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I screamed, but he turned me around, shoved my face into the mattress.
And then suddenly he screamed. His weight fell off me. I heard a fight, fists hitting flesh, grunts, as I lay frozen on the bed, my limbs refusing to move.
I heard furious cursing. A voice I knew.
“Marco,” I whispered.
And then he pulled me onto his lap, cradled me in his arms, while I sobbed my heart out, clinging to him, burying my face in his warm, strong neck.
A voice said something from the doorway. A man. Marco’s chauffeur.
“Get after him,” Marco commanded. And I realised the man who had attacked me must have run.
The chauffeur left, and Marco held me, whispering sweet nothings in my ear, telling me everything was going to be all right. And I believed him somehow. I really did. Just for a moment anyway.
When I finally managed to control my heaving sobs, I wiped my face. I climbed off his lap and pushed him away when he tried to hold on to me.
“They’ve taken my mom,” I gasped, realising this was what must have happened. “You have to help her. She’s not well. They’ve taken my mom!”
He shook his head. “No, carissima. I sent your mom to a private hospital first thing this morning. They’re taking good care of her. Everything is going to be alright.”
He cupped my cheek, kissed me on the forehead like he really cared, and for a moment I wondered what it would be like to be loved by him.
Chapter 12
BETH
By the time Marco got me back down to his car on the street opposite my apartment, the bald-headed chauffeur returned, panting.
“Sorry boss, he got away. They must have had a car parked up the street.”
The guy looked fit for a man in his sixties, but was clearly not in the sort of shape it took to run down two very fit younger men. I felt sorry for him, especially when Marco threw him a furious look.
“Where the hell were you when she left the house this morning?” he demanded.
The chauffeur threw me an exasperated look. “We weren’t expecting her to leave. We assumed she’d follow your orders. Doesn’t she know it’s stupid to go walking around?”
Marco threw him a filthy look as he handed me into the front seat of the car. “You can make your own way home,” he said, and drove off, leaving the chauffeur staring after us.
“It wasn’t his fault,” I said. “He did his best. He’s only a driver.”
“Jacob’s my Head of Security,” Marco said.
“Oh. He’s kind of old.”
“He worked for my father,” he said shortly. “He’s good at his job. Loyal. I suppose I shouldn’t expect him to be able to run like he was thirty years younger.” He sighed.
“Wow, the all-powerful Marcelo DeAngelis, admitting he was wrong.”
He gave me an exasperated look. “I’m never wrong. And I thought you would be smarter than to go walking around the streets when I warned you to stay home.”
“It’s not my home,” I snapped, ripping his diamond ring off my finger and dumping it on his lap. “And how was I supposed to know those thugs would come after me? Did you know about—?”
“No,” he said sharply. “I thought the police might try to get to you. I have no idea who those guys were.”
He ground his teeth, and ran his fingers through his black hair, looking frustrated.
I sagged into the front seat of his car and looked through the tinted window. From inside the plush luxury of the Bentley Continental, the streets of Whitechapel looked run down. A different world.
