Page 49 of The Woman on the Jury

“What the fuck?” I snapped, making Halle jerk backward at the ferocity in my tone.

Venezio all but forgotten, I reached out, snagging her chin, and drawing her head up, so I could see her neck better.

She was getting a fucking necklace of bruises.

And were those scratches down the upper part of her chest?

A growl moved through my chest, as my jaw tightened hard enough for my fucking teeth to hurt.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, yanking her chin out of my grasp just as the door pushed fully open, and Salvatore moved in.

He was older than the rest of us, more of a member of our fathers’ crew, timeline-wise, than ours. But since he’d spent most of that time on the inside, he’d been more aligned with us and the new vision for the Family.

His hair was streaked with a lot of silver now, but he was a good-looking guy, someone who turned heads whenever we went to bars. Though he was happily married these days.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Salvatore said, his gaze moving from Venezio to Halle, his eyes going soft. “Come over here,” he said as he walked right toward the medical kit like it was his.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, nodding at him as Halle, surprisingly, moved toward the stranger.

Salvatore reached to hop her up on the island, then fished in his pocket for a tiny flashlight, turning it on, and flashing it in her eyes.

“Follow the light for me,” he demanded. “How are you feeling? Nauseated? Headache?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding. “But I’m fine. Venezio…” she said.

“I’ll get to him,” Salvatore said, brushing off her concerns as he reached for a package of gauze.

“No, really. Please. He’s been stabbed,” she said, looking a little glassy-eyed. “And his leg…”

“I got it,” I said to Salvatore, taking the gauze from his hand.

“Alright,” he said, brow lifting a bit, but he said nothing as he went over toward Venezio instead.

“I’m okay,” she insisted yet again.

“Shush,” I said, voice softer than I realized I was capable of as I broke open the gauze, then poured some antiseptic on it. “This might burn,” I warned her, noting how she grabbed the edge of the counter until her knuckles went white.

“I’m ready,” she assured me, but she let out a whimper as soon as the gauze moved across the cuts on her forehead. The blood washed away, I could see several gashes that unexpectedly had my stomach twisting.

“What happened?” I asked, voice low enough for only her to hear, despite being just a few feet away from the others. Miko was acting like a nurse’s aide to Salvatore as he made quick work of cleaning up Venezio.

“The door crashed open and woke me up,” she said. “I was sleeping, so I was too disoriented to realize anything was wrong until he was on top of me,” she said.

I swear my spit turned to fucking battery acid at that image.

Stuck in the memory, her hands moved off the edge of the counter, and rested on her thighs.

I backed up just enough to be able to look down.

And right there on the insides of her thighs were two big bruises setting in.

The image of him on top of her in the bed, his knees pinning her thighs to the mattress, and his hand moving up to close around her throat, then—judging by the scratches—dragging down the front of her tank top to expose her, made fire burn through my veins.

“And, ah, we fought. I almost got away, but he slammed my head into the window,” she said, wanting to rush past the whole bed part.

“She beat the shit out of him with a frying pan,” Venezio said, sounding proud despite them barely knowing each other. That said, it had to be pride I felt swelling my chest too.

“Good for you, honey,” Salvatore said.

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