Nico (Ruin & Revenge #1)(23)
And now he had his enemy’s daughter tied to a chair in the middle of his fucking clubhouse. So what the fuck was he doing over here?
“Keep everyone busy,” he said to Luca, making a quick decision. “I’m going to talk to our little assassin and decide if this is the night she finds herself dead.”
*
Mia twisted her wrists trying to loosen the ropes that secured her hands to the back of the chair. If she could just get free before Nico closed the distance between them, she could try to fight him off, or even make a run for it, although she had no idea where she was or how to get out.
When Frankie had slowed the vehicle in front of the rundown auto body shop, after a circuitous drive around the city, she thought she might be able to escape and find help. But she was quickly disabused of that notion when he parked around the back and led her into a deceptively large workshop that had nothing to do with auto-body repairs and everything to do with a secret meeting place for the Toscani mob. With a wet bar in one corner, a pool table in the other, a couple of card tables and worn out couches, and a nauseating odor of beer and cigarettes, it was everything she imagined a typical Mafia clubhouse would be.
Off course, she’d have to get past Nico’s soldier, Luca, who had joined them as they left Vincenzo’s, and now hovered near the door. Luca was tall, although not as tall as Nico, his shoulders broad, hair blond and spiked up on his head. He seemed more laid back than the dark, glowering Frankie who had pressed Nico to let him interrogate Mia as soon as they walked through the clubhouse door.
Her wrists scraped against the rope, and she grimaced. Something cracked on her cheek, and a brown flake dropped to her lap. Blood. So much blood. She had a vague memory of it spattering on her during the massacre, had seen it on her hand when Nico turned on the lights.
Nico’s gaze stayed steady on her as he crossed the floor. He’d removed his tie and suit jacket as soon as they entered the clubhouse, and unbuttoned his collar just enough for her to see the hint of tattoo on his broad chest. Unlike her father, who wore a suit even when he sat down to dinner, Nico seemed uncomfortable in the traditional mob attire. She imagined him in worn jeans and a T-shirt, maybe a leather jacket and a pair of boots. He had the swagger to carry it off, the presence to wear anything and command a room, and a hint of dangerous wild that his suit could contain.
God, what was she doing? He was the enemy. A kidnapper. A fierce, ruthless mobster who, no doubt, was considering whether it would benefit him most to kill her, hurt her, or ransom her to the highest bidder. And what was she? A victim. At the mercy of men. The story of her fucking life.
His brow creased in a frown as she studied his handsome face. Was it the chiseled jaw, the chiseled cheekbones, or the hair that was slicked back like he fancied himself James Dean that drew her? Or was it the power rippling beneath the surface? Why couldn’t he have been a civilian? Maybe a lawyer or an accountant or the CEO of a software company? Looks like his were wasted on the mob.
Mia trembled when he stopped in front of her, then caught herself, stilled her body. For all that she hated her mob family, and despised her father, she was Battista Cordano’s daughter, Mafia royalty, and she knew better than to show her fear.
“So, this is the real you.” Nico gestured vaguely to Mia’s clothing. “Not what I expected.”
Indignation gave her the courage to overcome her fear. “Apologies if I don’t fit the stereotype of a typical Mafia princess.”
Something cold and dangerous moved in his dark eyes. “I got that when I walked into Vincenzo’s and saw you standing in the middle of a massacre with a gun.” Nico’s gaze raked over her body, openly lingering on her chest where the torn dress barely concealed her breasts. “You seem to attract trouble wherever you go.”
“It’s this life. No matter how hard I try to run from it, it always seems to find me.”
All business, he grabbed a chair from a nearby table, straddled it in front of her, and rested his arms on the back. Her gaze drifted to his powerful forearms, the soft hair, strong wrists, and Toscani tattoo. Sexy. She’d never thought a man’s arms could be arousing, but she couldn’t tear her gaze away.
“What were you doing there? Tell me.” His voice was pure steel, sharp and biting.
A shiver of excitement ran down her spine. She wanted to obey and resist, both at the same time, but a life of secrecy in the mob overrode her desire. “I can’t tell you.”
“I don’t want to hurt you, bella.” He reached out and touched her cheek.
Unable to read his intentions, Mia shuddered.
“Shhh.” He rubbed his thumb gently over her skin and held it up for her to see. “Blood.”
Papà’s blood. A wave of emotion threatened to breach her walls at his hushed voice and gentle touch after all the horrendous events of the evening. She dipped her head so he didn’t see her falter. “I wasn’t there by consent. Well, not real consent. So now you know the truth. You can let me go.”
“No.”
“Could you at least pretend to think about it?” She tipped her head to the side, looked up at him through her lashes, hating herself as she did. But this was a matter of life or death, and she couldn’t let pride take away her only advantage.
His eyes sparked, amused. “If you killed those men, you will die either by my hand or another. If you didn’t, then you are safer here with me until the shooter is found.”