4- Whispers of Escape

Milan had been awake.

The moment Vito shut off the engine of his car, she jolted back into consciousness, though she didn’t dare let him know she was awake.

In her chest she prayed he would leave her in the car so she could escape, it would be easy enough to find something in his car to break the doors and disappear. That was what she thought she would do, until he gently lifted her into his arms.

“Uhmh—” she whined, her fingers winding around his neck as she cracked one eye open to take in her surroundings.

They were in an open space that looked like an estate.

She closed her eyes again as Vito moved, the last fragile hope of escape dying when dark, measured voices called out to him in greeting.

“Buongiorno, Capo,” they said.

“Buongiorno, miei uomini,” Vito answered, authority seeping from his voice.

Damn. He was the capo of La Tana di Salvatore now? What had happened to his uncle Luca?

“Lock the gate and stay around. I will call you when I’m done,” Vito ordered, and before Milan knew it they were entering a house or whatever the place was because she could not open her eyes.

She had known Vito since lower secondary school. No, he had made himself known from the very first day she was transferred to ICS. On her first day he had snipped a strand of her hair simply because she hadn’t answered when he asked her name. In her defense, it wasn’t her fault he had missed the class where introductions were made. That bully had seen a new girl and decided to pick on her. God help her if she lets him.

She had said, “No, I won’t tell you my name, go away,” and the next thing she remembered was him cutting her hair.

“Capo, this—” a wary masculine voice interrupted her memory lane.

“She’s tired. Don’t wake her,” Vito replied, his tone surprisingly tender as if he had pleasured her to exhaustion when in truth he had knocked her out.

If there was anyone Milan knew better than her own family, it was Vito Salvatore. He’d devastatingly handsome and cunning. He pursued whatever he wanted with reckless efficiency. He cared for nothing but his wishes and the quickest route to satisfy them. Patience existed for him only when there was a challenge or money to be won; he relished defying people and circumstance. That was how he had become her bully in the first place.

Her father, a single parent, had drilled into her and her brother never to show fear. “Fear makes one weak,” he’d said, and as a Romano, weakness was not in their blood. Those words had been her pillar until twenty months ago, when she learned a different kind of fear.

She felt Vito ease her onto a long chair and rest her head in his lap. His movements were so tender that for a dizzy moment she almost believed his heart had softened over the years.

“So, what’s the issue?” he asked, probably addressing the man who’d approach him.

Milan still had not opened her eyes; from the sound of him the visitor seemed cautious.

A sigh came from the other man. “I found the location of your powder, Capo, but it’s somehow in the hands of the government.”

Her heart skipped when she heard the word powder. Memories flooded back: Giovanni’s death and the reasons she had been brought here.

“My stuff is in the hands of the government?” Vito’s cold, husky voice sliced the air.

“Not exactly,” the man said. “It’s in the hands of Antonio Rocci, Giovanni’s older brother. He’s more cunning. He’s an underground dealer… and a poliziotto.”

The news nearly choked Milan. Antonio? A dealer?

Before she could absorb the shock, Vito’s cruel, booming laugh wormed its way into her chest. “Damn, Giovanni really does have… healthy connections.”

Vito remained silent for a long period of time as if calculating his moves.

“So tell me,” he ground his teeth, “where does our poliziotto live?”

“That’s the problem, Capo.” The visitor finally spoke after maintaining silence for a moment longer. “Antonio’s location is confidential unless he’s at work, and he refuses to meet anyone from our tana. He’s extremely wary. He doesn’t trust anyone except his little brother.” He sighed again, the sound of a man at the end of his rope.

A small smile crept across Milan’s lips.

This was an opportunity for her.

“Then find a way to meet him at work. Go to his fucking office or something,” Vito growled, the edge of impatience already sharpening his voice.

“His office is in a police station, Capo.”

The fear in the man’s voice was so apparent that Milan nearly tutted.

“Trail him. Bring him to me—” Vito snapped before the voice of another man interrupted him.

“Here is your drink, Capo.”

The delicate scent of lilac and jasmine drifted to Milan, pulling her from the pretentious haze of her nap. She sniffed instinctively, a small shiver running through her as awareness settled back in.

She reached for the glass of Antinori, but Vito’s hand was faster, swatting hers away.

“If you drink from my cup, that means you are swearing your allegiance to me,” he said, his voice low, husky, and heavy with ownership.

Milan froze, her eyes flashing open to meet his sharp gaze. The possessiveness in them made her chest tighten.

“That can never happen,” she said stubbornly.

Milan reached for the glass again and this time, he allowed her.

A soft chuckle sounded behind her. She turned to see the man Vito had been speaking with—a tall figure with curly hair, an amused glint in his eyes.

She sipped the wine, letting the warmth slide down her throat.

Twenty-five months. Twenty-five months since Giovanni had banned her from drinking. This was her first taste of freedom, and it invigorated her.

Vito gave a small nod to the waiter, a young man with face tattoos, who moved to refill the drinks.

The curly-haired man extended a hand toward her. “Nice to meet you, Signorina. I’m Mateo Luigi, but you can call me Bang,” he said, a small smile tugging at his lips. His eyes lingered on her with interest, and Milan felt heat creep up her neck.

Why was he staring like that? Hadn’t he ever seen a woman with his capo?

“I’m—” she started, but instinct made her turn to Vito.

He gave her a small, encouraging smile. It was uncharacteristically gentle.

Milan’s pulse quickened. What was he plotting?

He better not try anything corny.

“I’m Milano,” she muttered, withholding her last name. She couldn't say Rocci even though it was now her surname. She couldn't say her father’s name either because it's been over 2 years since she fled the United States to elope with Giovanni.

“Such a lovely name,” Mateo said, and she allowed herself a polite smile.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Vito scowl. Before she could react, he gripped her waist and moved her to sit on his lap.

“What the—” Milan gasped in alarm. Is he insane?

“Unhand me, you beast,” she hissed, irritation and disbelief lacing her frightened tone.

Where did the courage come from? How could he do this in public?

She had no desire to be anywhere near him. And yet, she could feel the magnetic force of his presence, the quiet power he wielded effortlessly.

Instead of releasing her, Vito held her tighter, his nails pressing lightly into her skin, and his eyes snapping toward Mateo like a predator marking his territory.

“Where did we stop?” He asked, his voice deep and commanding. The smile faded from Mateo’s face.

She scowled at him. Was he ignoring her intentionally?

“But—” Mateo started.

“You can speak in her presence. She already took my drink,” Vito said, his words deliberate, almost teasing in their cruelty.

Milan shivered. He meant it.

That cup wasn’t just wine. It was a statement.