Page 4 of The Mafioso's Virgin
She tucks her body tighter, and goes completely still—eyes down, breath shallow, braced for whatever's coming.
I realize she thinks I'm either one of her captors or a buyer. And she's preparing toendureme.
I feel…uncomfortable.
What the fuck?
Uncomfortableis not in my repertoire. Not until now.
Mattia attempts to enter the pen, but I stop him. “I got this.”
But do I? Something is happening to me that I don’t have a name for.
I look at her curled on filthy concrete in a torn ballgown, hair matted, skin bruised, and a thought slams into me—mine toprotect; mine to keep; mine to care for.
Hollow-eyed and trembling andmine. I have never once in my life had thoughts like it about any living soul.
I don’t know her. I don't know how her voice sounds. I don't know whether she prefers tea or coffee or any of the ten thousand things I’d suddenly, insanely love to spend the rest of my life learning.
Then I remind myself of my strategy:recover, repair, return.
Return.
I crouch slowly, both hands where she can see them. Her eyes come up and meet mine for less than a second before dropping again.
"You're safe. No one will hurt you.”
One eye finds me through the gold curtain of dirty hair. Even filthy and half-starved on the concrete floor of a cage, she is so beautiful it hurts, and I hate myself for noticing.
"Okay," she whispers, but she doesn't raise her eyes to mine again. She doesn’t believe me. She thinks it’s a cruel trick. "Thank you."
Thank you.Ten days in a holding cell, and this girl thanks me.
"Can you stand?"
She doesn't answer, but feebly attempts to get to her feet.
Slowly, so as not to scare her, I reach out my hand to help.
I can see the hesitation in her face, but before she has a chance to come to a decision, her eyes roll back in her head and her knees give out.
I catch her, cradling her to my chest.
She weighs almost nothing, and that fact alone makes me want to revive her captors and kill them again—slower this time.
Outside, Mattia offers to take her from me, and I hear myself growl—actually growl. I’d sooner take a bullet to the abdomen than hand her over.
Nobody else touches her.
She remains unconscious as I carry her to the car. Holding her on my lap, I maneuver us into the back seat and instruct Luca to drive.
"Northwestern Hospital has a private wing standing by," he says.
"My home."
A long pause. He doesn’t speak, but his eyebrow climbs a full centimeter, which says volumes.
The plan I walked in with—patch her up, hand her back, keep peace with the Bratva—is still in the forefront of my mind. It’s the best course of action.
