Page 19 of Brutal Union
The remaining two soldiers advance together, knives gleaming in the city lights streaming through bulletproof glass. Marco shifts his stance, and I recognize the coiled tension of a predator preparing to strike. His cologne can't mask the metallic scent of blood anymore.
"You think you can just take what belongs to us?" The taller one lunges, blade slicing through air where Marco stood a heartbeat before.
But Marco's already moved, grabbed the man's knife hand, and twisted until bone snaps. The scream cuts short as Marco drives his knee into the attacker's temple. Another body hits the floor.
I watch from behind the desk, frozen in place, horrified yet unable to look away. God help me, my nipples tighten beneath the silk as he moves. Getting wet watching my husband kill men who came to rescue me. But 'rescue' is just another word for 'ownership transfer,' and at least Marco's cage is familiar now.
The third attacker is smarter, more careful. He circles Marco like a wolf, looking for weakness. "She doesn't belong in your world, Rosetti. The Bernardi princess deserves better than being your prisoner."
"She's under my protection." Marco's voice drops to something lethal. "That's all that matters."
They clash with brutal efficiency, a violent dance of dodged strikes and blocked attacks. Marco's shirt tears, revealing the muscled chest I've been trying not to notice for weeks. Blood streaks across his skin like war paint, though not his own. Not yet.
The knife finally finds him. The blade catches his shoulder as he twists to avoid a killing blow, and red blooms across white fabric. Marco doesn't even flinch, just grabs the attacker's throat and squeezes until the man's eyes roll back. The body drops with a dull thud.
Three men dead in what felt like heartbeats, their blood painting my new reality across marble floors. The penthouse reeks of copper and violence. And Marco stands among the bodies like an avenging angel, beautiful in his brutality.
My legs won't stop shaking. I count the bodies: one, two, three. Like counting rosary beads. Three men dead in my living room. No, his living room. Everything here is his, including me. The thought terrifies me less than the corpses do, and that realization terrifies me most of all.
Blood drips steadily from Marco's shoulder, each drop a small crimson explosion on marble. He presses his hand to the wound, and when he pulls it away, his palm is slick and red.
"Valentina." His voice cuts through my paralysis. "You can come out."
I stand on shaking legs, unable to look away from the carnage. The cleanup crew will arrive soon. He mentioned them in passing once, how they make problems disappear.
"You're bleeding." The words escape before I can stop them.
"I'm fine."
But he's not. The wound is deep, still flowing, and his face has taken on a gray undertone that speaks of blood loss. He sways slightly, catches himself against the wall.
This is my moment of choice. He's wounded, vulnerable. The elevator might work if I can find his keycard. I could run while he's weak, escape this beautiful prison. But where would I go? Back to my father who sold me? To the Irish who just tried to retrieve me through violence?
Twelve days. That's all it took for me to choose my captor over my rescuers. Psychology textbooks would have a field day with me. But textbooks are written by people who've never had to choose between different versions of captivity.
"You need stitches." My voice sounds strange, too calm for someone standing among corpses. "Where's your medical kit?"
He stares at me like I've spoken in tongues. "You should be running."
"You're bleeding," I say as though that is an answer.
The cleanup crew arrives with quiet efficiency, body bags and bleach, making death disappear like it never happened. They work around us as I guide Marco to the bathroom.
"This is going to hurt," I warn, threading the needle from his medical kit.
"Can't be worse than watching you consider running." His eyes find mine, something raw beneath the pain. "I saw it. The moment you made your choice to stay."
"Yes." I press the needle through skin, watch him grip the counter. "I chose to help you instead."
My fingers remember this dance too well: thread through flesh, pull tight, tie off. Mother's voice echoes in my memory: "Steady hands, tesoro. Crying makes the stitches crooked." She'd get hurt sometimes, accidents she'd say, though we both knewbetter. By the time I was twelve, I knew basic first aid, could handle minor wounds, before I even set foot in a medical lecture theater. The night before Mom died, she'd had a split lip and bruised ribs. I'd helped her then, too.
"You've done this before." Not a question.
"I trained. Plus… my mother." The memories make my voice catch. "Before she died. Father would… she'd get hurt. And I would help her after. She taught me basic first aid, said every woman should know how to take care of herself."
His hand catches mine, stilling my work. "He hurt her?"
"Sometimes." I pull free, continue stitching. "She taught me to be prepared. I became good at it. Too good."
