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“I can’t wait to get my hands on you, bitch!” Rocco’s yells are coming from the kitchen. “I’ll kill you with my bare hands!”
I rush inside.
Rocco is in the middle of the room, a gun in his left hand but at least he isn’t wielding it at the moment. All around him are shattered plates and glasses. Ravenna is at the kitchen counter, her back may be to the wall but she’s facing the bastard with a kitchen knife in her right hand and a wine glass in her left. Her hair is falling over her face in a tangled mess as she stares at Rocco with a mix of fear and determination in her eyes, ready to launch the stemware at him.
Pride blooms in my chest upon seeing her, so small and terrified, yet facing her abuser and ready to fight for herself. But I’m here now, and never again will she need to defend herself from anyone. Ravenna tilts her head up, her gaze meeting mine. Her hair slides off her face, revealing a huge red mark her left cheek.
I’ve heard the term blind rage several times, but I’ve never experienced it myself. Until this moment. It starts off as utter calmness but then fury and rancor explode like a supernova, filling every fiber of my being. I take a step forward, coming behind Rocco, and wrap my right arm around his neck while grabbing his left wrist with my free hand. My eyes lock on Ravenna’s as I squeeze Rocco’s limb with all my strength. The gun falls out of his hand as he thrashes within my hold, trying to free himself. I snake my other arm behind his neck, trapping his head in a rear naked choke. It’s a very effective tactical move that allows me to put pressure on both sides of his neck at the same time. I can feel his labored breaths as he fights for air, his face turning a disgusting shade of purple, but no sounds penetrate my ears. A few seconds more and he’s done.
Too easy. And way too fast.
For some reason, my mind goes to that old deck of cards in my pocket and my lips curve into a smile. I release my hold and let Rocco Pisano’s limp body drop to the floor.
The expression on Alessandro’s face, as he looks down at the unconscious Rocco on the floor, is really strange. He seems controlled, but the look in his eyes is simply feral. His eyes find mine, and the ferociousness within them dissipates, replaced with worry.
“Ravi baby?” He steps toward me, then stops. “Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I say. My voice trembles, and my legs are shaking, but that’s from the adrenaline.
Alessandro takes another step and crouches in front of me. “I’m not going to hurt you, Ravi.”
“Why would I think you’d hurt me?” I mumble in confusion. “And why are you crouching?”
“I’m trying to make myself less intimidating in your eyes, baby.”
“I find you equally intimidating when you stand and . . . like that. Which is not at all.”
A small smile pulls at his lips. “Would you mind dropping the knife if that’s the case?”
I glance down and realize I’m still gripping a steak knife in my outstretched hand. “Oh . . . sorry,” I choke out and lower my arm.
“Can I hug you? Please?” he asks as his eyes search mine.
His face is set in sharp lines, and his jaw is clenched tightly as if he’s trying to contain himself. I’m momentarily confused by the way he’s acting and his question, and then it dawns on me. He’s afraid I'm in shock and considering him a threat, too. Silly man. I toss the knife on the floor and place my hand on his cheek.
“Yes,” I say.
Alessandro leaps up, wrapping his arms around me, and lifts me.
“I’m sorry,” he says into my mouth while he crushes me to his body so hard, I can barely breathe. “I should have been here.”
“It’s okay. I got the chance to try out those moves you taught me,” I mumble and bite his lower lip.
“You won’t ever need to use those moves again as long as I live, Ravi. I swear on my life.” His mouth drifts along my chin to the bruise on the side of my cheek. “Are you packed?”
“Yes.”
“I just need to finish something and we’re leaving. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good.” He slowly lowers me to the ground, then bends and takes my face between his palms. “Wait here until I come back for you. Please.”
I nod.
Alessandro drops another kiss on my lips, then heads to Rocco. He grabs my husband by the back of his suit jacket and drags him out of the kitchen. I wait by the counter for a few seconds, then dash after them.
I rush across the entry hall to the office and peek inside through the open door. Rocco is still unconscious as Alessandro puts him on one of the big baroque chairs by the wall, just under a huge oil painting. Rocco commissioned that piece shortly after our wedding. The composition is of a group of men seated at a cloth-covered table, playing cards on a pristine white surface. It reminds me of Da Vinci’sThe Last Supperin some disturbing way.
