Page 23 of The Madman and his broken Princess
I took his free hand, the one that wasn’t clutching a knife. “Nestore. We must leave.”
The moment he looked back down at me, I knew he couldn’t leave. An apologetic gleam filled his eyes.
“This is my fight, dove. It’s always been. I can’t leave.”
After everything he had to endure, why couldn’t he seek safety? Why did he want to risk everything again? And for what? “Why? Is this about power?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes lighting up with resolve. “Power means I’ll be able to protect you.”
“We could go somewhere safe, somewhere you wouldn’t have to protect me. Somewhere we can both find peace and live a normal life.”
He gave me a bitter smile. “Peace.” He tested the word as if it were unfamiliar, and maybe it was.
Another bang sounded, much closer this time. Nestore’s grip on me tightened, and he tugged me toward the emergency exit, then up the first flight of stairs before we burst into the corridor in front of the kitchen. A body lay motionless in the doorway in an ocean of its own blood. The man’s throat had been cut. I swallowed hard, my belly turning. In the past, the sight would have made me throw up, but I had seen too much. Nestore’s grip on my hand tightened as he tugged me past the corpse without an outward reaction. The shots and explosions and screams had stopped, but the low murmur of voices told me we weren’t alone. Where was Father?
Had he been in the house during the attack? Was he dead?
The thought filled me with relief.
Nestore stopped abruptly, and I bumped into him. He put his index finger against his lips, a warning in his eyes. I gave a jerky nod as I followed him farther down the long corridor toward the foyer. Nestore squinted as the light from the chandelier and crystal lamps hit us. We’d lived in the half dark for a while, and he hadn’t seen daylight in far longer.
My heart throbbed fiercely when Nestore led us toward the ballroom, the knife brandished in front of him. How was a knife supposed to protect us from a large number of attackers? An image of Nestore killing the guard with his bare teeth flitted through my mind and made me shudder. Maybe Nestore’s fury would be the weapon.
“Nestore?” a careful male voice asked.
Nestore’s entire body became taut as a bowstring, a look of shock passing his face before suspicion and wariness took theirplace. I glanced past him at a tall guy with chestnut-brown hair who had a gun in his hand and blood splatters all over his gray combat pants and T-shirt. An angry red scar ran across his left cheek. Who was he?
Behind him, two even taller guys with black hair appeared, maybe in their late teens or early twenties, but with a gleam in their eyes that revealed they’d been through a lot. Both were covered in blood and carried guns.
Nestore’s expression became feral, his eyes narrowing. “Falcone,” he spat like it was a curse.
I flinched at the viciousness in his voice, my eyes darting to the black-haired guys, and it finally clicked as I looked at the one without any visible tattoos.
This was Benedetto’s oldest son, Remo Falcone.
My cousin Niccolo was alive. He was here. He was here with the Falcones.
Anger and a renewed sense of betrayal overcame me. Benedetto Falcone had been behind the killing of my father. Hehad approved of my torture and captivity. The Falcones were my enemies.
“Come with us into the ballroom. Let’s not discuss what needs to be spoken about in a hallway,” Niccolo said, putting his gun back into the holster at his back. The Falcones didn’t lower their guns. Their eyes were alert. They considered me a threat, as they should. Amelia trembled against my back. She was scared and for good reason.
I immediately recognized Remo Falcone. He bore a disturbing resemblance to Benedetto, with his dark eyes and black hair, and his face reflected the utter madness he was famous for. His brother, beside him, carried an air of calm I couldn’t fathom. It was mirrored in his cold gray eyes. I had to look away.
My cousin watched me with a pleading expression. What was he expecting from me? A warm greeting?
I wanted to believe that Niccolo wasn’t my enemy, our enemy, but the past had taught me not to trust anyone—except for Amelia.
“I thought you were dead,” I said to Niccolo in accusation.
“I thought the same about you. I searched for you when things escalated at your party, but when I didn’t find you and saw all the dead bodies, I ran. I didn’t find out you were alive until recently, when I joined Remo on his quest. I immediately wanted to save you, cousin. We spent the last year winning back California to get the chance to attack this mansion.”
He sounded sincere, but distrust was ingrained in every fiber of my being.
“Join us in the ballroom.” Remo Falcone motioned toward the double doors.
“Behind these doors, your father betrayed my family and slaughtered them like pigs.”
He looked at me in a way that felt too familiar, as if I reminded him of someone he knew. “We have no intention to hurt you or that girl cowering behind your back. We came to free you. We are here to give you what you deserve and desire.”
