Page 12 of Lust and Honor

The guy’s voice shakes, but he barks back anyway. “How the fuck should I know, asshole? Let us go or I’ll blow both their brains out.”

“You’re talking to Carlo Bruni. And those girls are mine. You know what the punishment is for stealing from Carlo Bruni?”

All three flinch, clearly rattled. I glance at the carrot, limp like a broken doll in that bastard’s filthy grip. They drugged her. That much is obvious. My hand tightens around my gun. The mom doesn’t look much better, dazed and unsteady.

Carlo lets out a roar. “I swear on Don Fernando’s grave, if you let the girls go right now and walk away, I won’t come after you. You’ve got thirty seconds to decide.”

Don Fernando, Carlo’s father. The last Capo. A vow on his grave means Carlo’s dead serious. The three assholes exchange panicked looks. They’re cracking. At Carlo’s signal, the vehicle blocking the van slowly pulls aside.

Carlo speaks up again. “Driver, get behind the wheel. The other two, put the girls down and get the fuck out. You know I’m a man of my word. But hear this: if that little girl has so much as a scratch on her, I won’t stop at killing you. Before the week’s over, I’ll send every single person you’ve ever loved straight to hell. Take the mercy I’m offering and disappear.”

And they do. They know there’s no escape. This is their one and only shot. The driver climbs behind the wheel and starts the engine. The other two carefully lower the girls to the ground before backing away. The moment they’re clear, they scramble into the van and slam the doors shut. A second later, the van lurches forward and tears down the road.

The nanny collapses into sobs, cradling the unconscious carrot to her chest. Carlo rushes toward them. But I raise my gun, take aim, and fire. Two clean shots. Both rear tires explode, and the van skids, flips, and crashes into a ditch.

I meet Carlo’s glare with a shrug, “I didn’t swear on Don Fernando’s grave.”

He scoops the carrot up in his arms and starts hurrying toward one of the cars. “She’s not breathing right. We’re going to the hospital. Grab the mom.”

The girl tries to stand, barely managing to push herself up. Her thick, wavy red hair covers most of her face. I reach down and lift her into my arms. The moment she raises her head, I freeze in shock.

No fucking way I’m wrong. It’s her. Those honey-colored eyes. Those freckles. That soft skin. Those full lips. She’s the girl. The one I spent that night with three years ago. And she recognizes me too. I can tell from the way her hand freezes on my chest, her body temperature drops, and her eyes go wide.

Amid the chaos around us, we stare at each other, unable to look away.

Carlo’s voice yanks me back. “Maxim, move. We need to go.”

The van has two rows of seats facing each other. I set her down across from Carlo and take the seat next to her. The car starts moving right away. She quickly pulls the little carrot out of Carlo’s arms and clutches her to her chest.

I stare at them both in silence, my mind’s running at full steam. In this life, you need muscle to survive, and brains to outlive. I’ve got both. Smart enough to piece the puzzle together now. I rewind the years, fast-forward, and land on a truth that stops my heart.

My wide eyes snaps to Carlo, who’s staring back with a knowing look, and I ask the question I already know the answer to.

“Is this my kid?”

Four

Ava

Seven years ago

“Lord, shelter my soul in the darkness of the night.

Almighty God, You who shine with light, let Your goodness shine upon me. Protect me from the temptations of lust that drag my soul toward hell. Amen.”

Leaning against the doorframe, I watch Sister Maria kneeling by her bed, reciting her evening prayer. When she finally whispers “Amen,” I walk over and help her sit on the bed.

I honestly don’t get why, even with the severe muscle spasms in her back, she still insists on praying on her knees. After five years of living under her care, I honestly think she’ll be the first person God lets into heaven. The kindness she’s shown me alone should be enough to earn her salvation.

She sits with effort, thanking me in her usual gentle tone. I fetch her special massage ointment from the bedside drawer and lift the back of her blouse to rub it into her bony back.

Sister Maria isn’t old, she’s in her late forties, but the chronic pain has left her thin shoulders hunched like those of a woman twice her age. I spread some ointment over her lower back, massaging it gently until her skin absorbs it.

As I fall back into our nightly routine, my hands moving gently over her skin, I’m pulled back to the first day Sister Maria brought me home—a filthy, starving, helpless thirteen-year-old girl.

For five months, I’d been wandering the streets of Naples, scavenging scraps from trash cans and hiding wherever I could. Fate led me to a little chapel where Sister Maria came every week to pray. I’d curled up in a corner of that tiny sanctuary, seeking shelter from the cold.

In the shadows, where I thought no one could see me, she did. She took my hand and brought me to her home. Without asking a single question, she bathed me, gave me clean clothes and hot food, and a bed to sleep in. And when I finally told her my story, she offered to take me with her to this quiet village where she works as a nurse at a small clinic.