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Nodding my thanks, I stagger back to my father and kneel before him, rummaging through the first aid kit. This is going to burn like hell. I pull the disinfectant from the kit, put it on some gauze, and start to clean my father’s wound.
“Holy fucking shit!” my father hisses, his eyes flying open. He lifts his head and then shakes it, pinching the bridge of his nose. “How much did we drink?” His head turns. “Marco!” His eyes widen with shock when he sees the man sprawled over his desk. “Is he?”
“No,” James says, going to wake Marco. “He’s fine.” He points to the orange juice. “You should drink some juice. It will help.”
“Keep still, Father.”
“What the hell are you doing to my arm?” My father glares at me and then gapes at his bleeding flesh. “Who the fuck did this to me?” His eyes narrow.
“What happened?” Marco slowly comes around, pulling away from James who has just shaken him awake and handed him a glass of orange.
“You need to drink this and take a few aspirin,” James instructs. “Or you’re going to have one hell of a headache in a few minutes.”
“Did we drink that much?” Marco’s brows furrow, and he winces, rubbing his temple. Taking the aspirin and juice, he glances at where I’ve just finished cleaning my father’s arm. “What the fuck happened to you?”
“That man who took Isabella carved up his arm.” I look over to Marco with narrowed eyes.
“Someone took Isabella?” Marco bellows. “How?” His eyes narrow.
“I’m not sure,” James tells us. “I went to find out if the guests were okay, but they were gone. Like the party, there was no sign anyone was here at all today. For a while, I wondered if I’d dreamed the whole thing.” He frowns. “I called a few of them and they told me that they were told the party was over as Isabella was ill by two of your new men, Uncle Marco.”
“I don’t have new men!” Marco says before his eyes widen. “The men!”
“They’re all fine. Not one casualty,” James tells us. “I was the first to rise, and walking through the house and grounds, it was like being in a fucking Sleeping Beauty pantomime.”
“How the hell?” Marco breathes confusedly, running a hand through his hair and downing another glass of orange juice. “Fuck, I feel like I ate sand. I’m so thirsty.”
“That’s why I brought a lot of juice,” James tells him, drinking a glass. “Shit, now I’ve got to piss.” He puts the orange juice down and rushes from the room.
“I have to go too,” Marco grumbles, staggering from his chair. He’s about to go to the bathroom in this office when he stops and sucks in his breath. “What the fuck!”
I look up from tending to my father’s wound to see Marco staring at a silver dagger, pinning a note to the cabinet behind Marco. Before I can see what has Marco frozen to the spot like Medusa had turned him to stone, the congealed blood has cleared from my father’s arm.
“Jesus!” My breath catches in my throat, seeing the two Russian words carved into my father’s flesh.
? ????
“Fuck!” My father is out of the chair so fast he nearly bowls me over. “I’ve been marked!”
I walk over to Marco’s desk, standing beside my father.
“We both have.” Marco’s words are low as he pulls the dagger and note from the wall, dropping it on his desk. He looks at me. “Did you see who did this?”
“Yes.” Nodding, I glance from Marco to my father. “The man who took Isabella.”
Marco’s jaw clenches, and my father sucks in a breath. “What did he look like?”
“A giant with dark hair and green eyes.”
I see Macro’s eyes widen in surprise before he sways and steadies himself, leaning on his desk. “Fuck, I have to piss.” He turns and staggers into his bathroom leading off from his office.
James walks back into the room. “Christ, I pissed like a horse.” His eyes fall to my father’s arm, and he frowns, translating the words carved into his flesh. “I live!” His eyes move to the desk where Marco threw the dagger and message. His face pales. “Jesus.” He picks up the message, reading. “I’m back for what was stolen!”
“He’s back!” my father mutters, paling a little more. “And if it is him then why aren’t we all dead?“ My father looks at Marco as he walks back into the office.
“Because this wasn’t an assassination,” Marco tells us. “He wanted to show us that we’re at his mercy.” He flops into his office chair. He pinches the bridge of his nose.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” My father goes to Marco’s bathroom.
