder to breathe. I haven’t had one of these—not a full-scale assault anyway—since the ugly weeks after Leo’s death.
Saint glances up at me, and his expression shifts. “Luna? You okay?”
I open my mouth to answer him, but nothing comes out. I’m frozen. My mind, my tongue, my lungs. Perspiration drips between my breasts, rolling down my chest.
“Fuck.” He’s on his feet, rushing toward me, taking my arm in a surprisingly gentle hold. “Come here and sit down.”
He guides me to a chair that he kicks away from the kitchen table, and I plop into it, scarcely aware of my surroundings.
My hands tremble as I struggle to calm myself.
“Put your head between your legs,” he instructs me.
I should know this. I was a mess after Leo died. But I listen, folding myself in half and letting my head rest there. He sweeps a hand up my spine in a comforting way.
“Now, breathe in and out,” he says. “Slowly, Luna. Just try to calm yourself. Everything is going to be okay. You’re just having a panic attack.”
He continues talking me through it, his voice calm and patient. Caring, even.
Gradually, I come back to myself. My heartbeat begins to return to normal, and the tightness in my chest eases. I’m grateful for Saint’s reassuring presence at my side. This is a far cry from the day I showed up at Club Venere and was greeted by a crew of menacing Andriani muscle, all of them packing heat and threatening me.
I straighten myself in the chair, unbending my spine.
“Better?” he asks, hovering over me like a worried mama bear.
“I think so.”
Still frowning, he goes to the sleek fridge on the opposite wall. “Sparkling or still?”
He’s asking me about water, I realize.
“Still. Please.”
He grabs a water and returns, plunking it down on the table in front of me.
“Thank you.” Gratitude pulses up inside me as I reach for the cold water and bring it to my lips. “For the water and for helping me to snap out of it.”
He folds his tall frame back into the chair he vacated when my panic attack hit me. “You have these often?”
“No.” I think back to the day I showed up here, covered in my father’s blood. “It seems to be a side effect of being kidnapped by gangsters.”
His frown deepens. “No one kidnapped you. Priest brought you here because it’s the only place he knows nothing will happen to you.”
I roll my lips inward, keeping myself from retorting that somethinghashappened to me here. A six-foot-three wall of Italian muscle. He’s been breaking down my defenses from the moment he saidI do. Maybe even before that.
“I know it doesn’t seem that way,” Saint adds. “But trust me, this is the best place for you to be until we know who was behind the attacks on your father and our cousin.”
