The Raven (The Florentine #1)(3)

“Now we play.” The bald man, who was evidently the ringleader, smiled at Raven. He pulled the cane out of her hand, throwing it into the street.

Someone else grabbed her knapsack, ripping it from her shoulder.

“Give it back!” she shouted, lunging toward him.

With glee, the man threw her knapsack to one of his companions, over her head.

She made a move to retrieve it, but it was quickly thrown over her once again. The men played keep-away for several minutes, taunting and teasing while she begged them to return her bag. They could not have known this, but her passport and other important documents were in the knapsack.

She couldn’t run. Her disability prevented her. She knew if she went for her cane, they would only pick it up and possibly throw it into the Arno. She turned and began limping away from them, back toward the Ponte Vecchio.

One of the men tossed her knapsack aside. “Grab her,” he said.

Raven tried to move faster, but she was already limping as quickly as she could. The man followed, closing in on her in three steps.

Frightened, she glanced over her shoulder. At that moment, her toe caught on a crack in the road and she stumbled. Pain lanced through her hands and arms as she tried to break her fall.

The bald man approached and grabbed her by the hair. She cried out as he ripped the elastic from her ponytail. Her long black hair fell around her shoulders.

He pulled her to her feet, grabbing her hair and wrapping it around his hand.

She scanned the area, trying to find a way of escape or someone to help her, but within seconds he was dragging her across the street and into an alley. The alley was so narrow she could almost span it with arms outstretched.

She went limp, pitching forward intentionally.

With a curse, he released her.

Raven whimpered as she fell to her knees a second time, her hands scraped and bleeding. A stench filled her nostrils. Someone had used the alley as a toilet.

She coughed, trying not to be sick.

The bald man grabbed her elbow and dragged her farther into the alley.

“Get up,” he demanded.

She tried to pull away, but he had hold of her elbow. She twisted, rolling to her side and kicking wildly. He cursed and she scrambled away, trying to get to her unsteady feet.

Suddenly he loomed over her, grasping her arm and pulling her to face him. Without warning he punched her with a closed fist, breaking her glasses and her nose. Blood spurted, falling in great, fat droplets to the ground.

She howled in pain, tearing the broken glasses from her face. Tears sprang from her eyes as she covered her face with her hand, fighting to breathe through her mouth.

The man yanked her to her feet. He pulled her by the hair and swung her against the wall.

Raven saw stars, pain shooting from her forehead.

The world spun and began to slow as two of the men pushed her chest against the wall, pinning her arms out to her sides. The ringleader stood behind her, his hands lifting her shirt.

Roughly, his fingers climbed her naked skin until they closed over her bra. He squeezed her breasts, making a crude joke. His companions seemed to encourage him, but Raven was no longer able to understand the words they were saying.

She felt as if she were underwater. Her head pounded and she gasped for air, trying not to choke on the blood that dripped down her throat.

The man unzipped his fly and pressed himself against her backside. His hand trailed to her waistband. With a flick of his fingers, he unbuttoned her jeans.

She struggled as his hand slid into her pants.

“Stop! Please. Please.”

A young woman’s cries, slurred and desperate, reached the Prince’s ears. In the distance, he could sense the approach of Lorenzo, his lieutenant, and Gregor, his assistant. Others of their kind were not far behind.

The Prince increased his pace, unwilling to share the source of the sweetest vintage he’d smelled in centuries. The scent seemed almost familiar, so much so that his already heightened desire was coupled with nostalgia. A nostalgia he had no wish to indulge.

His cunning and prudence had served him well, enabling him to survive while others had been dispatched to whatever afterlife abominations such as he deserved. He did not act without caution, which was why he stopped at the edge of a rooftop and peered into the alley below.

The narrow alley was lit by a single streetlamp. He could see a young woman who was being held by three men, one of whom was molesting her from behind, his fly open, his stiffened member rubbing against her. The other men cheered him on, pinning her against the wall like a crucifixion.

The imagery was not lost on him.

It would have been a simple thing for the Prince to steal the victim from her attackers and spirit her away, descending to another darkened alley in order to drain her of her prize.

He closed his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, and was seized by recollection: a half-naked woman lying at the foot of a stone wall, her body broken, her innocence taken, her blood crying out to him from the ground . . .

Revenge.

His appetite for food was swiftly replaced by a greater appetite, one that had been quietly fed over the centuries by anger and regret. The illustrations he’d taken great care to steal dropped from his hands unheeded as he leapt from the roof.

“What the—” The man was dead before he could finish his sentence, his head ripped from his body and casually tossed aside like a football.

The other men released the woman and attempted to run, but the Prince caught them handily, sending them to hell with a few swift movements.