Twisted Pride: A Dark Mafia Romance (The Camorra Chronicles Book 3)
Twisted Pride: Chapter 7

There wasn’t a clock anywhere in the room, but it must have been early afternoon by now. Except for the cold pizza and the tap water, I hadn’t had anything to eat or drink. Maybe this was another part of Remo’s game.

Glancing out of the window, I tried to replace the end of the premises, but from my vantage point the gardens surrounding the Falcone mansion appeared endless.

What was Samuel doing now? I closed my eyes. He would blame himself for what happened. I knew him. He had always seen himself as my protector. I wished I could hear his voice, could tell him that it wasn’t his fault. And Mom and Dad …

I hoped they had at least found a way to keep the truth from Sofia. She was too young, too innocent to be burdened with the cruelness of our world.

The sound of knocking followed by the lock being turned made me face the door. I winced at the dull pain in my forearm. A teenage boy in fight shorts and a T-shirt stepped into my room. He had slightly longer curly brown hair and was lean but muscled.

“Hey,” he said hesitantly, brown eyes kind. “Remo sent me to get you.”

I didn’t move from my spot at the window. “What are you, his servant?”

The boy smiled an unguarded, honest smile. A smile few could afford in our circles. “I’m his youngest brother, but that’s as good as the same in Remo’s eyes.”

His kindness confused me. It didn’t seem fake. My eyes flitted down to his forearm, free of the markings of the Camorra, the knife and the eye. “You haven’t been inducted yet.”

The smile dropped. “I will be in two days.”

“But you don’t want to,” I said curiously.

Caution replaced the open friendliness. “We shouldn’t keep Remo waiting.”

He opened the door wider and gestured for me to walk through. I wondered what he would do if I refused to follow him. He was taller than me and definitely stronger, but I got the impression he would have a hard time laying a hand on me. If he’d been my only opponent, I might have taken my chances, but Remo was downstairs.

Finally, I moved toward him and followed him through the long winding hallway.

“I’m Adamo, by the way,” he said.

I glanced up at him. “Serafina.”

“I know.”

“I suppose you Falcone brothers were all in on the kidnapping,” I muttered.

His brows drew together, but he remained silent. There was a hint of … embarrassment and disapproval on his face.

After a few minutes, we arrived in the lower part of the mansion, in some sort of entertainment hub with a bar, sofas, TV, and a boxing ring. A punching bag lay amidst rubble, and Remo was glaring down at it as if it had personally insulted him. He, too, was in fight trunks and nothing else.

The memory of how he’d held me under the shower, of how I’d been pressed up to him completely naked resurfaced. I hadn’t registered much at the time, and even in the immediate aftermath, but now my gaze trailed over the display of hard muscles, the many scars that spoke of his violent past and present. Every inch of Remo screamed danger. His height, his muscles, his scars, but worse: his eyes.

They found me and as always it was a struggle to meet them. Around Remo you felt like the omega in a pack of wolves. Your eyes wanted to avoid his out of a deeply buried primal impulse because Remo was the alpha. There was no mistaking it.

Adamo left my side and went over to the sofa, where he plopped down and picked up a controller. A gun lay on the coffee table in front of him.

Remo stalked closer. “Adamo,” he clipped, indicating the gun. Damn it.

Adamo grasped it and shoved it under his leg.

“I wouldn’t even know how to use it,” I lied.

Remo smiled darkly. “You are a good liar.” His skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat as if he hadn’t bothered showering after a workout.

“Why did you call me down? Do you have another torture session planned for me?”

Remo glanced down at my wound, his expression hardening—all sharp cheekbones and tight jaw. “There’s food in the kitchen for you and something to drink, unless you prefer hard liquor, then this is where you’ll get it.” He nodded toward the bar to my left where an array of bottles, most of them less than half full, awaited consumption. Scotch, bourbon, whiskey, gin …

I definitely wouldn’t get intoxicated while I was being held captive by the Camorra. “I’m free to walk around the house?” I asked.

Remo smirked. “I don’t think we’ve reached that level of trust yet.”

“We won’t reach any level of trust, Remo.”

Steps echoed out in the hall behind me, and I turned halfway but not enough to lose sight of Remo. I preferred keeping him in my line of vision. As if he knew exactly what I was doing, one corner of his mouth twitched upward.

Savio walked in with that arrogant swagger. “Got someone to fix the punching bag.”

Remo tore his gaze from me. “And it took you four hours?”

“Took care of some other business while I was at it,” Savio said with a shrug.

Remo shook his head with obvious disapproval. “One day I’m going to seriously lose my shit on you.”

Savio didn’t look concerned, and I doubted it was because he was as emotionless as Nino. Savio knew he had nothing to fear from his older brother. The realization surprised me, and I filed it away for later use.

“Now that you’re here, keep an eye on our guest while she’s eating in the kitchen. I’ll take a shower then take over her watch.”

My mouth curled. “I’m not your guest. I’m a captive.”

“Semantics,” Remo said.

Maybe in his twisted mind.

“I could have watched her too,” Adamo grumbled from his spot on the sofa.

Savio and Remo exchanged a look. Either they worried their younger brother would help me or they worried he wouldn’t be able to stop me from escaping. Interesting.

Remo narrowed his eyes at me then strode past me, his arm brushing mine, causing me to draw back.

“Come,” Savio ordered. My eyes lingered on Adamo, who was scowling at Remo’s retreating back. Maybe the Falcones had a weak link in their midst.

Tearing my gaze away, I followed Savio to the back of the ground floor and through a door, which opened to a huge kitchen.

He pointed toward a pot on the stove. I approached it and lifted the lid, replaceing a creamy orange-colored soup. “What is it?”

“How would I know?” Savio drawled, sinking down on a chair at the kitchen table. “Probably something without meat. Kiara is vegetarian.”

I frowned, trying to decipher the emotion in his voice. I thought I detected a hint of protectiveness when he said her name. Turning on the stove, I took a whiff. “Pumpkin soup,” I said.

Savio shrugged. “I’m having a bowl as well.”

I stared at the arrogant bastard. Did he think I’d fix him lunch? “Why don’t you haul your lazy ass off the chair and get your own bowl?”

He did haul his ass off the chair and advanced on me. He braced himself against the stove on either side of my waist, cornering me. “I’m not Remo,” he said quietly, “but I’m a Falcone, and I love bloodshed. You better watch your tongue.”

I didn’t say anything. Savio was scary in his own way. The soup started bubbling behind my back, and Savio finally withdrew, turning around. I opened a drawer to look for a ladle when a plan took form. Remo was upstairs, showering. I hadn’t seen Nino anywhere, only Adamo was in the living room, and potentially a workman, who, knowing Vegas, wouldn’t come to my help. It was the best opportunity I’ve had so far.

I gripped the heavy pot by its handles and swung back to gain momentum, but before I could release my hold, Savio whirled around. I catapulted the pot with the boiling soup at him. In an impressive show of reflexes, he lunged to the side, avoiding the pot and most of its contents. Splatters of yellow soup covered him from head to toe. I took my chance and tried to rush past him. His hand shot out, clamping down on my wrist, and he shoved me away with an infuriating air of arrogance. Spinning myself around, my hipbones collided with the edge of the table. I fell forward, my elbows hitting the hardwood, my butt jutting out in an undignified way.

“I like your ass from that vantage point,” Savio commented.

“As long as you like it from a distance,” Remo warned.

I whirled around.

Standing in the open door, Remo took in the mess on the floor and on his brother. “What the fuck happened here?”

Savio grimaced at his shirt then scowled at me. “That bitch tried to boil me alive.”

I straightened, trying to hide my fear of what my punishment would be for the attack, but then Remo laughed, a low rumble that raised goose bumps on my skin.

“I’m glad you replace it funny,” Savio muttered. “I’m done. Next time you’re busy, do me a favor and ask Nino to watch her.” He stalked out without another glance.

“Clean that up,” Remo ordered with a nod toward the floor, the amusement gone from his voice.

I remained where I was.

Remo walked around the lake of orange on the floor and stopped right in front of me, forcing me to tilt my head back. He cupped my chin. “Let me give you a piece of advice, Angel. Choose your battles wisely,” he murmured threateningly. “And now you will clean the floor. I don’t give a fuck if your highborn hands aren’t supposed to get dirty.”

I lowered my eyes from the harshness of his gaze but tried to mask it as me drawing back from his touch. “Where’s a mop?”

Remo turned and headed for the door. “I’ll be back in exactly two minutes and you won’t move a fucking inch, understood?”

I pressed my lips together, a small act of defiance—if it could even be considered that—because Remo knew I’d obey. Very few people would have dared to defy Remo in that moment. I hoped one day to be among them.

REMO

I headed for the utility cupboard. Savio leaned against the bar, nursing a drink and his bruised ego. “Next time you should pay more attention.”

He glared. “I think from the two of us, you have more reason to worry. She’s yours, not mine. Wait till she tries to boil your dick.”

“I can control Serafina. Don’t worry.” I took a mop and a bucket out of the closet before I returned into the kitchen. Serafina stood at exactly the same spot, frowning down at the floor.

She kept surprising me. The photos I’d seen of her on the internet and the accompanying articles had suggested she was an ice princess. Cold, prideful, fragile. As easy to crush as fresh snow, but Serafina was like eternal ice. Breaking her with force was difficult, not impossible, because I knew how to break, but that would have been the wrong approach. Even eternal ice yielded to heat.

I handed her the bucket and the mop, which she both took without protest. She avoided my eyes as she set out to fill the bucket with water and put it down on the ground. It became apparent pretty quickly that Serafina had never wielded a mop in her life. She used too much water, flooding the floor.

Leaning against the counter, I watched her in silence. She should have taken a rag, gotten down on her knees, and cleaned the floor properly, but I knew her pride would stop her from kneeling in my presence. Proud and strong and painstakingly beautiful, even sweaty and covered with soup.

The floor was still smeared with soup when she finally gave up. “The mop’s not working properly.”

“It’s not the mop’s fault. Trust me.”

“I wasn’t raised to clean floors,” she snapped, wayward strands of hair clinging to her cheeks and forehead.

“No, you were raised to warm a man’s bed and spread your legs for him.”

Her eyes widened, anger twisting her perfect features. “I was raised to take care of a family, to be a good mother and wife.”

“You can’t cook, can’t clean, and probably have never changed a diaper in your life. Being a good mother doesn’t seem to be in your future.”

She shoved the mop away so it clattered to the floor and moved closer then jerked to a halt halfway. “What do you know about being a good mother? Or a decent human being?”

My chest constricted briefly, but I pushed through it. “I know how to change a diaper for one, and I provided my brothers with protection when they needed it. That’s more than you can say for yourself.”

She frowned. “When did you change a diaper?”

“When Adamo was an infant, I was already ten,” I said. It was more than I had wanted to reveal in the first place. My past wasn’t Serafina’s business. “Now come. I doubt you can do better than this. The cleaning staff is coming in the morning anyway.”

“You let me clean this even though you have people for it?”

“Your pride will be your downfall,” I said.

“And your fury will be yours.”

“Then we’ll fall together. Isn’t that the beginning of every tragic love story?” My mouth twisted at the word. What a waste of energy. Our mother had loved our father. She’d hated him too, but her love had stopped her from doing what was necessary. She’d let our father beat and rape her, had let him beat us because it meant he wouldn’t lay a hand on her. She never stood up to him. She cowered and worse … turned his anger toward us to protect herself. Her one act of fucking defiance was to punish our father by killing his sons. She tried to pay him back by killing her own flesh and blood because she was too fucking weak to retaliate in any other way. In a house full of weapons, she couldn’t replace the courage to ram a blade into our father’s back like she should have done the first time he laid a hand on her. She chose the easy way.

“We won’t have a love story. Not a tragic one, not a sad one, and definitely not a happy one. You can have my hatred,” Serafina said fiercely.

“I’ll take it,” I murmured. “Hatred is so much stronger than love.”

Nino joined me on the terrace in the evening. “Savio told me what happened.”

“She’s strong-willed.”

“She’s trouble,” he corrected. “Keeping her under this roof poses a considerable risk.”

I gave him a wry smile. “Don’t tell me you are scared of a girl.”

Nino’s expression didn’t change. “Fortunately, fear isn’t among the emotions I’ve unlocked.”

“Then keep it that way,” I said. Fear was as useless as love—and even more crippling.

“I’m concerned about Adamo. His initiation is in two days. Keeping Serafina as a captive in the mansion might increase his reluctance to take the oath.”

I turned to him. “You think he’ll refuse the tattoo?”

Nino sighed. “I don’t know. He’s slipping away. I can’t get him to talk to me anymore. Kiara is the only one he spends time with.”

“Adamo is rebelling, but he’s still a Falcone. Should I push him more?”

Nino shook his head. “I think that would make him pull away further. We have to hope that he comes around eventually.”

“The initiation is in front of our underbosses and captains. If he refuses …” I trailed off.

Nino nodded because he understood. Adamo refusing the tattoo would be shameful, a betrayal. There was only one punishment for refusing the tattoo: death.

“I suppose it wouldn’t be the first time we’d have to kill a considerable number of Camorrista,” I said.

“These men are loyal. It would be unfortunate to dispose of them, and we’d be faced with too many opponents at once.”

“It won’t come to that.”

Nino nodded again and stood quietly beside me. “Have you given Serafina something for the pain?”

“Pain?” I echoed.

“Her wound might sting.”

“It’s a shallow cut. It can’t possibly cause her more than slight discomfort.”

Nino shook his head. “That’s what I thought when I treated Kiara’s wound, but she was surprisingly sensitive to pain. And Serafina won’t be any different. Maybe worse. It’s probably the first cut she’s suffered, probably the first act of violence at all, Remo. She’ll feel pain more profoundly than you and I do.”

I considered his words and realized he was probably right. From what I’d gathered, Serafina had probably never even been hit by her parents. The first act of violence … I didn’t dwell on those thoughts. “Do we have anything for pain?”

“I have Tylenol in my room. I can bring it to her after dinner. Kiara is cooking her cheese lasagna again.”

“No, I will give it to her when I bring her a slice of the lasagna.”

“Okay,” Nino murmured, regarding me carefully.

“What?” I snarled, his silent judgment grating on my nerves.

“Originally the plan was to keep Serafina in the Sugar Trap.”

“Originally I didn’t know what kind of woman she was. And she is safer here. I don’t want anyone to get their hands on her. It would ruin my plans.”

“I’ll get the Tylenol,” Nino said, turning around and leaving me standing there.

I went inside and made my way into the kitchen, which smelled of herbs and something spicier. Kiara glanced up from the chopping board. She was slicing tomatoes and throwing them in a bowl with lettuce.

“No one’s eating salad around here,” I told her as I strode toward her. The tensing of her body was barely noticeable anymore.

“I’m eating it, and Nino will too, and maybe Serafina prefers to stay healthy as well,” Kiara said. I stopped beside her and glanced into the oven where a big pan was bubbling over with cheese.

“Serafina has more pressing problems.”

Kiara’s eyes shot up, and I gripped her hand before she could chop her fingers off. “Nino needs to show you how to hold a knife properly,” I demanded then released her.

She put down the knife. “When will you send her back?”

I stared down at her.

She pushed a strand behind her ear, looking away. Kiara was still quick to submit. “You will send her back, right?”

Nino came in with the Tylenol, glancing between his wife and me. He frowned but didn’t comment.

“When’s the lasagna done?” I asked.

“It should be ready now.” She gripped the handle, and I stepped back so she could open the oven. She nodded. “Perfect.”

Nino took oven mitts and gently pushed his wife to the side. “Let me.”

He set the bubbling pan onto the stove, and Kiara smiled at him, touching his arm. “Thank you.”

His expression softened, and I still couldn’t wrap my mind around it. My brother loved—or whatever he was capable of—Kiara. Taking the Tylenol from his pocket, he handed it to me. “Give me a piece of lasagna for Serafina.”

Kiara pursed her lips but did as she was told. “Why can’t she have dinner with us?”

“She’s a captive,” Savio muttered as he came in. He was still pissed because of the soup incident.

“She can be a captive and eat dinner with us, don’t you think?” She looked up to Nino for help. He touched her waist and a look passed between them I couldn’t read.

Sick of their silent exchanges, I left with the lasagna and the Tylenol. When I stepped into the bedroom, Serafina was sitting on the windowsill, her arms wrapped around her legs. I wondered what kind of clothes she’d worn in Minneapolis. I couldn’t imagine she’d opted for floor-length dresses like Kiara. Serafina didn’t turn my way when I stepped in, not even when I crossed the room and set the plate down on her nightstand.

“Tell Kiara I’m sorry I wasted her soup.”

“Are you sorry?” I asked as I stopped in front of her. Her blue eyes were still firmly focused on the window.

“I’m sorry for wasting it, not for throwing it at your brother. I’m sorry I missed, though. You can tell him that.”

I stifled a smile and regarded her closely, her elegantly curved mouth, her immaculate skin. My eyes lowered to her forearm. She held her arm at an awkward angle so it wasn’t pressed up against her leg. I held out the Tylenol. “For the pain.”

Her gaze fell to my palm. Then she looked up. I could tell she considered refusing, but again she surprised me by taking the pills, her fingertips brushing the scars on my palm. Her blond brows furrowed.

“Those are burn marks, aren’t they?”

I withdrew my hand and curled it into a fist at my side. “Eat. I have plans for you tomorrow.” I turned on my heel before I walked out and locked her door.