The Devil Bleeds Too
1099 Words
Does it mean I care for him?
Why would he go out there anyway? He has these men under him.
But what if something happens to him? My heart clenches at the thought.
Stop.
Why should I care what happens to him?
He f*****g kidnapped me and hit me.
The distant sound of gunfire in the air disrupts my thoughts. I pace around the room to keep calm.
"What's going on? Who are these people? Where are we?" I ask in a huff.
The guard glares at me coldly, like a pest that wouldn't just go away.
Then he pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters something under his breath.
"Do not concern yourself with that, Signorina. The men caught us by surprise and outnumbered us slightly, but the boss will handle it," he says and then keeps quiet as if he never said a thing.
Anger boils in me. I want to drag him by the collar and ask him more, but I refrain from that.
I've been hit enough already.
The sounds of blaring guns are still heard in the distance. There's nothing I can do except curl into a ball on the floor.
The sounds of the guns have stopped.
Seconds pass by, then minutes, then an hour or two go by.
The guard perks up, holding his gun and aiming at the door. I get up too, the unmistakable sound of footsteps growing closer and closer.
I take a frantic look around, searching for something to defend myself with. I find nothing, so I sit on the edge of my bed, my hands trembling from the adrenaline coursing through me.
The footsteps come to a stop, and the door now twists to reveal...
Antonio.
He's bloodied and injured. It's hard to know whether the blood is his enemies' or his own — maybe it’s both.
He limps forward, but even that gesture is done with grace. His face remains in its usual expressionless state, his aura still one to be feared and respected.
He catches me staring at him and gives me a smirk.
"Leave. Now," he says, casting a side glance at the guard.
The guard's expression darkens. He is hesitant to leave, but orders are orders. He turns and walks away.
Seeing Antonio like this, plus the guard's hesitation, makes my eyes sting and my throat hurt. I blink hard, furious at myself for getting emotional at a time like this.
Antonio, on the other hand, acts like he isn't covered in blood or injured. He takes the chair the guard was sitting on, positions it against the wall, then takes out a cigarette and lighter and lights it.
I march toward him, determined, and reach for him.
"I warned you, Fiore. Do not touch me unless you're ready for the consequences," his voice is calm but devoid of its usual energy.
"I know. Please get on the bed. I want to take care of your wounds," I manage to say, swallowing hard.
He looks at me, amused.
He gets up himself without a word and sits on the bed obediently.
"You care too much for a captive, Fiore."
"Maybe I don't want you dying before I get my freedom," I retort.
He laughs and shakes his head.
"That is but a distant dream. I'm not done with you," he says, his tone dangerous as he holds my arm. His grip is firm but gentle by default.
My breath hitches as I swallow hard. His touch makes me feel lightheaded.
"I need water and your first aid kit," I say, a bit dizzy from his hold on my arm.
"Mia! Bring me water and the kit!" he shouts.
A few minutes later, a lady who looks like she’s in her 60s rushes in with a bowl of water, a clean towel, and a first aid kit.
"Good," he says.
She sets it down and leaves.
I take hold of his shoulders, my hands trembling at the touch. This is the first time I've touched him.
I make a gesture for him to unbutton his shirt and lie down.
I freeze, my pulse racing as I remember what happened in the hallway moments before disaster struck.
He looks at me and nods, doing as I say.
With his clothes off, I see a deep gash on his abs and a few cuts. I take the towel, dip it in water, and rub it over the wounds.
His face remains neutral as he watches me clean his wounds.
After that, I run my fingers across his chest and muscles.
I savor the way his body radiates heat, and the way his muscles feel under my hands.
Then I notice his trousers have a bloodstain on them. My heart skips a beat, and I extend my hands to take a look.
His hand grips mine.
"Don't start what you can't finish, Fiore. I don’t have any injuries there," his pupils dilated.
I snatch my hand away, heat creeping up to my cheeks.
What was I thinking?
I shake my head, set the rag and now red-colored water aside, and open the first aid kit.
I take out the cotton wool and rubbing alcohol, pouring some on the cotton wool and dabbing his wounds.
He doesn't flinch; he just stares at me like that's all that matters.
"So..." I say, trying to start small talk.
His eyes are still trained on me.
"Can I ask you for something?" I ask, my hands trembling lightly.
"Go on, Fiore. I will grant whatever you want," he says coolly.
Yeah, right. Like if I wanted my freedom, you'd grant that.
"I do not feel safe around the guards—"
He sits up at that. His expression grave.
"Did Leo touch you?" His voice carries that same dangerously calm tone as it did moments before he killed Marcel.
I curl my toes as a shiver runs down my spine.
"No," I say, taking a deep breath to steady myself.
My words come slow, each one dragged out to be sure I don't overstep.
"I want female maids. I'd feel safer around them," I finally say, casting my eyes to the ground.
I wait for it... a slap, a warning, anything to tell me I'd overstepped.
When I dare to look at him, we lock eyes. His head is tilted slightly as he narrows his eyes — not in anger but in calculation, as if he is weighing every syllable of what I said.
He is silent, doesn't move, just stares.
Then he asks calmly,
"What are you planning, Fiore?"
- Writer
