Page 10 of Velvet Cruelty

“It’ll be here.” It’s a third man, shorter than the others, but with muscles that are almost bursting through his tight black turtleneck. There is a gap between it and his balaclava, and I can see a tuft of dark brown hair. I wish I couldn’t. I don’t want to be able to identify any of these men.

A white van whips around the corner, driving across the smooth concrete of the churchyard. I want to struggle but my legs are noodles. I try to toss my head against Father Monastero, but he just laughs. “Careful with the veil. I want you wearing it when we get home.”

Home. The word sends a jagged bolt of fear through me. Where do men like this even live?

The van screeches to a halt and I’m tipped onto my feet. “Time to get in, Tesorina.”

Tesorina. That’s an Italian word.

“What?” The priest raises a blond brow. “You want another kiss?”

“We don’t have time,” balaclava man grunts.

He picks me up as the back of the van slides open and tosses me inside. I fall onto a pile of what feels like towels. “Help,” I whisper to no one.

The van sinks as the balaclava man climbs in, settling into a seat built into the wall. He glares down at me. “Stronza piagniucolosa.” Whining little bitch.

Fear shimmers through me like fog and I ball my knees into my chest trying to fold myself into nothing. The van sags lower as the priest and the third man climb in.

“Who we waiting on?” the priest asks. “Morelli?”

“Yeah.” The third man bangs the panel behind my head. “Get ready to drive.”

He glances at me and quickly looks away, but not before I see his eyes are dark brown. A jolt goes through me. Do I know him?

Father Monastero slaps the third man’s arm. “What’s wrong, Basher? You don’t want to look at the sweet little virgin?”

“Don’t use my name.”

“Ah but you’re not really Basher, are you? Besides…” Father Monastero’s gaze finds mine. “…January Whitehall’s gonna know all our names soon. And a whole lot of other things.”

Terror wraps its icy fingers around my throat. I’m going to die today. On the day I was supposed to get married. There’s a loud rap at the back of the van and the door slides open again. A fourth man stands backlit by the afternoon sun. His balaclava is pulled on top of his head and even my panic-fried brain recognizes he’s gorgeous. Tanned with thick brown hair and a perfect angular face. The kind of handsome that makes your tongue go numb.

“Fucking shit-show,” he says in an accented voice. “Give me a hand with him.”

The van sinks another inch as a body is hauled in beside mine.

“Who’s that?” Father Monastero asks, but I already know. Kurt’s face is turned toward me, dark blood running from his forehead to his ear. I clap my hands to my mouth.

“Go,” the handsome man says, climbing in and shutting the door.

Basher pounds the back of the van three times. We jerk forward and I grip the floor, trying not to slide into Kurt. I can’t tell if he’s alive.

The handsome man makes a talking gesture with his thumb and two fingers. “Doc? The girl.”

“Right.” Father Monastero pulls a white bag from the wall.

“Doc?” I say. “Like ‘doctor?’”

The handsome man smiles at me. “You didn’t think he was a real priest, did you?”

Even in all the chaos, my stomach surges with excitement. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so beautiful before. “I… Who are you?”

The handsome man laughs. “A question for another time, bella.”

He’s Italian too. He sounds exactly like Zia.

Father Monastero grabs my chin, turning it to expose the side of my neck. There’s a huge needle in his hand. “Don’t worry,” he says. “This’ll only hurt a little.”

I scream and hands come down from everywhere, pinning my arms, my legs, my stomach. Father Monastero hovers above me, smiling his sneering Elvis smile. “Sweet dreams, Tesorina.”

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