I repeat that promise over and over while I cradle my sleeping brother to my chest. He mumbles something about his car toys while I push open the window pane. With him in my arms, I slip through the gap and run toward the line of trees lining the back of the property.

And I keep repeating my promise like a mantra, standing hidden behind an evergreen shrub, my eyes trained on our living room window.

Watching the don of the Sicilian Cosa Nostra press the barrel of his gun to my mother’s head and then pull the trigger.

Chapter 12

Present day

When we reach the mansion, there are four black vehicles parked in the driveway. A man with a semiautomatic weapon stands by the front door.

“Wait here,” Rafael says as he turns off the ignition and exits the car. There are no traces of that laughing man I had dinner with less than an hour ago.

Walking up, he exchanges a few sentences with the newcomer, then returns and opens my car door.

“I’ll take you to your room,” he says, his face set in hard lines. “It would be best if you remain there for the rest of the night.”

“Okay.”

Rafael nods, then slips his arms under my legs, lifting me out of the seat. I open my mouth to protest, but then my eyes fall on the big dark spot staining the gravel at Rafael’s feet. Looks like a spill of engine oil on the driveway. The man with the rifle holds the front door open so Rafael can carry me inside. I expect him to put me down any second until I notice more stains on the floor of the entry hall. Now, however, I can see they’re not black as I thought, but rather dark crimson.

Blood.

I tighten my hold on Rafael’s neck, staring over his shoulder as he climbs the stairs. The trail of blood curves along a path from the entrance to the doorway leading to the wine cellar, where it disappears out of sight. I’m not a stranger to blood. My father’s men often need to be stitched back together at our house, usually in the kitchen. But I’ve never witnessed so much of this vital bodily fluid in one place.

“What happened down there?” I whisper as Rafael carries me inside the bedroom.

“Nothing yet. They’re waiting for me to start.”

Moonlight streams into the darkened room through the open balcony door, bathing the interior in a bluish glow. It’s tranquil, the distant crash of waves upon the shore and the rhythm of our breaths the only sounds. The gleam of the heavens reflects in Rafael’s eyes. They’re the only thing I can clearly see with his face partially obscured by darkness.

But even in the scarce light, the mess of thick uneven scars across his features can’t be missed. One line in particular stands out. Nearly three inches long and running from his chin, across his lips, and veering slightly at the side of his nose, creating a split in the stubble-covered lower part of his face. There is another, almost as prominent, starting just over his ear and crossing his left cheek to his mouth. It pulls the corner of his lips downward, giving him a permanent scowling look.

Rafael looks as if someone tried to patch him up, but did a piss-poor job of it. Aside from the main raised tissue, there are small cross scars that remind me of railroad tracks. It’s as if additional scarring formed around the areas where the sutures were applied, and now his skin has the mishmash, bumpy appearance of a button-tufted cushion. Being this close to him, I can understand why people find him scary. I don’t, though. But the way he makes me feel? That terrifies the shit out of me.

I place the tip of my finger on the edge of his lips, just where another ridge of raised flesh begins, and track the jagged line toward his cheekbone. Rafael doesn’t move, just stands there in silence, allowing me to explore the rest of the scars marring his face.

“Are these from a car accident?” I whisper.

“You’re the first one who’s dared to openly ask,” he says. “No. Just an op that went wrong.”

“When?”

“About twenty years ago.”

I glide my fingertip back to his lips, tracing the shape of the lower one. Such a hard, sinister mouth.

“Please take care,” I say as I watch light chase shadows across Rafael’s face.

“I always do.” His deep voice rumbles through the darkness, and in the next moment, he seizes my lips with his.

The kiss is another earthquake. A catastrophic seismic event that shakes me to the foundations of my soul, destroying everything in its path. Logic and reason evaporate, wiped out by his touch. The worry about letting myself get close to someone whom I should resent flies out of the second-story window. The fear that I’m falling for a man who is my captor disintegrates. Its fragments are swept away into the sea. I can’t think of anything other than craving more of Rafael. Clutching his neck, I respond to every kiss. Every bite. Nothing else matters.

Rafael pulls my lower lip between his teeth, giving it one last nibble, then slowly lowers me to the floor.

“Keep the door shut, so the screams don’t wake you,” he whispers next to my ear.

In the next breath, he’s gone.

* * *

The closed door only helps so much. Muffled screams still reach me through the balcony. The cellar windows must have been left open. I pull my soft cardigan tighter around me and resume biting my thumbnail.

Torture as a way of obtaining information or delivering a punishment is not uncommon in the criminal world. I’ve never witnessed it, but I don’t have to be there to know that’s what’s happening on the underground level at the moment. Does Rafael mete out the agony himself, or does he have someone else do it for him while he watches? Even knowing his reputation, I find it hard to imagine him doing it. The man who leaves me drawings on sticky notes wouldn’t be slaughtering people in his home, right? Maybe the stories I’ve heard about the feared Sicilian are exaggerated. Or is he just as people paint him—a ruthless, cold-blooded killer?

I crack the bedroom door open and take a peek outside. There’s no one around. Tiptoeing down the hallway, I try my best to keep my steps light so the floorboards won’t squeak, giving me away. The faint echo of whimpers and subdued screams seems to seep through the walls.

Halfway down the stairs, one of the wooden treads creaks under my bare foot. I startle, looking around, afraid someone may have heard it. But the entry hall is deserted.

Except for the vintage sconces on the walls, all lights are off, making the space feel ominous. The blood trail on the floor is gone, except for a few crimson spots here and there. Avoiding the remnants, I quickly cross the hall and turn left toward the stairway leading to the wine cellar.

I halt before the thick cellar door and stare at the knob. This is a mistake. I have zero interest in witnessing a torture session. But my fingers are itching to turn that handle. Push open the door. To see him. The real him.

The urge to get a glimpse of that other side of him is coursing through me. The side he’s never shown me. I want to know everything about Rafael. Need. I need to know the whole truth about the man who has invaded my thoughts from the moment I met him. Maybe seeing him at his beastliest will snuff out this silly attraction of mine. Maybe seeing blood on his hands will make me recoil from his touch next time, not revel in it. Maybe, just maybe, this ridiculous pull I feel toward him will finally break.

The screams coming from beyond the barrier have waned. I wrap my hand around the knob. It’s ice-cold under my fingers, freezing my skin. Holding my breath, I crack the door open.

A lone beam of light shines down from the antique wrought iron chandelier, illuminating a figure reclining on a rickety wooden chair in the middle of the otherwise dark room. His back is turned toward the door, but I know it’s Rafael. There’s no one else here. Except for . . . the bodies.

Five men, their clothes torn and bloody, are lying on the floor throughout the room. The stench of blood and bodily fluids is intermixed with the smell of smoke, making me gag.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, vespetta.” Rafael’s voice breaks the silence. He still has his back to me.

“How did you know it was me?” I choke out.

“You’re the only one who would dare intrude on my meeting.”

He takes a lengthy drag on his cigarette, then tosses it at the face of a dead man, where it lands with a disturbing muted sizzle. Then, in a blink-of-an-eye fluid motion, he slams his hand against the front leg of the chair, leaving a knife lodged in the wood. Right next to a glass jar filled with bloody lumps of . . . something. Something that looks like . . . severed human tongues.

Rafael slowly rises from the chair and turns to face me. The front of his shirt and sleeves are saturated with so much blood the fabric clings to his body.

“I didn’t know you smoked,” I mumble, still gaping at the crimson stains on his button-down. It’s the only thing that pops into my stunned mind to say.

“A nasty old habit I still indulge in from time to time.” He covers the distance between us in a few long strides and stops right in front of me. “Why are you here?”

“I . . . I’m not sure.” I swallow and meet his gaze. “Aren’t you going to yell at me for coming down?”