Caruso;
Her frozen look holds dread glistening all over it; it widens when I storm heavy steps toward her.
My blood seethes, tension curling around my muscles in a hard vice, and I can't really see anything—except for her protruding stare when she realizes.
The whole table erupts in whispers and perplexed looks when I roughly snatch her wrists from the table, righting her on her feet.
I feel the spasm rock her entire body, visceral terror seizing her.
"Caruso," my brother grits. Cocking a glance at him, I see his eyes narrow, warning heavy in them.
"We have some scores to settle, brother." Hell, I can't even recognize my own voice. Anger and bloodlust are all that I feel right now.
Romano stands, the seat screeching backward before a curt, "Son," from Father halts him.
He glares at Father, his submissiveness and the will to stop me from dragging his fiancée out warring so evidently in his conflicted expression.
The daddy's boy syndrome wins. He sits back, his fist bunching on top of the hard surface of the table.
My lips curl tauntingly—I'm not fucking surprised. Caring less about the blistering rage flaring across his face—so similar to mine—I tighten my grip on her, dragging her out.
The little viper's back rams into the wall of the hallway. She jerks slightly, breath hitching, fear and confusion written all over her features.
"Explain," I growl, looking down at her.
The skin of her throat bobs as she swallows. "About what happened earlier?"
Her tone is barely a whisper.
Thick soles slap against the floor—interrupting my searing focus on her. Her head snaps to the side; a servant headed for the dining room halts in his tracks, blinking rapidly.
She does something that amuses me—beckoning him closer. With hesitation, and constant wary glances thrown my way, he comes.
Her fingers lift to the tray of filled glasses in his hold—and she takes one, muttering a, "Thank you, signore."
A muscle ticks in my jaw. Is this a fucking game to her?
Reaching for my waistband, I pull out my gun.
She jolts when the sound of it being cocked slices through the air—sharp and clean.
Then I press it to her forehead, making the drink slosh and drip down her small lips.
Glass shatters. I don't need to turn to see the servant has wet himself—his uneven breathing ruins my quiet.
"Get out," I order him.
He scurries back to the kitchen in seconds.
Seems it's at this point she realizes she's in some deep shit.
"Start. Talking." I literally grit the words through the haze of red fogging my vision.
"If it's about what that man said, I have no idea what he's talking about. It's not my fault that my father didn't let anyone see any of his daughters, me and my siblings included." She rushes, her voice tightening with panic.
The slap of my inked hand against the wall beside her head makes her flinch hard. Her attention flickers to it, then lifts back to me.
What she says has a tiny bit of truth in it. But Uncle Paolo doesn't get faces wrong. He and Galo have been working together for the longest—the latter in charge of handling mercenaries of sorts.
So if there's anybody who knows even a minute detail of the Montagnas, it's Uncle fucking Paolo.
The murderous intent radiating through my skin must be palpable; her temple breaks out in cold sweat, dampening her bangs and making the mouth of my gun slip—but I press it back with more force and she gasps, her lips parting in a sharp inhale.
"I really don't know what you're talking about." The blue of her eyes begs. Pleads. A sob tangles in her words.
Using my left hand, I dig into my pocket, sliding my phone out. I bring the screen up to her face and watch for the slightest shift.
Nothing.
She's calm. Her brows pull together in confusion as she studies the lit screen—still wary of the weapon at her temple.
"Do you recognize that drawing?" My neck tilts slightly as I question.
Her breath stutters and she flicks a shifty glance at me. "No."
I can't help the grin that crawls up the corner of my mouth. "That night, the car you ran for—and the man behind the wheel—had this tattoo on his inner wrist."
Her breathing stills. And I notice.
"Why then did you run that night if you had nothing to hide?" my voice lowers, letting the venom bubbling in me slip through.
She glances at the gun, tension locking her shoulders before her lips part. "I—I thought you were going to tell on me to my papa." Her focus drops to the floor, like she's avoiding mine. "I was supposed to remain by his side throughout the event."
She's spitting bullshit. I just know she is.
Grinding my jaw, I mutter, "And the man who shot at you?" Me.
The little viper bats her lashes. "He's one of the men we arrived with. I recognize him—and I suppose he thought I was in danger. He was just doing his job."
I feel my brows lift at that. My tongue runs along the edge of my teeth, and she tracks the movement with a faint glint clouding her expression.
It makes me smirk.
And I don't even know what I'm doing when I grab her by the shoulders, spin her back to me, and pull the straps of her midnight black dress down—irritation chafing at me at the thought that she chose it because of my brother—below her shoulder blades.
Her yelp comes out with a short gasp, body going rigid in my hold.
Her arms move to cross over her chest, clutching tightly to the material at her front. "What the fuck are you doing?" she breathes.
Lowering to the shell of her right ear, "And here I thought you only curse when drunk," I drawl.
Her skin reddens instantly, pebbling with goosebumps.
She's so naively fickle. A grin tilts my mouth.
Letting my attention drift over the fair porcelain skin of her bare back, I find nothing. It's clear. No hint of inked skin—or maybe I should pull the dress further…
"Found what you're looking for?" Her words rush out, uneven and strained. And I'm sure if I spin her around, I'll see a blush coating her cheeks.
Fuck. I really did want to pull the dress—and it has nothing to do with searching for a stupid-ass tattoo.
"You should know…" I begin, pulling away from her, "a group of people with that tattoo are responsible for the disappearance of your family." I deadpan, my demeanor turning frost-cold once more.
She's silent. When I turn to walk away, she suddenly breaks, "Can you stop doubting me now?"
I hear the hurt in her voice. But unfortunately, I couldn't care any less.
Letting the sound of my boots echo hauntingly, I allow my shadow to loom over her back—liking the sight of it.
Tracing my fingers along her lower back and grabbing her waist, I spin her around.
Fucking fuck.
Tears glisten in her eyes, making the blue shine brighter with pain. Streaks of salt liquid trail all the way to her chin.
I've never seen a more beautiful sight than this. It makes a dark feeling sink venomous claws into my veins—infecting my mind.
"No," I rasp in a low whisper, my attention locked on her tear-rimmed eyes. "I'm not going to stop, little one. And you better pray that I don't find what I'm looking for."
My expression darkens as I watch her take in my words for what they are. A threat.
My fingers skim her chin, where the alcohol had spilled—now mixed with her tears. I drag a thumb across the spot and revel in the way she stiffens as I bring it to my tongue. And suck.
The object of my obsession has never been a human being.
Yet at the thought of it, something deranged twists in my blackened soul.