The Enemy in My Bed by L.K. Shaw
Chapter 4
Pierce
The yeasty scent of bread,as well as fresh coffee, hits me as soon as I open the front door of the home I share with Francesca.
Cooking is one of my sister’s favorite things to do. Although, she’s not usually up this early to make breakfast. Then again, maybe she is, since I’m the one not typically home at this hour.
I toe off my shoes and leave them neatly sitting on the hardwood of the entryway. It’s a childhood habit I haven’t been able to break, no matter the conscious effort I’ve made to stop.
I move through the living room toward the kitchen, not attempting to be quiet. I don’t want to spook Francesca. It’s been seven years since Jacob and I rescued her from the Russians, and she still startles easily. She turns at my entrance and blinks in surprise.
“You’re back already? Didn’t you just leave a couple hours ago?” she asks.
“How did you know? I thought you were sleeping.” I brush a kiss across her temple.
“You know I’m a light sleeper. I heard you come home, shower, and leave again.” She playfully smacks my roving hand as I reach for a piece of fette biscottate on the plate in front of her. “Since you’re here, get the jam out of the fridge first.”
I send her a narrow-eyed glare, but Francesca merely stares me down with hands on her hips, not even flinching at my expression. She and Jacob are the only two people I can’t seem to intimidate. With a sigh, I do as she says, while she pours us both a caffè e latte.
“Sit.” She waves me over to the table.
Once I’m seated, she brings me a mug and the plate of hard bread. I wait until she takes a seat with her own cup before I help myself to a piece and start slathering her homemade strawberry jam on it.
“Not that I’m complaining about you being home so early, but I’m a little surprised. Usually you don’t come wandering in for a few more hours after you and Jacob have been out late taking care of business.” Francesca emphasizes the last word with air quotes. “And you definitely don’t come tiptoeing in during the middle of the night, shower, leave again, and then show up barely past the crack of dawn. Did Gianna kick you out?”
I choke on my bread. A few sips of my caffè e latte finally clears my throat. How the hell does my sister know about her?
“You okay?” she asks when I can breathe again.
No, I’m not. As a matter of fact, everything is fucked.
“What do you mean you’re leaving?” Gianna, who’s lying nearly naked on her bed, pouts. “You just got here.”
I stare down at her in frustration and slowly building anger. We were lovers before I left Brooklyn seven years ago and resumed our affair when I returned. She’s been one of the few women I’ve fucked who can take everything I give and isn’t shy about getting a little dirty. Our encounters are about fulfilling a sexual need. There aren’t any feelings involved. At least not on my part. So what the fuck is wrong with me?
“My mind is elsewhere.”
Gianna moves slowly and sensually to her hands and knees, the smile on her face one of seduction. She crawls toward me and rises up to a kneeling position. Her tits spill over the top of the minuscule bra she’s wearing. My cock doesn’t even twitch.
“I’m not worried about that. I’m sure I can get your attention in no time.” She reaches for my belt and tries to unbuckle it.
“I said, not tonight.” I grab her wrists, tightening my grip, stopping her actions. It’s not even her I’m irritated with. It’s myself. And the elfin face full of defeat I can’t stop picturing.
Anger blazes from Gianna’s eyes. She yanks out of my grasp and shoves my chest in a feeble attempt to push me away. “Then get the hell out.”
I shake off the memory. Gianna may have told me to leave, but I’d been absent before I’d even arrived at her place.
“The Russians took Brenna, the night before last.” There isn’t any easy way to say it.
All the blood leaves Francesca’s face, and she sways in her seat. I reach for her hand. She clutches tightly to mine, her nails digging into my skin.
“We got her out, Chess. She’s a little bruised, but I swear she’s all right.” The hardest part is coming. “They shot Giovanni.”
She cries out and covers her mouth. Tears well in her eyes. “Is he…?”
I shake my head. “The last I heard is that he made it through surgery, but I don’t know much more than that. Renata Grassi is supposed to be at the hospital waiting on any updates.”
Francesca jumps up from the table and gathers all our dishes. She rushes over to the sink and nearly throws them in. Glass clatters, but she whirls around, ignoring it. Her whole body trembles. “We have to go there. Now.”
I’m both surprised, and not, by her request. The two of them have danced around each other for a year. Giovanni, the poor bastard, is half in love with her. My sister’s feelings, on the other hand, are more complicated.
“Come on,” I say.
Just over thirty minutes later, Fabrizio is pulling up to Kings County Medical. Francesca leads the way to the information desk.
“How can I help you?” the middle-aged woman seated behind it asks with an overly cheerful smile.
“Can you tell us where Giovanni…” my sister pauses and jerks her head toward me, a panicked expression crossing her face. I lay my hand on her back trying to calm her.
“Saccone,” I fill in.
She faces forward again. “We’re looking for Giovanni Saccone, please.” Her voice is thready.
The older woman keys in the information and gives us directions to where he’s located. I glance at my watch and curse. I hadn’t planned to be gone this long.
“How did I not even know his last name?” Francesca says almost to herself. “I’ve known him for over a year, and I never even bothered to learn his last name.”
What do I say to that? I love my sister, but I’m not equipped to deal with this kind of thing. We travel through the hospital until she spots Dino’s wife in the waiting area outside the ICU. She rushes over to her while I stay out of the way and let the two women talk. I take in the room and its occupants. Thankfully we’re not in Russian territory, so Gio doesn’t need any extra protection.
Just the thought of the Russians and what they did to him sets my anger burning. They’ve hurt my sister enough. This additional pain they caused her only infuriates me.
I wish I could kill them all a second time.
Francesca waves me over. “Renata said that he’s still in critical condition, but they have him stabilized.”
There’s so much anxiousness surrounding her despite what sounds like good news. I squeeze her hand. “He’s going to be fine, Chess. Gio’s strong.”
She nods absently. “I’m sure you have things you need to do, and I want to stay here in case something changes. Renata is going to go home and rest for a bit. She said she’ll come get me whenever I need a ride.”
“Are you sure?”
Francesca looks up at me with pleading eyes. “Please, Pierce. I have to be here when he wakes up.”
I nod. “If something happens and you need me to come back, call. No matter what.”
Like she’d always done as a little girl, she wraps her arms around my waist and hugs me tight. It had taken several years after her rescue to even come close to touching me again, so I cherish every embrace.
“I love you,” she whispers against my chest.
A quick kiss to the crown of her head later, I leave Francesca standing there, her expression full of worry and pain. For her sake, I hope the guy pulls through. As I make my way toward the exit, I pull out my phone.
“Yes?”
“I need a secure location. Something with a kitchen and bed,” I tell Jacob.
“Give me thirty minutes to make some calls.”
I end the conversation and pocket my phone. That will give me time to grab some food from Donatello’s before heading back to the warehouse. A twinge of an unfamiliar emotion pings inside me. Its unrelenting presence is starting to piss me off.
The musty scentof the underground tunnel is usually a comforting smell. For some reason, as I stride down the narrow corridor toward the single room halfway down, it turns my stomach in a way it never has before. In an action unlike me, I pause once I finally reach the locked door.
Indecision is not an affliction I’m cursed with. I don’t question things. I do them, and damn the consequences. Except, I hesitate before opening the door, unsure what will greet me on the other side.
Annoyed with myself, I unlock the door and step inside. I expect the same as the last time: fear cloaked in defiance. I’m ready for it, although not necessarily the unwelcome arousal that comes from it. Although, I’m learning to accept it, even if with great reluctance.
Instead, the rotten stench of despair fills the room, overpowering the aroma of the freshly cooked Italian meal I brought with me. It’s a scent that normally satisfies the side of me that thirsts to spill the blood of my enemies. To wield my knife and watch the viscous red liquid drip off them. Smelling it coming from the single occupant is not what I want.
She’s still in the chair, arms and legs tightly bound, and her chin rests on her slowly rising and falling chest. I slam the door shut, but she doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t even raise her head to glare at me with those big blue eyes.
The anger simmering beneath my already conflicted emotions bubbles up and out. “Where has the wildcat who’s been fighting me for the last day gone? Don’t tell me she’s given up already,” I sneer.
She finally raises her head at that. That spark that had been present before has been completely extinguished. Her eyes close again and her head dips. I cross the room and crouch in front of her. She ignores my presence.
“Is this the game you’re going to play to try and gain my sympathy?” I ask.
Nothing.
“I brought you food,” I try again.
Still nothing. I reach into the bag, pull out the oblong aluminum to-go container, peel back the sharp edges, and remove the thick paper lid. The rich smell of tomato sauce wafts around us. My captive’s stomach rumbles loudly.
“I hope you’re not too proud and stubborn to eat this delicious meal that my friend Benito went through a lot of trouble to prepare for you,” I say.
Several seconds pass. At last, her tongue dips out and wets her lips. “What do I have to do for it?”
“For now? Your name.” My patience is endless. I wait, and just as I think she’s going to continue ignoring me, she speaks.
“Mila.” She says it with such reluctance, I can tell how much it cost her.
True to my word, I grab the enclosed plastic fork and cut into the steamy lasagna that has made Donatello’s famous in Brooklyn. I offer her a bite.
“I can feed myself.”
I’m pleased by the tinge of annoyance in her statement. “Being untied is a privilege you haven’t earned yet. Especially after the stunt you pulled.”
She opens her mouth, probably to argue more, and I use the opportunity to stick the fork inside, cutting off any words. Behind the glare, I can almost read her mind. My bet is she wants to spit it back into my face, but instead she slowly begins to chew. Bite by bite I continue to feed her, occasionally offering water to drink as well, until she finally turns away.
“I’m done.” Already there’s more strength to her—Mila’s—voice. Even better, a small spark of rebellion returns to her eyes.
After putting everything back inside the paper bag, I face her. Color has seeped into her cheeks. I stare at her until finally she looks at me. Without breaking eye contact, I begin untying her ankles.
“I don’t peg you as being stupid. You already know what will happen if you try and run. If, for some reason, I’m mistaken about how smart I think you are, you will regret the choice you make.”
Mila stiffens at my words. Once I’ve freed her wrists from the arm rests, I grip them in one hand and bind them together in front of her. She struggles the tiniest bit, until my hold tightens. “Is this really what you want to do?”
Her head jerks up. “Where are you taking me?”
I raise a brow. “Would you rather stay here?”
That shuts her up. I pull Mila to her feet with only the slightest resistance. She sways a little, but manages to correct herself. Jesus, she’s tiny, barely reaching the middle of my chest. It’s no wonder I thought she was a young man, especially with that hair. Curiosity creeps in as to why she cut it.
“Let’s go,” I tell her. It only takes a single tug before she moves with me out the door and into the barely illuminated hallway.
Mila’s short strides are half the length of mine. “I recommend you keep up. Unless you want to be dragged.”
Her pace quickens until she’s nearly jogging. I have no difficulty navigating the terrain, even with the dim lighting. I’ve trekked this route countless times, even before I followed my cousin into exile, but Mila stumbles once, about halfway up. I reach out to steady her. She jerks out of my grip. I bite back my satisfaction. Playing with prey that’s given up isn’t any fun. I want her to fight me. At the top of the passageway, I stop and pull a long piece of cloth from my back pocket.
“Turn,” I instruct her.
“Why?”
I grip the back of her neck and force her to twist in my direction. She flinches in discomfort. “I’m about to rescind my opinion on how smart you are, since you don’t seem to understand how this works. I tell you to do something, you do it. No questions asked.” I release my hold. “Let’s try this again. Turn.”
She slowly obeys and gives me her back. I place the cloth over her eyes and knot it behind her head. Once I’m satisfied with how secure it is, I open the door. The mid-morning sun is bright, and the faintest hint of early summer is in the air. The heat hasn’t become oppressive yet.
Mila’s arm is thin beneath my fingertips as I guide her across the pavement where Fabrizio waits with the town car. Beside me, she’s tilting her head as though trying to pick out any familiar sounds. She won’t hear anything.
We’re in the parking lot of an abandoned power plant that butts up against a bunch of land the syndicate bought. It gives us access to the underground tunnel that eventually comes out inside an empty warehouse, also owned by our organization, a block away. There’s traffic, but that’s everywhere, and since we’re practically hidden behind the building, it offers us quite a bit of privacy.
Fabrizio opens the door. I guide her to the backseat. “Get in and watch your head.”
Mila pauses for only a second before she clumsily falls onto the leather seat. She scoots to the other side. I wait for her to make another move—to dive out the opposite door, maybe—and my adrenaline pumps in anticipation of the hunt, but she remains where she is. I’m a bit disappointed.
I climb in next to her and she shifts further away, practically crawling up the side of the vehicle. Body odor and the general scent of uncleanliness are almost overpowering in the enclosed space.
“You stink.” It feels good to goad her, especially when she whips her head in my direction and her jaw clenches. I like her anger. More than I expect.
“That’s what happens when you can’t bathe,” she bites out.
Can’t? Interesting word choice. With every little piece of info she lets slip, I find myself more intrigued. I shake off the fascination. She has answers I want. That’s all.
