His Fight (Mafia Made Book 4) Read online

  And we failed.

  Chapter 2

  Santi

  “One.” Inhale. “Two.” Exhale. “Three.” Breathe. The nightmares, they haunt me. Over a year ago, Hendrix and I were sent home because we couldn’t focus. Every time we closed our eyes, we saw theirs. Heard the rattled breaths of two dying boys, and we’ve never been the same. We spent a lot of time in counseling, and despite my discharge, we were hailed as heroes for saving the women and babies that were defenseless.

  Having a pin propped on our chests didn’t absolve either of us of our sins. Forgiveness wasn’t what we were after when we returned to the village as citizens with supplies. Still, they treated us like royalty. We didn’t deserve it.

  Wiping a hand down my face, my neck is stiff as I sit up and chug the rest of the warm water in my bottle. The sun has begun to rise, and I know I need to get up and out of the house after my returning nightmare. Otherwise, I’ll live inside my head and make myself miserable.

  Pulling my phone from my pocket as I walk to the bathroom, I notice an alert from the alarm system about movement at the front entrance. Staring at the door, I pull up the feed on the app and see an unfamiliar car parked in the driveway. I can’t tell if there’s anyone in it or not.

  Shoving the device in my pocket, I take a piss and wash my hands before rinsing my mouth with Listerine and spitting it into the sink. Striding to the office, I unlock the safe and retrieve one of the Glocks before returning to the front door. Unlocking it and opening the heavy wood quietly, I stay close to the wall as I make my way down to the open driveway and observe the old car with tinted windows.

  Suspicious, I feel my way around the vehicle for any unexpected movement until I’ve gone completely around, and once I’m at the driver’s side, I tap not so lightly on the glass. Stepping back, I wait for whoever is inside to open the door. I count to thirty before hitting it again, harder.

  A feminine scream startles me, and when the car rocks, I know she’s going for the passenger’s side, so I follow. As the woman falls out the door, I wait for her to get to her feet before shouting, “Stop! Don’t make a fucking move,” and circling around her so we’re facing each other.

  Of course, she’s fucking stunning. Strawberry blonde hair hiding her face. Short, maybe five foot four, and as the breeze picks up, I get a waft of her scent. Lilacs. Freshly bloomed.

  “Who the fuck are you?” With her hands in the air, her baggy sweater camouflages her body but not the way her entire frame is vibrating with fear.

  Of me.

  “I…I…I’m sorry. I was told to come here.” Her voice is husky, like she smokes a pack a day.

  “Look at me,” I demand, and when I get a good look at her face, I see it’s because someone fucking choked her. Beat the shit out of her, actually. “What’s your name?” Lowering my gun to my side but not letting my guard down, I await her answer.

  Her cobalt gaze meets mine, and what I see, the emotion reflecting at me, I’ve come across before. In soldiers, prior to doing something stupid and getting themselves killed. She’s at her rope’s end. Knocking on death’s door and waiting for the reaper to take her away.

  “Amalia Russo.” Soft, sexy, subtle. It suits her. “I’m looking for Maso or Donato Cardarelli.” She doesn’t lower her hands, and the shaking intensifies.

  Tilting my head to the side, I pull out my phone and call Maso. “Bored already?” he asks on the first ring.

  “You or Don expecting trouble?” Pretty as she is, the girl has problem written all over her.

  “Trouble?” he laughs. “No. We would have told you. Why, what’s going on?” Joviality gets put to the side; concern is in his tone now.

  “Either of you know an Amalia Russo?” My eyes flick up and down her body, and her gaze shifts away. “Pretty, strawberry blonde hair, short, beat to shit.” She cringes at my description of her.

  “Nope. She know us?”

  “Says she’s looking for you or Don.” If one of these two fucked her and forgot about it, I’m going to be pissed.

  “Who sent her?” Don asks.

  “Who sent you?” I ask, and as she swallows, I see it’s a struggle. She’s hurting in a bad way.

  “My uncle, Tomaso Romano. He said they could help. Please?” Her voice cracks. “I need help.”

  “Shit.” Maso knows the man, obviously. “Take care of her. If Tom sent her and she’s who I think she is, we owe him. The girl stays alive at all costs, Santi. You hear me?”

  “Yeah, I got you.” Hanging up, I shove the phone into my pocket and put the safety back on my gun before stashing it in the back of my jeans. “Put your hands down,” I say to her, and she hesitates. “You got a bag?”

  “In the back seat.” She points.

  Hitting the unlock button on the passenger door, I open it and grab the small duffle bag from the rear. “This it?” She nods. “Let’s go inside.” Placing a hand on her lower back, she flinches like I’ve struck her, and I feel my rage bubbling to the surface for whoever has done this to such a delicate creature.

  Amalia

  I have to lock my jaw to keep my teeth from chattering as the stranger leads me inside with a hand on my back. I understand that not every man is out to hurt me, but he’s big. Twice the size of Bartolo, so I know he could inflict even more damage should he want to.

  After being startled awake from my nightmares and a restless night of shivering in my car, I’m beyond exhausted. Driving all day and worrying about what could happen once Bart finds me will do that. Because I know he will, eventually. And when that time comes, I’ll have no choice over life and death anymore. If he doesn’t kill me, I might kill myself because I can’t live that life anymore.

  “So, Amalia.” The man’s voice is rough, like he barks out orders for a living. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”

  Ordinarily, it’s not in me to deny a man anything thanks to my abuser. He broke the wiring in my brain so that I feel compelled to obey any man I come across. I hate him for that. I hate myself for it too.

  “Could I use your restroom, please?” I ask him instead. If he pushes for more, I won’t be able to hold back, but I can put him off to try and compose myself.

  “Down the hall, second door on the right.” He points as we enter the stately house. When I pulled up in the early hours of the morning, I called Tomaso and told him I was here. He tried to convince me to knock, that someone would answer, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t bring myself to risk the wrath of another man because I woke him up.

  Entering the cozy powder room, there’s a shelf, toilet, and sink. Modern and clean like the other rooms I quickly glanced at while passing them. My hand moves to close the door behind me, but I’m not allowed to at home, so as soon as I touch the handle, I can feel the remembrance of a slap or shove.

  Tears stream down my face as I quickly pee. I hate this woman I am. Fearful of closing the door in a stranger’s home. I should be able to do something so simple, to allow myself a moment of privacy, but I can’t. Bart trained me in such a way that there are so many things I’m unable to do.

  Standing, I wait to flush until I turn the sink on to wash my hands. Not that it matters, I’m sure he knows what I’m doing. It’s hard to be discreet when the door is open. Splashing cold water on my face, I then look under the sink for cleaner and begin scrubbing the bathroom, top to bottom. It’s a habit I don’t realize I’m performing until I hear him.

  “What the hell are you doing?” The man’s voice startles me from my perch on the floor as I scrub behind the toilet.

  “N–nothing,” I stutter as I try to stand, but the terror is paralyzing, and I can’t get my feet under me.

  “Yeah, you were cleaning. Why? It was clean when I was in here fifteen minutes ago, and I’m relatively sure even a mess like you can’t dirty something up that quickly.” His words are harsh, and I don’t know why, but they hurt worse than any censure from Bart. Unsure how to answer him, I remain silent. Hoping he lets it go. “Well? Why were you cleaning?”

  Shivering now, I don’t even know if I’m cold. “I’ve always cleaned after using the restroom.” Biting my tongue, I leave out the why. If I can just give him the least amount of information, I might make it through this.

  “Every time?” he asks, clearly perplexed. I nod. “You don’t have to here. We pay for people to do that. Quite handsomely too. They might not like someone doing their job.”

  I can feel what little color I have drain, and I grow lightheaded. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it. I should go.” Standing too fast, I grow dizzy, and my legs buckle. Before I crash to the tile floor, this man catches me, scooping me up in his arms and carrying me out of the room. Everything inside me aches as he moves quickly to the kitchen, setting me on a chair at the table.

  “You need to eat.” He doesn’t wait for me to answer before he shuffles around the kitchen, lifting lids and collecting items on a plate before placing it in front of me. “Esme overdoes it, so there is plenty of food around.”

  Sitting beside me in another chair, he waits for me to pick something. His intense interest has me fumbling for words. “I can’t eat this.” The pastries look delicious, but they’re filled with sugars and unhealthy carbs that I’m not allowed to have.

  “Are you diabetic?” Concern laces his tone, and I just know I’m about to disappoint him with my answer.

  “No.” I don’t offer more.

  “Then why not?” His eyes narrow on me.

  Digging my nails into the palms of my hands, I force the words past my lips. “I’m not allowed to.” I can feel my chin begin to wobble as my throat clogs and breathing becomes a struggle. The worst of it all is that I’ve grown so used to hiding my pain that he has no idea I’m unable to catch my breath as he pulls out his phone.

  My ears begin to ring as he speaks to someone, but I don’t hear the words. Bartolo choked me during his lovemaking, and I know there’s damage to my throat because of it. Closing my eyes, I try to calm myself down by opening and closing my fists, digging my nails into my palms until I feel the skin begin to break. When that doesn’t work, I slip a hand down the waist of my pants and dig at the largest cut on my thigh until I’m forced to gasp so my throat opens enough that I can catch a lungful of air.

  “What the fuck!” he shouts, dropping to his knees as he places his phone on the table in front of me. Staring down at what he sees, I’ve noticed I pulled my pants down rather than slipping a hand down to my thigh, and he catches the worst of it.

  The old scars, the new puckered pink ones, the fresh slices spelling out his name, with bright blood dripping down to the floor. I hadn’t paid attention to what Bart did to my thigh the other night, I only suffered through it. But now, it’s here in my face, and I feel sick.

  He branded me.

  “No,” I gasp, horrified that I’ll have his name on me. Darting up from my seat, the stranger falls backwards as I rush to the knife rack I notice against the wall next to the opulent stove and grab the largest one I can. Dropping to the floor, I start cutting at my thigh. I’m so entranced by the need to get Bart’s name off me that I don’t realize the man I sought help from is at my side until he rips the knife from my hand.

  Santi

  Death.

  Her eyes are filled with it. She’s suffering a living death, and the cause is the name on her thigh. Wild-eyed, she stares up at me as I toss the knife across the room and grab the towel off the hook by the stove to stop the bleeding from the damage she’s caused herself.

  “What the fuck are you thinking?” I shout at her, but I don’t think she comprehends anything I’m saying. Amalia is lost in her personal hell, and frankly, I’m not sure I can bring her out of it. “Come on, freckles, focus on me. Focus on my voice.” It’s only because of the paling in her face that I see the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose and under each eye.

  “Please,” she begs with tears in her eyes. “Please get him off me.” Christ. I almost think about it. I almost destroy her silky flesh because denying any plea coming from her pale pink lips is beyond me.

  “I can’t do that. I won’t scar you like he did.” I have no fucking clue who he is, but I’m damn well going to find out and ensure he regrets ever laying one finger on this delicate angel’s flesh.

  Picking Amalia up in my arms, with the cloth still pressed to her leg, I carry her out to the den and lay her on the couch before dashing back into the kitchen to grab my phone off the table where I tossed it when I saw what she was doing. Dialing Maso, I bite out, “I need every fucking detail, and I need it yesterday,” before he can properly answer.

  “Whoa, Santi, what the hell is happening?” If he were in front of me right now, I know Maso would be standing at attention, listening intently.

  “Whoever she’s running from carved his fucking name into her thigh, and she just tried to slice it off herself. Call this uncle of hers and get me everything you have because I’m going to slit someone’s throat.” The menacing growl leaves no room for argument as I hang up. Calling a doctor from town, I promise a hefty sum if he comes to the house to sew her up.

  Amalia’s gaze is glassy and unfocused as she stares at her leg. I don’t blame her; I’d probably do the same thing if our positions were reversed. She’s far too beautiful to be beaten up so brutally, and it kills me that this is how we’ve met.

  “Where’s your parents?” I ask her, trying to distract her.

  “They died.” Her voice is soft. “Everybody dies. All the time. Maybe I should die too.” The off-the-cuff comment shocks me for a moment.

  “What the fuck did he do to you?” I don’t expect an answer because I already know. I’ve seen it all too often over the years. A man finds a woman to exploit and breaks her down until she’s too scared to leave or kills herself, then starts the cycle all over again. This asshole isn’t going to get another chance.

  Lifting the cloth off her leg, the bleeding has slowed down, and I realize before I hear the doorbell ring that the doctor is going to tell us to go to the hospital because her thigh looks like a cheese grater went at it a few dozen times. Watching as her eyes drift shut, I almost miss her soft whisper, “Please don’t let him take me again.”

  It’s then I vow to be the wall between her and the rest of the world until the day I die.

  Chapter 3

  Santi

  It’s been twenty-four hours since Amalia showed up, and for the most part, she’s been out cold. The doctor came yesterday and patched up her leg, and after her refusal to go to the hospital, he gave her a sedative. It should have worn off about ten hours ago, but her frame is so slight, and after undressing her, I could see how malnourished the young woman is, so I’m not surprised she isn’t awake yet.

  I’ve been sitting in a chair in the corner of my room, watching her ever since. Esme pops in with food and drinks every so often, and I can see the questions simmering in her eyes. I have no answers to give her, though. Not yet.

  Maso put me in touch with her uncle, and the man, for all his love for this girl, wasn’t able to give me much on Bartolo Parisi. Their relationship was abusive from the start, and Tom hadn’t seen or spoken to Amalia in over a year. He cried while telling me that the girl he instructed to come to my family for help was nothing more than a shell of the vibrant young person he watched grow up and help raise after her deadbeat parents died.

  The older man begged me to keep her alive. To save her not only from Parisi but from herself because he has no doubt that if given the chance, she will choose to kill herself over going back to the man who beat her down. After yesterday, I’m inclined to believe him.

  My research on Bart shows that he’s a lawyer for a prestigious firm in Florence. Both of his parents are alive and well in the same city. No arrest record or anything else to indicate he’s a monster, but I’m willing to bet there are skeletons in his closet that I have yet to uncover. I will, though. I will do anything to ensure he stays far away from Amalia.

  From the second our eyes connected outside, I felt an indescribable draw to the younger woman. At twenty years old, she’s lived a hundred lives. I’m not convinced I’m what she needs, not with my own demons to battle and hers so close in the rearview, but I’ll be damned if I’m able to let her go.

  Rustling on the bed draws my attention, and a split second later, she’s jolting upright. Her eyes are wild and her body tense, ready to run at a moment’s notice.

  “Amalia.” I say her name softly, leaning forward in my chair. Fifteen feet separate us, and I see the fear vibrating her entire frame. “Do you remember coming here?”

  She blinks a few times before her gorgeous eyes focus on me. The only change in her is her gaze. They darken with renewed fear, and I curse under my breath.

  “My name is Santi Cardarelli; Tomaso sent you here. For help.” The doctor said she would wake up disoriented and confused and to give little bits of information at a time.

  “Uncle Tom,” she whispers, her voice cracking.

  Standing up, I don’t miss the way she tenses again and shifts back on the bed. “Just grabbing some water.” I lift the bottle and give it a shake before opening the cap.

  Slowly, I move closer to her. Sitting on the side of the bed, I allow her enough space to get up and run if she needs to. I won’t chase her, but I will follow after her. Holding out the bottle, she stares but makes no move to reach for it.

  “You haven’t had anything to eat or drink in at least twenty-four hours. Your body needs this,” I explain. Licking her lips, I see she wants it, which is why I’m confused as to why she won’t take it. “Do you need help?” Tears shine bright as she flicks a quick glance up at me.

  It hits me like a ton of bricks. She’s worried it’s poisoned or drugged. Bringing the bottle to my mouth, I take a long swig, emptying nearly half the contents so she can see I’m not pulling the wool over her eyes.