Chapter 6: The Graphic Specifics
“Handle how?” I ask, my stomach churning with sick dread. “Marcus isn’t just some guy on the street. He has an army. He owns the police.”
Maria’s gaze sharpens into something that isn’t cruel, but is incredibly cautious.
“Are you absolutely sure you want the graphic specifics of how a man like Luca handles a threat to his territory?” she asks softly.
“No,” I stutter frantically. “Yes. I… no. I don’t know.”
I squeeze my eyes tightly shut, aggressively pressing the palms of my trembling hands into my face.
“Just… just tell me if he is safe right now,” I beg into the dark.
Maria nods, even though I can’t see her. “He is safe. But he is dealing with severe, complicated fallout.”
Fallout. It’s the kind of heavy, corporate word that usually means everything in your life just fundamentally changed, but no one wants to say the ugly truth out loud.
I swallow hard, tasting copper and fear. “Can I please just see him? Can I call him?”
Maria stands up gracefully and moves quietly toward the heavy oak bedroom door.
“You need water, strict bed rest, and hot food before anything else,” she orders firmly. “After you eat, if the perimeter is secure, and if he specifically approves it, he’ll come to you.”
Approves. She says it like I am a complicated tactical situation to be managed, not a human being.
“Why is he purposely staying away from me?” I whisper, my voice breaking.
Maria pauses with her hand resting lightly on the brass doorknob. She looks back at me, her expression unreadable.
“Because, Amara,” Maria says softly, “the man you ran from didn’t come to that bar alone.”
My blood instantly turns to freezing ice.
“Luca didn’t want you awake and hearing what had to happen next,” she adds, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “Not until you could physically stand up without shaking.”
“What happened?” I demand, my chest heaving.
She hesitates again, her eyes flashing with a dark, hidden memory.
“Your hunter arrogantly declared a war,” Maria says coldly. “But he simply didn’t understand whose violent world he was stupidly stepping into.”
The heavy door clicks firmly closed behind her.
Suddenly, I am entirely alone with my messy, terrifying, deafening thoughts. Luca is alive, but he is bleeding in the dark somewhere. Because of me.
The next two days drag by like a horrific, agonizing lifetime meticulously stitched together with pure anxiety.
I heal physically, but far too slowly for my racing mind. My bruised ribs finally stop stabbing me with white-hot pain. The ugly, violent bruises on my wrists begin to fade into softer shades.
But the absolute worst part of the mansion is the deafening silence.
There are no phone calls. There are no surprise visits from Luca. There is no deep, gravelly voice saying my name like it is a sacred promise.
“You’re pacing a hole into the imported rug,” Maria says dryly from the doorway on the third afternoon.
“I can’t just sit here,” I snap, aggressively pacing back and forth across the massive bedroom. “Every time I close my eyes, I hear the guns going off.”
“Eat the soup, Amara. Starving yourself won’t make him get back here any faster.”
“Then tell me what is taking so long!” I yell, my frustration boiling over. “If Marcus is dead, tell me! If Luca is hurt, tell me! Do not keep me in this pristine little cage!”
Maria simply crosses her arms, looking at me with a startling amount of deep respect.
“He isn’t keeping you in a cage,” she replies calmly. “He is building a massive iron wall between you and the men who want to sell you. Building a wall takes time. And it takes blood.”
