neck, just a light peck against her skin. "When you want me to leave, just say so. I won't take it personal."
"Stay," she whispered, "for as long as you want."
She grasped his forearms, caressing them as she savored his warmth surrounding her. Almost right away, Dante's breathing settled, a soft snore escaping.
Out cold.
Chapter Twelve
The barrel of the gun viciously dug into Dante's side, twisting, tunneling into a stab wound through the gash in his filthy shirt. Dante ground his teeth together, his face twitching, a growl rumbling his chest. It felt like hot iron, like the muzzle was branding him. He wanted to scream, to curse, but he forced it down, refusing.
Refusing to react.
Refusing to give them the satisfaction.
"Tough guy, huh?" a voice said as the pain subsided, the gun pulled away, relief rushing through Dante. It didn't last long. In a matter of seconds, the gun was shoved beneath his chin, the blood-covered muzzle forcing his head up, forcing Dante to look at him.
Roberto Barsanti.
"This is a nice gun," Barsanti said, eyeing it as he gripped it, his finger on the trigger. The safety was off. It wouldn't take much for the guy to kill him—a simple twitch of a finger. "How many lives has it ended? Huh? Did you kill my son with it?"
Dante stared into his callous eyes. Desert Eagle Mk XIX, satin black, with a muzzle break installed. He'd had the gun for years, had pulled the trigger dozens of times, but he'd only ever taken one life. Enzo.
He didn't tell Barsanti that, though.
Didn't answer that question.
He could kill him if he wanted.
Wouldn't make a difference.
Barsanti snapped, shoving the gun so hard against him that it knocked the chair over, throwing it onto the ground, taking Dante with it. He cringed, smacking his head against the hard cement. He couldn't move, couldn't defend himself… couldn't protect himself. Duct tape surrounded him, wound tightly around his chest, pinning his arms at the sides of the old wooden chair. His feet were wrapped at the ankles, secured to the legs so he couldn't escape.
Barsanti's foot planted dead center of Dante's chest, knocking the air from his lungs and crushing his ribs, the bones cracking. He gasped, inhaling sharply. He couldn't fucking breathe. Barsanti stepped on him, damn near suffocating him, aiming the gun at his head.
"Did you?" he yelled, rage turning his face bright red. "Did you stand over him like this when you did it? Did my son look you in the eyes when you murdered him?"
Dante struggled against the weight on his chest, trying to stay conscious. He'd been beaten beyond black and blue. His vision was going hazy. He couldn't even answer if he wanted to.
"But this is what you did to Matteo, right? You stomped on him, knowing he couldn't fight back. Knowing he wouldn't. He was on the ground, defenseless, and you kicked him! So how does it feel, huh? How does it feel beneath my boot? I'm guessing it doesn't feel good."
Barsanti moved, and Dante inhaled sharply, desperate to take a deep breath. It was only a few seconds of satisfaction as the air seeped into his lungs before the steel-toed black boot came back at him, aimed right for his face. He saw it before it happened. He felt it before it really registered. A kick to the face sent Dante's vision fading, his ears ringing as Barsanti said, "You're not the only one who can kick people when they're down."
BAM
Dante's eyes shot open, his gaze fixed on a dim white ceiling above him. He inhaled, a peculiar scent greeting his nostrils, musky with a hint of sweet vanilla. Not the dank basement he expected to smell. He blinked a few times, trying to pull himself together, before taking in his surroundings.
Gabriella's bedroom.
Reality came back to him in a flood of memories, like the pages of a flipbook rushing by, the picture steadily moving. He sat up, running his hands down his face. Sweat drenched him. His muscles were stiff. Outside, the sun was setting.
He was alone. No Gabriella.
How long had he been asleep?
Climbing out of the small bed, he snatched up his clothes, pulling them on before grabbing his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. The screen glowed brightly: 8:20pm.
Shit.
A dozen or so missed calls showed up in his notifications. He barely paid them any attention, wiping them off the screen, not in the mood to talk to anybody. He hadn't been home in two days, maybe three…