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I cut off the memory of that day, which had haunted me in the last few months while I lay in darkness, hurting, stinking, tied to a wall in Vito’s cell like an animal.

I heard the girl suck in a sharp breath. Obviously, she had realised, however terrified of me she was, she needed to breathe.

I frowned.

Dio! It was months since I’d had a woman, and this girl would tempt a dead man. Those big expressive eyes the colour of autumn leaves, her slender curves as I’d carried her with ease, her delicate scent a mix of roses and female musk. When our gazes had locked on the beach a few days ago, before Lorenzo and his minion had pummelled me for daring to look at her, I had seen awareness. A spark I could exploit, if I could turn her fear into desire.

I forced myself to discard the tempting thought.

I did not take women by force, the thought sickened me, after the way I had witnessed my mother being treated. And anyway, terrorising the girl into sex would not get me what I yearned for… To feel like a man again, to enjoy the rush of making a woman come. And this girl was tainted. She was the sister of Vito’s woman—the girl the men had said he now considered his family, his sorella. Her loyalty to him made her my enemy, too.

But I could not resist the chance to goad her. Ignoring the new pulse of pain in my side, I murmured, ‘Buongiorno, Eva.’

She tensed but remained silent.

She was still terrified. Good, because I was in too much pain to deal with her right now.

I moved, slowly, carefully, aware of the tearing sensation in my side. Lifting the quilt, I saw stains on the bandage.

The wound was bleeding.

‘Merda!’ I hissed as I pushed myself into a sitting position and stabbing agony radiated up my side.

I had to wait for my head to stop spinning, the headache at my temples like a vice.

She shifted on the sofa, then sat up too, scrambling with her bound hands to cover breasts clad only in a lacy bra with the quilt. If I hadn’t been in so much agony I would have appreciated the glimpse of her lush nipples a lot more.

‘It might be infected,’ she said, concern in her eyes.

My head started to pound. I frowned, pretending not to understand her. But even lowering my brows made the headache worse.

She gathered the quilt, shielding her nakedness as she stood and shuffled to the bed. I stared. What the fuck was she doing? Standing beside the bed, she pressed the back of one hand to my forehead.

I flinched, shocked not just by the cool touch but also the compassion in those rich amber eyes.

‘You have a fever,’ she said, her voice trembling but her gaze surprisingly direct. She held up her bound wrists. ‘If you untie me, I can help you.’

Cynicism shot through me. I grunted a dismissive response in Italian. Why the hell would she help me? Why would she even care? Did she think I was un idiota?

But when I whipped back the sheet to climb off the bed, the pain in my head and my side struck in an explosive one-two punch. Dizziness engulfed me, and I crashed onto my knees on the carpet beside her as she leapt out of my way. I braced my arms, every muscle and sinew screaming with the effort to remain on all fours. But then my empty stomach heaved, and the vice around my temples crushed my skull. I slumped forward, face first, my cheek hitting the rug in slow motion.

A groan rumbled out, the agony of the wound nothing compared with the humiliation as the room spun around me like one of the rides in Edenlandia, the Naples amusement park I’d visited as a kid to pick pockets… I clung onto consciousness as the girl appeared above me, watching. If I went under, she would escape, and send me back to Vito, to his dungeon, where he would surely kill me now.

But the room kept spinning, accelerating, and the kaleidoscope of pain that enveloped me became so severe I couldn’t breathe. My fingers clenched, spasmed, as I struggled to grip onto something, anything, even as the last of my strength deserted me.

And I was flung into the darkness.

CHAPTER THREE

Evie

‘Dante!’ I cried as my captor collapsed onto the floor.

I discarded the quilt to drop to my knees beside him and press my hands to his forehead again. He groaned, his skin burning my fingertips, his breathing turning to tortured pants. His blue eyes opened again, glassy with delirium as he lay on the rug, but I could see the effort, the agony in them too, to stay awake. To stay conscious.

And the flat look of hopelessness, before his eyelids drifted shut.

I slumped onto my bottom, sitting cross-legged on the rug in just my underwear. Completely disorientated.