God Of Vengeance (Kings Of Mafia)

With Damiano home, I’ve spent the entire day in my bedroom making a skincare tutorial.

Things were tense at breakfast, so I skipped lunch. When Martha came to check on me, I told her I was working and not to worry about me.

Knowing I can’t miss dinner, I check my appearance in the mirror. I’m wearing a short, black cocktail dress with a low-halter top.

“You can survive dinner with Damiano,” I whisper before I leave my room.

I walk down the hallway, and as I come around a bend, my eyes land on Damiano, who’s coming from the other wing. I slow my pace so he’ll head down the stairs before me.

His eyes only touch on me for a split second, and he doesn’t say anything.

I haven’t interacted much with him, but it’s clear he’s a man of few words.

I follow him down the stairs, my gaze drifting over his broad shoulders before locking on his gun.

Even at home, where we’re surrounded by an army of his men, he’s armed.

When I take the last step, my left heel gives way, and not thinking, I reach out to catch myself. My palm slams into the gun at Damiano’s back, and instantly, the blood drains from my face.

Shit.

Damiano spins around, and as I suck in a breath to gasp, his fingers wrap brutally around my throat, and I’m twisted around before he slams me down onto the tiles.

Pain shudders through my hips and shoulder blades. The air explodes from my lungs, and the next second, the barrel of his gun is pressed against my forehead.

ShitShitShit.

Fear fills every inch of my body as I choke the words past his painful grip on my throat, “It was … an … accident.”

Crouched over me, his features are carved from granite, his eyes twin pools of danger.

My heart thunders in my chest as I stare up at him, and I make a strangled sound as I try to suck in a breath.

“It … was … an accident,” I gasp. “My heel … broke, and I …. tripped.”

He moves an inch, and not easing his hold on my throat, he glances at my broken shoe. Seemingly satisfied with my explanation, he finally lets go of me and straightens to his full height.

Caro Dio.

I suck in desperate breaths of air as I quickly climb to my feet. Only when my eyes land on Damiano, who’s already walking away from me while tucking his gun back into the waistband of his chinos, does anger begin to swirl in my chest.

The asshole. He just slammed me against the tiles and almost choked the hell out of me, and he can’t be bothered to say a single word?

I rip the broken shoe off my foot and almost throw it at his back, but luckily, I catch myself in the nick of time.

Scowling at his retreating back, I slam my hand against the button on the wall to call the elevator. When the doors open, I step into the small space before glaring at the stupid shoe that almost got me killed.

My shoulders and hips still hurt, and I lift a trembling hand to my throat.

He didn’t need to overreact like that.

Dio, like I’d try to kill him? I’m not stupid, and I certainly don’t have a death wish.

Heading to my bedroom, I quickly change my shoes before rushing to the dining room.

I don’t even look in Damiano’s direction and offer Mrs. Accardi a forced smile as I take a seat next to Carlo.

Just get through dinner with your head held high.

From years of abuse, I’ve become a master at hiding my true feelings. I refuse to let people see my vulnerable side because I know they’ll use it against me.

Reaching for my glass of water, I take a sip.

As I set the glass down, Mrs. Accardi’s eyes lock on my neck. “Where did the bruises come from?”

“Bruises?” Mrs. Falco asks, her features tightening.

I feel the air tense around the table and know if I glance at Damiano, he’ll probably give me a look of warning to keep my mouth shut.

My stubborn streak, that’s taken a rest the past week, flares to life, making my anger grow.

I’ve never hidden my bruises, and I refuse to lie on someone else’s behalf. It’s landed me in trouble on many occasions.

The time Santo beat me for daring to swim on a hot day flashes through my mind. His friends came over and saw me in a bathing suit.

My brother dislocated my jaw that day, and when our priest visited during a house call, I didn’t stay hidden as instructed.

Not that the priest did anything when he saw my bruised face. My little act of rebellion cost me two broken ribs and three days locked in my room without food.

Even though my smart mouth will probably earn me a beating, I can’t keep the words from spilling over my lips. “I tripped and accidentally touched Mr. Falco’s gun. He grabbed my neck and slammed me against the floor.”

Mrs. Falco gasps, her face growing horribly pale. She makes a similar strangled sound as I did when her son almost choked the hell out of me.

Damiano shoots to his feet, and grabbing hold of his mother’s shoulders, he crouches beside her chair.

His tone is surprisingly gentle as he says, “Breathe, Mamma.”

Her breaths speed up, and it’s clear she’s having a panic attack.

Shit.

“I’m sorry,” I say, feeling awful for not keeping my mouth shut. I didn’t mean for Mrs. Falco to have a panic attack.

“Get out!” Damiano shouts. “Everyone!”

I’m up and out of the chair in a split second. When I rush into the hallway, I hear Damiano lovingly murmur, “It’s okay, Mamma. I’m here. You’re safe. He can’t hurt you anymore.”

Mrs. Accardi places her hand on my arm, giving me a worried look. “Are you okay?”

“Not now, Ma,” Carlo mutters. “Gabriella, you should go to your room.”

Nodding, I hurry away as the realization that I caused Damiano’s mother to have a panic attack sinks like a rock to the pit of my stomach.

He’s going to kill me.

When I shut my bedroom door behind me, I wrap my arms around my middle and shake my head.

Dio. What have I done?

Feeling like a caged animal that’s about to be slaughtered, I start to pace up and down my room.

I shouldn’t have said anything.

With every passing minute, it feels like the walls are closing in on me.Material © of NôvelDrama.Org.

The growing tension becomes too much, and one after the other, the traumatic memories creep out of the shadows.

All the times my mother hit me.

The countless days I was locked in my room.

The endless hunger.

The day my father threw me over the balcony. He only tried to kill me that one time because, soon after, he brought Stefano home and announced our engagement.

My arms fall to my sides, and I stare at nothing as one memory after the other plays out in my mind.

By the time my bedroom door slams open, my breaths are rushing over my lips, and my body’s a trembling mess.

What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.

I expect Damiano to pull out his gun and shoot me, but instead, he stalks toward me.

Even though I’m scared shitless, I don’t move a muscle.

When his fingers, once again, wrap around my throat, and he shoves me back until I’m pressed up against a wall, a squeak escapes me. I grab hold of his wrist with my left hand while my right slams against his way too solid chest.

For an unnerving moment, Damiano’s eyes burn into mine.

Somehow, I manage to notice that his grip on my throat isn’t biting like before.

Anger pours from him in crushing waves, and I swallow hard when it becomes near impossible to hold his gaze.

His voice is a low rumble of thunder when he growls, “Don’t ever say anything like that in my mother’s presence again.”

Once more, I’m too brave for my own good, as I say, “I won’t lie for anyone, including you.”

His jaw clenches so hard that a muscle jumps near his temple, and I expect to hear his teeth grind against each other.

He hasn’t killed you yet. Don’t push him.

For years, I’ve had to fight for myself, and it takes one hell of a swing at my pride when I whisper, “I regret upsetting your mother.”

His grip loosens around my throat, and I’m surprised when his eyes lower to the bruises he left on me.

I feel his thumb brush over my skin, and it makes a surprised gasp escape my lips.

No man has touched me in a gentle way before.

My stomach starts to spin with nerves, not from fear but with a strange sense of anticipation. The scent of his cologne and manliness fills the air I breathe.

I remember how lovingly Damiano spoke to his mother, and he treats her like she’s precious to him.

What would it be like to have the protection of such a powerful man?

No one would be able to hurt me.

His eyes flick to where I’m still holding his wrist, and I quickly let go. My arms fall to my sides, and glad for the wall behind me, I lean my weight against it.

Dio, the romance books and Bridgerton are getting to me. Damiano Falco is not a man you fantasize about.

He takes a step away from me, and I can’t stop my gaze from sweeping over his muscled body.

When I read a steamy scene from one of the books, I felt a tightening sensation in my abdomen, and as I look at Damiano, the same sensation is back. Only, it’s a hell of a lot stronger.

He tilts his head slightly, his eyes narrowing on me.

Crap.

For a moment, I lower my head, and banishing the attraction I’m feeling, I suck in a fortifying breath. When I’m sure my face is expressionless, I lift my head and lock eyes with him again.

With his gaze still narrowed on me, he demands, “Tell me what you were thinking about before you lowered your head.”

He didn’t see it written all over my face?

When I don’t answer fast enough, his expression starts to darken.

Unable to lie, my cheeks go up in flames as I admit, “I just noticed how attractive you are.”

Surprise flickers over his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it came.

Turning away from me, he glances around the room. His gaze stops on my dressing table, the surface covered with my makeup products.

Not saying anything, he starts to walk to the door, but then my phone vibrates and lights up with notifications from my social media accounts.

He pauses, and my heart jumps to my throat when he picks up the device where it’s lying at the foot of my bed.

He unlocks the screen, then mutters, “No password?”

“No.”

I gather my courage and step closer so I can see what he’s doing with my phone.

Damiano checks my contact list and call history before entering my TikTok account.

I’m too anxious to get upset that he’s invading my privacy.

As my latest video plays on the screen, he says, “You haven’t called your family.”

“No.”

He looks at the video for a few seconds before handing the device to me.

When I take it from him, I clutch it to my chest.

He seems to hesitate, and when I give him a questioning look, he stalks away from me. The door shuts softly behind him, and I slump down on the edge of my bed.

With my lips parted, I stare at the closed door, wondering what just happened.

Damiano is known for showing no mercy. The horror stories I’ve heard braced me for death, but he didn’t even hurt me.

I let out a breath of relief, then the past ten minutes replays in my mind.

I’ve never felt attracted to a man before, and I blame the romance books for my temporary lapse in sanity.

Dio, why couldn’t I lie when he asked me what I was thinking?

My hand lifts to my neck, and I brush my fingers over the spot where his thumb lingered.

Getting up, I walk to the mirror, and when I see the red bruises, I shake my head.

Just because he didn’t hurt you again doesn’t mean he won’t punish you in the future.