To Have & to Hurt by Morgan Bridges
Violetta
Ihaven’t spoken a single word in almost two years.
To some that may sound excessive, eccentric, or maybe eerie. And I suppose it is, but then again, they haven’t seen what I have or experienced what I’ve gone through. Which explains why this situation is uncomfortable, enough to make my scalp tingle and my skin prickle with warning.
I’m not claustrophobic, but the masculine atmosphere in this vehicle is almost suffocating.
And the majority of this imposing energy comes from Tristano Silvestri.
I’ve never been the type of girl who enjoys male attention, even less so after watching the effects from my sister’s assault and how it broke her spirit.
It broke mine as well.
When I lean in my seat the tiniest bit Tristano’s gaze shoots in my direction and it unsettles me for reasons that are beyond trauma. I’m used to being ignored and overlooked, which is my preference, but this man has yet to do either one. Now I’ll have to be cognizant of maintaining my silence—an easier task now that Carina is gone—and be decisive in my movement.
Or else Tristano will have his gaze on me more often than not.
And it’s unwelcome.
The gray of his eyes is like the steel of a pistol, cold and hard. If not for the show of compassion toward my sister earlier, I’d think this man is incapable of it. He doesn’t strike me as someone who has evil flowing through his veins like my father, but Tristano hasn’t walked this earth without coming into contact with it.
And at times, dwelling in it.
It’s an intuitive assumption on my part, but I’m not wrong. Members of the crime syndicate are not only affected by the events pertaining to their lifestyle but also the overall sickness of greed, a vice that’s usually a catalyst for the six other deadly sins. And that type of motivation ultimately leads to destruction.
To the sinners themselves, but I believe it’s mostly to everyone else.
I flick my gaze to the window and squint in order to make out the private airstrip. The hangar eventually comes into view and I’m able to make out the small aircraft with the stairs lowered. Two men, dressed in cargo pants and black t-shirts, stand at the base of the stairs with their arms folded. Their skin is a golden brown, and taking in their features I guess them to be of Hispanic descent.
I can confirm my suspicion if I hear them speak. Learning Spanish was easy for me, when compared to Latin, and the language is easily identifiable. It’s ironic I speak four languages, yet don’t capitalize on any of them. When I’m far from this city and its memories, I hope to feel safe enough to voice my thoughts and feelings with a trusted individual.
Carina is that person for me.
Or at least she was and will be again, if she survives the night.
Tumultuous emotions churn in my stomach and I mentally shove aside all thought of my sister. Losing her once was bad enough, but having to experience that grief again, and so soon after being reunited with her?
I just can’t.
“Benito, stay in the car with her,” Tristano says, looking at me.
After that he and Enrico exit the vehicle. The pair walk almost shoulder to shoulder, stopping once they are a handful of yards away from the other men. The sounds of metal sliding over metal and bullets entering the guns’ chambers has goosebumps rising on my arms. I’ve heard that noise so many times in my life that it shouldn’t bother me, but it does. Maybe because I associate it with death?
However, it’s for my protection and theirs. That’s what I have to remind myself.
As though I’m watching a movie, I rove my gaze over the four men, taking in their stances and the position of their hands. They are the most telling. It’s difficult for people who feel as if they’re in danger to emit a calm demeanor that extends to their fingers. The men I’ve studied all my life can’t seem to keep their index fingers from tapping or extending slightly when they perceive a potential threat. I think it’s because they use that digit to pull the trigger on their weapons and so the twitch or movement is a signal from the brain urging them to do what will preserve their lives.
Beni rolls down his window a couple inches and the deep baritone of Tristano’s voice is easily heard from inside the car. I guess I’m not the only one who wants to know what’s being said.
“Whoever arranged this meeting has a lot of explaining to do,” Tristano says, “and I would appreciate it if they would show themselves. Unless one of you is the individual who initiated contact with me?”
He keeps his arms by his sides and I silently nod in approval. The reaction time to retrieve and fire your weapon is longer when someone starts with their arms crossed, which means if there’s a shootout, Tristano should be able to fire more quickly than the others. Not only that, his fingers are motionless and so are Enrico’s. They don’t sense danger as of yet.
One of the strangers shakes his head. “No, señor.”
They’re definitely Hispanic.
“Then who was it?” Tristano asks, his mouth thinning.
From where I sit in the car, I’m able to make out the slight narrowing of his eyes and the way he subtly shifts his weight to his left foot. If Tristano’s right-handed, which I assume he is, then that should allow for his movement to be more fluid when reaching for his gun.
Because I’m watching intently and studying him with a laser focus, I don’t see what causes his reaction, only the reaction itself.
Tristano’s chest halts mid-rise, as though he’s stopped breathing in the middle of an exhale. His narrowed eyes widen for the barest of seconds before he’s squinting once again. And then he tilts his head just so.
All of this compels me to locate the source and I shift my gaze to find a woman at the top of the stairs, slowly making her descent. The numerous bright lights above are glaring, but when the beams make contact with her brown hair they turn the strands a deep gold. The majority are secured at the back of her head, allowing me to see her face. The delicate cheekbones, plush lips, and kohl-lined eyes create a classic beauty any woman would love to have; including me.
I’ve subconsciously raised my hand to brush my own dark locks and once I realize what I’m doing, I drop my arm and thread my fingers in my lap. Whoever this woman is, there’s no denying she’s gorgeous. Even her clothes are styled in such a way that compliments her figure, a perfect hour-glass shape.
No wonder Tristano looks awestruck.
He slowly blinks as though she’s a figment of his imagination, and while I don’t blame him, a twinge of longing pokes my consciousness. I’ve never had a man look at me that way and I can’t say I’d mind a little adulation.
It’s the savagery of lust I can’t stomach.
“Thank you for coming, Señor Silvestri,” she says.
I make sure not to roll my eyes at the melodic quality of her voice. Of course she sounds as lovely as she looks. I bring my gaze back to Tristano in order to gauge his reaction. And then mine changes to one of disbelief.
From the way his nostrils flare and his entire body goes rigid, Tristano looks ready to kill her.
“What’s your name?”
His voice is like a hammer crashing onto a table and leaving an indentation behind from the force of the blow. I nearly jump in my seat and somehow manage not to, but I can’t stop the way my heart rate increases. Interestingly enough, the woman appears unperturbed.
“Octavia Cortez,” she says, coming to stand between the two men.
They both shift their bodies inward as though to shield her, like a bodyguard or someone running security would. During the time that’s considered to be the mafia’s pinnacle of success, women weren’t usually given authority or allowed to be the head of a family unless their husbands were in prison, but even then it was an interim position. Although some women have achieved the title of boss, not much has changed concerning the traditional Italian views within the crime syndicate. However, this woman has a Spanish accent, which prods my curiosity.
Are women running criminal organizations outside of the U.S.?
If they are, she’s definitely one of them.
“We are not acquainted,” Tristano says. “Yet, you know who I am and sent me a very specific line of text that caught my attention. Well, señorita, you have it, so I think it’s best you explain yourself. Now.”
“He’s pissed,” Beni murmurs to himself.
I agree but say nothing. My unease, as well as my curiosity, spreads like the tension hovering in the air. What I wouldn’t give to know what that message was…
“We cannot continue this conversation,” Octavia says with a lift of her chin. “There are too many ears and eyes here in America. You’ll need to come with me.”
“With all due respect, you’re out of your fucking mind.” Tristano cocks his head in what appears to be genuine confusion. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but it sounds as though you want me to leave the country with you, someone I don’t know a damn thing about. Why in the hell would I do that?”
The woman’s smile is slow to widen, but it’s one of total confidence. She crosses the space between herself and Tristano, and once she’s close enough, Octavia leans forward to whisper in his ear. When she pulls back and puts a hand on her hip, there’s triumph written all over her facial expression.
And Tristano has paled considerably, even under his tanned skin.
Whatever she said must’ve been really bad or really significant.
“That crazy woman has something on the boss,” Beni says. “And right now I’d say it’s his nuts. One in each hand.”
If that wasn’t such an accurate description, I might give him a look of exasperation.
Tristano’s calm facade disappears like a curtain at a play being lifted so the show can begin. He runs his fingers through his hair, disturbing the deep brown locks, and then brings his gaze to Octavia, the heat of it enough to ignite spontaneous combustion. I’m glad to be a safe distance in the car and not on the receiving end of that.
“Give me a minute,” he says.
Enrico follows Tristano as he briskly walks back over to the vehicle. I avert my gaze, not wanting to be caught staring, but I do glance at him when he settles into the backseat beside me.
“Who is that?” Beni asks.
Enrico gives a minute shake of his head in warning and Beni frowns.
It astounds me that he can’t sense the waves of fury rolling off Tristano. Or maybe Beni’s not intimidated by his anger. I don’t talk, but even if I did, there’s nothing that could compel me to do so now.
Tristano types rapidly on his cell phone and once that’s done he brings his gaze to me. I don’t allow myself to react by leaning back in a defensive gesture, but I want to.
He exhales sharply and brings a fist to his mouth. “She’s given me no choice.”
“Who, that woman?” Beni asks. He twists in his seat and props himself on the center console. “What could be so urgent that you’re actually considering leaving with that bitch?” He clears his throat. “A fucking hot bitch, but still a bitch.”
“It’s…personal.” Tristano drops his hand and nods, whether to himself or his men, I’m not sure. “I can’t give you any information because I don’t know a fucking thing. What I can say is that I won’t miss out on this opportunity to find the answers I’ve been searching for over the last twenty years. This could be the only chance I have to know the truth.”
He opens the door and exits while Enrico and Beni share a look of confusion. I join them as soon as Tristano appears at my door and opens it. I crane my neck to look up and meet his gaze, reticence causing me to press my lips together.
“Come with me,” he says.
Tristano holds out his hand for me to take and I stare at it for a long moment, taking in the signet ring that winks at me under the strong lighting, and then bring my focus back to his gaze. The bright lights above cast him in shadow, making the lines on his face all the more sharp and severe. His decision has been made and the stony expression he wears only confirms that.
“Signorina, I’m telling you, not asking. And if I have to tell you a second time, I will drag you to that jet without a single ounce of remorse. My promise to your sister was with the understanding that you would do as I say and without hesitation.”
He plants his hands on the frame of the car and leans toward me until I’m able to smell his cologne and feel the warmth of his body. “Should you think to provoke me, your hedge of protection will remain intact.” Tristano stops and that slight pause speeds up my pulse. “But not from me, Violetta. Like I gave Carina my word, I’ll also do you the same courtesy. Know that I will do whatever it takes to keep you alive and well, even if that means whipping your ass, grabbing or dragging you by the hair, or tying you up and leaving you bound and gagged. Because when I do those things, it’ll be with the intention to keep you breathing, not happy. Hai capacito?”
Oh yes, I understand. Most definitely.
I nod while holding his gaze so he’s more than aware of my comprehension. I’m not agreeing with him whatsoever, but I’m beginning to clearly see his disposition.
Which is in direct opposition with mine.