Page 73 of Trapped

SANTINO

The Romanovs had found us.

Costa soldiers stationed at the villa informed me that several men had been spotted in the village. I had no intention of letting them get any closer. The villa was a place of refuge for Delilah, and I would not allow it to be tainted by violence. We packed into a car and headed straight for the cafe I’d just left with Delilah.

I spotted them as soon as we arrived—five Russians seated casually. We exited the car, not bothering to conceal our weapons.

Locals scattered as we approached. The men glanced at us, their expressions shifting. Then, the first shot rang out, a deafening crack. A woman screamed.

I raised my gun. Fired. The first Russian went down, the bullet zipping through his skull, his blood splattering the pavement. The cafe erupted into chaos. Patrons scrambled for cover, tables overturning in the frenzy.

One of the Russians, a kid in a badly fitted suit, tried to draw his weapon. I slammed the butt of my gun into his face. He staggered back, blood gushing from his broken nose. I followed up with a swift kick to his knee, bringing him to the ground.

I aimed a gun at his head. Another shot rang out, grazing my side. Pain flared, but I pushed it aside, focusing on the fight.

My men moved in, relentless and efficient. Two Russians bolted, trying to escape into the village. I gestured after them, clutching my bleeding side. Marco and the others chased them down. I turned my attention back to the kid, who couldn’t have been more than nineteen. I didn’t give a fuck.

He was a threat to the woman I’d sworn to protect. I did not see anything else. My fists pounded into his face and ribs. He cried out. Blood coated my knuckles, and still, I didn’t stop. He deserved to suffer.

My men caught up with the fleeing Russians. They didn’t grant them the mercy of a quick death. They beat them to death. Bones cracked. Flesh tore. Grown men screamed for their mom.

One of them fought back, but Marco grabbed him by the hair, smashing his head into the cobblestone until he stopped moving. Another of my soldiers kicked a man in the gut, sending him sprawling before stomping on his chest repeatedly, each impact driving the breath from his lungs.

Beneath me, the kid lay on the ground, barely conscious, blood pooling around him. I stood over him, breathing hard, my knuckles stinging, and raised my gun. His eyes widened, and I pulled the trigger. The gunshot echoed through the street.

My side throbbed. I pressed my hand against the wound, the blood warm and slick under my fingers. Delilah couldn’t see melike this, not after I’d tried to show her there was more to me than just the violence. How many people had we killed?

Five? Seven?

“Marco,” I called out.

He rushed over, concern etched on his face. “Sei ferito.”

“Just a scratch. Make sure the area is secure.”

He nodded, but his eyes lingered on my wound. “Dobbiamo farti medicare, capo.”

“Get the doctor. Tell him to meet me outside the house.”

The drive back to the villa was a blur of pain and adrenaline. Delilah had enough on her plate without adding my injuries to it. But when we reached the courtyard, she was there, waiting.

“Oh my God. What the hell happened?”

She gasped as I exited the car, and I glanced down. Blood had soaked through my shirt. I straightened, pain slicing into me. “It looks a lot worse than it is.”

She dragged me to the lounge chair outside. A servant brought a bowl of water, bandages, and a needle and thread. They’d probably stocked up before I flew into town.

Delilah’s mouth thinned as she ripped my shirt, studying the gash on my side. “Looks like you got grazed. You lucky idiot.”

I smiled. She could call me every name in the book. Watching her work, focused and capable, stirred something in me. She had a way about her that demanded attention. Her hair fell in waves, framing her face like a Renaissance painting.

“You’re a natural at this,” I muttered.

She looked up. “Grew up in a household where you learned to patch up or shut up. No room for the squeamish.”

Her matter-of-fact tone cut through the air. I grunted from the sting of the needle. We weren’t so different, her and I—both forged in chaos.

“I like that about you,” I said, watching her carefully thread the needle. “You’re not some damsel. You’ve got grit.”