~Amara.
"Chè cazzo stai facendo?"
Nero thundered in Italian. The sound reverberated through the hall.
Nero’s arm was clamped like a vise around my waist, keeping me upright against his chest. His breathing was rough and uneven against my ear, every inhale vibrating through my delicate frame. His right hand… dear God… his right hand remained outstretched, his thumb shot off the safety catch, muzzle aimed straight between Marco’s eyes.
“Figlio di puttana!!! Move your hand one more inch toward her,” Nero growled, voice so low it felt like a beast was speaking through him, “and I will blow it off your wrist.”
Marco didn't even blink, just shot a tiny glance at me, then began retracing his steps slowly, one at a time.
"Easyyyy, El-capo," Marco soothed, and I could feel the tension in Nero
