I ended up leaning against the opposite wall, and fortunately, my fingers discovered a loose brick. I yanked at it, thankful to have some way of defending myself. “Stay back. I mean it.”
Leisurely, he walked out of my prison and came towards me. I pointed my brick at him. “I’m a patient man, but even my patience has its limits, Molly Greene.”
Hysteria bubbled up my throat as if to throttle me, and I lowered myself into a stance I hoped would allow me to fend him off. “Get back.”
He closed in, and I threw the brick. He ducked it as if my only weapon hadn’t presented the least bit of an issue for him and came even closer. My panic rose to full-on freak out levels, and I shrieked, “Don’t touch me!”
I’m not certain why, but Luca halted. “What do you think I’m going to do?” His voice was higher-pitched and softer, the timbre one might use with a child.
My voice shook with adrenaline and fear, but I answered. “What most bad guys do to the women they capture.”
He frowned deeply at this, drawing his mouth down an
d to the side. “I can’t speak for other families in the business, but the Varasso men are not rapists.”
“So just murderers then?” I asked, disbelief lacing my tone.
He released a long breath but kept his distance. I wasn’t sure what to make of his behavior.
“I would never claim to be a saint. I don’t consider myself a good man, either. Far from it. We live by a credo of violence and blood, and I won’t deny that. But we do operate by a certain code. We are sworn to protect our family and our family’s reputation at all costs. We don’t kill for no reason, and we would never take a woman against her will. You were targeted because of the negative attention you drew to my family. It’s just that simple.”
“So you still plan to kill me?”
“What I’d like to do is talk to you. I have a unique proposition for you, if you’ll listen to it.”
6
Luca
Molly Greene watched me as carefully as she might watch a car wreck happening right in front of her. She was frightened of me, scared to death. And even though I was a man quite used to engendering such a response in others, I didn’t want that response from her.
From her, I wanted something else. Something more.
Last night, I’d come down to get a vintage bottle of red wine. I often did this after putting Anna to bed. Nearly every night, in fact. It limited my ability to think, to hone in on my memories of Alana. It allowed me to stay numb, which was always more difficult when spending time with my daughter.
I generally stuck to a firm routine. I rose with the baby, changed her diaper and got her dressed, then after feeding her breakfast, I spent an hour or two playing with her. I then brought her to the nursery, and the same nanny who’d raised me and my brothers took over for several hours. Late in the afternoon, I’d pick her up, feed her dinner, play with her for three or so hours, then put her in her crib.
Unless I had to run an errand for my father, I didn’t deviate from this much.
It was during the evenings that I struggled the most.
Anna was a sweet child who rarely fussed, and that sweet innocent disposition reminded me of her mother. Right after Alana died, I’d stayed out with the baby driving aimlessly till the wee hours of the morning. So tired I’d nearly dozed off at the wheel, I’d crashed at our apartment. I’d fallen into our bed to discover that the sheets and pillows still smelled like Alana.
Which hurt.
Then, her scent gradually faded away. And that hurt worse.
But I couldn’t part with the bed, so I’d moved it with us here to the Varasso family home. Rarely did I sleep in it, though. Well, never. Almost always I’d kip on the sofa in my seating area instead. I’d go to the wine cellar and down as many glasses as it took to get drowsy enough to sleep. Or to at least put myself in a daze.
That’s what I’d been doing when I heard the tough, feisty, take-no-prisoners Molly Greene bawling her eyes out. I’d stopped to listen to her, thinking this must just be a brief moment of weakness, but it hadn’t been. She’d wept audibly for hours.
I hadn’t been able to leave. It was as if she’d held me there through some sort of spell. It’d taken me quite a while to realize that while I’d been torn between grief and numbness for the better part of a year, I now felt more. Molly Green made me feel more. First, desire. And now, compassion.
I’d gone to see her. To make certain what I thought I’d heard was real. And the evidence of it had been written in her puffy, bloodshot eyes. In her reddened nose. It’d been undeniable, yet she denied it anyway. Even when I told her I knew the truth. There was something about that which drew me to her. A courageousness I’d never witnessed in anyone else.
It caused me to come up with a plan. A crazy plan.
I hadn’t expected my father to approve it, but he had. With the understanding that any failures would be on my head. But I didn’t think she would fail. She’d be a success because she was a fighter. And fighters don’t stay down even when they take a punch.