Hold Me_A mafia romance Page 6

  I tighten my fist. “Thank you. That’ll be all.”

  He laughs and walks out of the room. What the hell is wrong with her? I drag a hand over my face. Just when I think she’s getting so much better, she crashes and burns at my feet. I think you should fuck someone else. Shit, if I could, maybe this would be better for both of us. I can’t though. I would never do anything to hurt her because her pain is worse than my own. And it would be like trying to smoke a cigarette to cure a heroin craving. Pointless.

  Pushing up from the desk, I take a cigar from my pocket and light it. I make my way through the house, drawing smoke into my lungs before releasing it. It’s become a habit of sorts, to smoke a cigar on the balcony while watching Anna sleep in my bed. I make my way up the stairs and along the hall, pushing my bedroom door open. It takes my eyes a second to adjust to the silvery moonlight in the room, but when they do, I see very clearly, the neatly made bed, absent of Anna. What the fuck?

  Where the hell is Lucas? I storm down the hallway towards his room and shove the door open so hard that it bangs against the wall. A figure scrambles around on the floor, and my eyes zero in on Lucas, a blanket tossed casually over him and a pillow on the floor. A tiny figure is buried in the sheets of his bed. His bed. Not mine. The red mist is descending, the more rabid side of my nature threatening to consume me.

  “Why the fuck is Anna in your bed?”

  “I…she asked. She wouldn’t—”

  “Enough.”

  I walk over to the bed and scoop her up, pulling her against my chest. The heavy scent of wine drifts from her. Wordlessly, I walk from the room. Lucas and I will be having words tomorrow, but not now, not while Anna is trying to sleep in another man’s bed to hide from me. I walk her back to my room, and she barely stirs until I put her down on my bed.

  “Rafe?” A little frown line sinks between her brows.

  “Avecita,” I say through clenched teeth. My rage is a palpable thing, driven partly by the most selfish form of possession and partly by the absolute consuming fear that she’s trying to leave me.

  She sits up, her hair wild and her eyes sleepy. “I don’t want to sleep here,” she mumbles.

  I close my eyes for a beat, willing calm. “Why?”

  Her hand lands on my face, fingers sloppily stroking over my cheek. “Because I love you, but I can’t love you.” She drops her gaze and sniffs. “And if you did have…sex with someone else, it’s okay.” Her voice breaks, and I pull her against my chest, wrapping my arms around her tiny form.

  “Sweet Anna. So unaware,” I breathe into her hair.

  I hold her until she stops trembling. She falls asleep in my arms, her soft breaths blowing rhythmically over my throat. Laying her down on the bed, I sweep her hair away from her face. The moonlight washes her features until her lashes cast shadows over her pale cheeks. I fall on my back on the bed next to her, releasing a long breath.

  She’s right here next to me, but there might as well be a thousand miles between us because she doesn’t believe she’s enough.

  I gave her freedom, and now she’s using it to run away.

  Carlos’ fist collides with my jaw, and I stagger back a step. Dammit, the little fucker is fast. He cracks his knuckles and smirks at me.

  “Size isn’t everything, Rafe.”

  I snort. “Oh, it is.”

  I sock him one in the gut. He dodges, missing the main bulk of the blow, but I still catch him in the side. He coughs, dragging a gasping breath into his lungs. “Fuck, you’re a bastard,” he chokes out.

  The shrill ringing of my phone cuts through the gym, but I ignore it. It instantly starts ringing again. On a sigh, I walk over to where I tossed it on the mats and pick it up. Nero.

  “Italian.”

  “Rafael. How are things?”

  “If by things you mean Anna, then she’s fine.”

  He lets out a long sigh. “I have Una.”

  There’s a beat of silence. “Is she alive?”

  “Yes.”

  “For how long?” I can’t work out Nero’s angle here. The Italians are the ones who put the hit on Una Ivanov. So is he in on it? Did he set her up to be the fall guy? Was he planning to use both the Vasiliev sisters?

  “No one will touch Una. She’s under my protection.”

  “Have you informed the rest of the mafia of that?”

  “They won’t touch a woman.”

  “I don’t think the Italians’ morals will apply to her somehow. She’s not exactly the average simpering housewife. And she’s Russian.” The Italians hate the Russians.

  There’s a pause. “They won’t touch my woman.”

  I groan. “Fuck, tell me you didn’t.”

  “You’re hardly one to talk. I sent you a girl to protect, and you turn around and fuck her.”

  “I haven’t fucked Anna,” I growl.

  “Don’t give me that shit. You fucking want to.” He sighs. “Look, I have Una anyway. So she’s not coming for Anna. She’s got…bigger problems.”

  “Clearly.”

  “I’m keeping her locked up for now, but I’m going to have to let her out at some point.”

  “You’ve got her…. imprisoned?” I shake my head. He’s fucked her, and now he’s keeping her prisoner. “You, my friend, have a death wish.”

  “Yeah, well, at some point I’m going to have to offer her an olive branch.”

  “You’re not using Anna.”

  “Now who’s imprisoning girls?”

  I growl. “Anna is free to leave whenever the fuck she wants, but only when she wants. Not because you demand it, and not because her psycho sister takes her.”

  “Careful, Rafael.”

  “No, Nero. You be careful. My debt to you is paid. I owe you nothing. Touch her, and you’ll find out just how fucking dangerous I can be.” In my periphery I see Carlos slide his hoody on, his entire body rigid and alert.

  There’s a pause, the creak of an office chair, the snap of a lighter. “Calm down, Rafael. I assure you, our goals are aligned.”

  “So, what is it you want?” I snap. My patience is running out, wearing thin.

  “Una will want to at least speak to Anna on the phone.”

  I think about it for a second. “We’ll cross that bridge when we get there.” I’m not going to promise him anything. It’s Anna’s choice whether or not she speaks to her sister.

  “Very well.”

  “So, it’s safe to go back to the city now?”

  “No,” he says quickly. “Not yet. Anna is an easy target for anyone wanting Una. She’s still vulnerable. Can I trust you to protect her?”

  I hang up on him. I won’t even dignify that with an answer, and as I told him, I owe him nothing. I’ll protect Anna because she’s mine. Not for him or Una.

  Carlos leans against the wall next to the window, a cigarette now pressed between his lips. “You getting into it with the Italian?”

  I cock a brow. “I’ve owed him a favor for so long that he thinks he owns me. Sometimes he needs reminding otherwise.”

  He nods and pushes off the wall, heading to the door. “Give me a shout if you need ground troops.”

  “It won’t come to that.”

  He pauses in the doorway and turns to face me. “Oh, and teach your girl to throw a punch will you?” I frown, and he smirks. “I had to rescue her from Lucas’ terrible self-defense lessons.”

  “For fuck’s sake.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. What the hell is going on with her?

  “Nothing wrong with teaching her to defend herself.”

  I glare at him. “If you teach her to defend herself then she’ll try when some fucker attacks her. She’ll think she can handle herself.”

  “You afraid she won’t need your macho ass anymore?” His eyebrows bounce, and his lips twitch in amusement.

  I point at him. “You don’t teach Anna anything.”

  He holds his hands up. “Someone’s got to. No one should learn to throw a punch from Lucas.”


  My phone pings at the same time as his does, and that’s never good. I glance at the screen, seeing a picture message from Samuel. I open it and instantly my pulse ticks up.

  It’s a picture of a woman: blonde, pretty. Or rather she was before her throat was slit. The Sinaloa slave tattoo is clear on the side of her neck. The phone starts ringing in my hand, and I answer it.

  “Yeah?”

  “Did you see the picture?”

  “Yeah.”

  “She was left at the mansion gate. Along with a note.”

  “What kind of note?”

  “It was addressed to Anna.”

  I lower the phone for a second, grappling with the blind rage that’s crawling up my spine. I put the phone back to my ear. “Dominges?”

  “Apparently, he is going to keep killing whores until Anna returns to him. I’ll send you a picture of the note.”

  “Good, and Samuel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not a word of this near Anna.” The girl is a bleeding heart. It would be just like her to martyr herself, and of course, that’s why he’s doing it. He knows he can’t get to her so now he’s trying to flush her out. It’s stupid though. I would never let her actually see it. I hang up the phone and glance at the image of the dead girl one more time.

  Anna can’t know about this.

  Carlos stares at the screen of his phone. “This can’t be good.” I lift a brow. “It seems like a desperate last-ditch attempt to me.”

  “It does.”

  “Where is Anna anyway? I haven’t seen her this morning.” I know he’s asking out of concern. They all guard her like she’s royalty because they know, to me, she is.

  “She’s not up yet.”

  He smirks. “Hungover?”

  I turn towards the door. “Something like that.” Or the fact that I locked her in my room.

  Anna and I are going to talk, and she’s not leaving that room until we do.

  7

  Anna

  I wake up, and my head is pounding. My stomach threatens to rebel with every breath, and my mouth tastes like death. Groaning, I roll over in…Rafael’s bed? I’m sure I went to sleep in Lucas’ bed.

  I sit up, and my stomach instantly turns over. Jumping out of bed, I rush to the bathroom and throw up in the toilet. My body heaves and wretches until I finally collapse on the cool tile. I’m dying. Literally dying. Forcing myself to my feet, I strip out of my clothes—the same clothes I was wearing yesterday—and get in the shower. The falling water feels like needles on my sensitive skin, but I also feel gross, so I allow it to wash away the grime of the previous day and night.

  When I’m done, I dry myself, brush my teeth and throw on a sundress. I leave my wet hair hanging down my back before I head for the door. I don’t know what time it is, but the sun is reaching high into the sky. I grab the door handle and twist it…it doesn’t move. I try again. Nothing. What the hell?

  I try twice more, yanking the door as hard as I can. It’s locked. I’m locked in this room! Am I a captive again? No, Rafael wouldn’t do that. Would he? What if Nero has decided he’s not taking no for an answer? What if Rafael has no choice?

  I wrench open the balcony doors which are thankfully unlocked, and rush to the railing, glancing down at the ground only one floor below. Could I jump? I might break something. I can’t think through anything rational other than the fact that I’m locked in. A prisoner. I can’t be stripped of my free will again, even if it’s for my sister. I’d rather take my chances with the desert.

  I hear the sound of the lock turning, and my fingers tighten around the railing as I press myself tightly against it. The door opens, and Rafael steps into the room, his gaze landing on the bed before searching me out. When his eyes fix on me, his shoulders relax slightly.

  “Avecita.”

  He moves towards me, and I press against the balcony railing so hard I’m in danger of falling over it. He pauses in the doorway to the balcony, taking in my stance. His brows pull into a deep frown.

  “What are you doing?” he asks, warily.

  “What are you doing?” I ask. “You’re giving me to Nero, aren’t you? You said I was free!”

  His frown deepens. “Nero? What?”

  He steps closer, and I hold my hand out. “Stop.”

  “Anna, what the fuck?” Without warning, he charges me. I can barely register the movement before he locks his arms around my waist and drags me back inside, closing the patio doors behind him.

  “If you don’t want me anymore, just let me go.” My voice cracks, betraying the barrage of pent up emotions from the last two days.

  With a feral snarl, he storms the short distance between us, his hand slamming around my throat as he throws me down on the bed. “You are pushing my fucking buttons, and I am running out of patience.” His fingers flex against my throat, and I close my eyes as a silent tear trickles over my temple. How did we get here? How did everything become so warped? Warm breath rushes over my face before his lips press to my forehead, so contradictory to the bruising grip he has on my throat. “Listen to me, and listen well. I am never letting you go.” I open my eyes and find him staring down at me. “You are locked in because we need to talk, and you’re not leaving this room until you do.” He releases me and pushes away, leaving me there on the bed.

  Slowly, I sit up. Rafael has taken a seat in the small armchair in the corner of the room. His legs are spread, his elbows resting on his knees. He looks…worn. Tired. He’s silent for long moments—his eyes fixed on me.

  “Last night, I was already pissed when I came up here to find you in Lucas’ bed.”

  “He didn’t—”

  He holds up his hand, cutting me off. “I don’t care what happened. You sleep in my bed. Always.”

  I pull my knees to my chest and drag a shaky hand through my damp hair. “It’s not good for you, Rafael.” I’m not good for you.

  “Don’t put it on me. This has nothing to do with me.”

  How could he say that? “It has everything to do with you,” I snap.

  He tilts his head. “You told me to go and fuck someone else. Why?”

  “Because you need to!”

  “No! Because you fucking need me to!” He explodes from the chair, his entire body radiating anger as he jabs a finger in my direction. “You want me to confirm that you’re not good enough so that you can accept that bullshit. It’s easier to accept it than fight for this, isn’t it?”

  He makes me feel like shit with a few sentences. My fragile heart cracks and bleeds, and I can feel the warm liquid seeping into every atom of my body, drowning them. I’m suffocating in this sea of hatred and self-loathing, and I have no idea how to save myself anymore. In many ways, my life was easier as a slave. I had no emotions, no purpose, no need to think or feel or do anything. Surviving was easy. This…living…it’s hard.

  “What do you want from me?” I whisper.

  He stands there, practically trembling with rage. “I want your trust.”

  “You have it.”

  He laughs humorlessly. “Oh, little warrior. I’ve never been so far from having it as I am right now.”

  “I trust you.” I do trust him.

  He moves closer and drops to a crouch right in front of me, his anger retreating. “You did. When I was your captor and you were owned. You trusted me. But now…”

  “I do.” I choke on a sob because he looks so hurt, and I know it’s me hurting him. I reach out and stroke his cheek. “I do.”

  “You have to trust me to know what you need.” He takes my hand and turns it over, brushing his lips over the inside of my wrist. “You need to trust that I love you.”

  “I know you do.”

  “Then trust me to fucking help you because, baby, you hate yourself, and it kills me.” I close my eyes and tears fall down my cheeks. I’m heartbroken and sad, for him, but more for myself. This man loves me, and he’s patient and so strong. I feel like the ghost of a girl, wading through the rubble of s
omething that was once beautiful. And he’s there, holding out his hand, offering to pull me back to life. Only every time I go to take his hand, mine passes through his.

  “You can’t help me. I’m never going to be fixed, Rafe.” Why can’t he see this?

  “Then break. I’ll be right here to put you back together again.”

  Frustration and anger spike through my bloodstream. “There is no together! This is as good as it gets. I’m a whore—”

  He’s standing in a flash—his fist pulling my hair so hard that he wrenches my head back. He closes his eyes, his jaw ticking erratically. “You are not a whore!”

  I can feel myself spiraling, falling into an abyss and he’s trying to save me because that’s what he does. He loves me, and I can’t even bring myself to give him something that so many other men have had from me. “You’re right. I can’t even fuck you.”

  He releases me and steps back, his anger now a visceral thing, filling the room until I can barely breathe. Up and down, round and round, this is what we do. My emotions playing havoc on us both, as he’s forced to follow me in this toxic dance. He drags his hands through his hair before he loses it and rams his fist into the wall. When he pulls it away, his hand is bleeding, his blood staining the wallpaper.

  “You’re better than this, little warrior,” he says through clenched teeth. Shaking his head, he looks at me with sad eyes, his anger mixing with his despair. “You never stepped out of the cage, but the door is still open.” He turns to me and holds out his hand. “I’m asking you to trust me. Step outside.”

  I stare at his hand, and it’s so much more than a meaningless gesture. “I just have to trust you?”

  “Completely. All in. Be free, avecita.” Be free. I am free technically, but I know he’s right. I’m not. I’m a prisoner of my own thoughts and fears. A slave to years of conditioning and self-loathing. But how can I escape that? I’ll always be sullied by what I am, by what I was. “Trust that I love you,” he says so quietly I barely hear it, but I feel it, to the very depths of my soul. It whispers to his, pleading with him to save it from its own torment. He loves me. I love him. And maybe he can love me enough for the both of us.