He Kills For Me, I Kill For Him

POV: Fiore

"You don't get to ask where you're going. That's the first rule."

When he loaded me into the car, the man muttered that. He did not ask about my availability. Whether or not I wanted to follow them. I didn't ask to pack either.

He just said: "Put on something decent."

I wore a black dress that used to belong to a girl they buried under her cousin's nightclub three years ago. Fit me perfectly.

The car was armored. I knew because I tried to open the door an hour in, just to see there was no handle, no button. There was no mercy in these folks.

I gave a shrug.

The back seat was there, empty. Their brains couldn't tell them to put the only lady here in there.

I ended up smashed between the two of them. They reeked of cigarettes and alcohol. Guns rode their hips like accessories that were part of their outfit.

The windows were blacked out. Believe me, silence in this damn car was thicker than the upholstery.

A dagger crawling up his throat was tattooed on the person on my left.

Like he was aching to smash someone's face, the person on the right continued gripping his knuckles. Hopefully not mine. Though I'd understand the temptation. Have you seen me? Annoying thing!

I leaned forward. "Where are we now?"

No answer.

"I'm getting carsick."

Still nothing.

I smiled sweetly. "Ever heard of oxygen, boys? It's free."

Left guy cracked his neck. Right guy rolled his eyes.

They didn't need to answer. I already knew. I could feel it in my teeth, the way the road changed. There was no more traffic, just some private gravel with fewer trees. And then...

Boom. There it was.

The gate.

It rose out of the earth like the jaws of a sleeping god. Wrought iron, black, crowned with barbed wire and a crest of two wolves eating each other's tails.

Cameras were embedded in the stone and motion sensors lining the hedges.

Statues were on either side women with their hands bound behind their backs, and heads bowed like penitents.

When the car finally stopped, no one moved to open the dam door.

A laser grid flashed over the windshield. I heard a soft ping. Then the voice came, crisp and sexless.

"Identity: Rosetti, Fiore. Confirmed. Authorization pending."

Pending?

Like I was a fucking Amazon package.

I sat back and stared at the gates. "D'Angelo property," it said in bronze. Under it was written in Latin: Loquere in morte, numquam in vita. Speak in death, never in life.

That was a motto. Or a warning. Maybe both. Whatever! Really, whatever!

I turned to Dagger Neck. "Do I get a welcome drink? Or is that reserved for the virgins with better manners?"

He didn't answer.

Then, with a mechanical groan, the gates yawned open. One side at a time.

The gates moved slowly and then slower, as though it wanted to give me enough time to rethink every choice that led me to this house.

Do I have a choice? Would I rethink? I have no idea. The orphanage has become a home for me. But you know, in this world, a civilian needs protection.

Somehow, I found myself here.

The car rolled through.

I watched the Villa delle Ombre appear from the trees as I put my palm to the window.

With its dark stone façade, tall black windows, and balconies dotted with quiet men in suits with long-barreled guns, it looked exactly like a scene from a war movie I've seen at the orphanage.

There were no smiles. Their faces looked so old.

Urgh! Not even a single movement. Just the click of lenses, one after the other, zooming in.

There was a slight twist in my stomach. I blamed the dress. I wasn't even given enough time to decide what to wear. Stupid me. Like I have what to actually wear in the first place.

The man beside me finally spoke.

"Don't speak unless you're spoken to."

"Fair," I said. "Let's hope he's chatty."

He opened the door. I stepped out.

The air smelled like steel and jasmine. A strange mix. One for blood, one for cover.

In front of me was a gravel courtyard surrounded by brutalist statues and cypress trees. At the end, the estate appeared like a tomb for the dead.

A second door opened while I was adjusting the strap of my purse.

She came out like a blade.

Gray dress. Shoes that clicked like teeth. Her hair appeared to be so tightly wrapped in a bun that it might break a wire. Even when she opened her mouth to talk, her face remained rigid.

"Fiore Rosetti," she said.

I smiled. "Alive and wearing black. A tradition."

"You'll call me Madonna Serafina."

Her voice had the bite of an executioner reading a name off a list.

"I'll call you whatever gets me breakfast," I said, and stepped forward.

Two guards closed in. "Inspection," she said.

"For what?"

Serafina didn't blink. "Blades. Bugs. Bile."

"Charming."

"Remove your shoes."

I looked down at my boots, then back up at her. "You're gonna hate what's inside."

She nodded to the guard. One of them pulled off my left boot, turned it over and out slid a small curved blade with a pink ribbon tied around the hilt.

"Souvenir," I said. "From the last man who grabbed my ass without asking."

He pocketed it. "Welcome to Sicily," he muttered.

I followed Serafina through the front hall, up the marble stairs, and across the gravel. This place made every orphanage horror story look like a nursery rhyme.

The flooring had gold veins and were dark as obsidian. A little car-sized crystal chandelier lighted the ceiling, which ascended in a sculpted dome.

A huge staircase at the far end split like horns at the summit.

No portraits. No single family photos. Just paintings of some damn saints with bloodied eyes and gold-leaf frames.

"This way," Serafina said.

I followed. With my heels echoing like gunshots. Blame my cheap shoes.

We passed two maids on their knees scrubbing tile. They didn't look up. When I moved too close, one flinched.

She took the left turn, and I did same. We entered a little hallway with very high windows.

Serafina stopped and pointed to a wooden door with iron hinges.

"This is your room. Until further notice."

"Do I get a schedule? Or is this more of a wing-it kind of imprisonment?"

She didn't answer. She just opened the door and stood aside.

Inside my so-called room was a four-poster bed. A writing desk. A full-length mirror with a crack running through the center. Everything was spotless and soulless.

She handed me a small card.

It read: Don Matteo requests your presence for a meal. Private dining hall. One hour.

Then she said, "Unpack. Dress with respect."

And left.