The Don’s Soulmate

9. Carlotta

Chapter 9

Carlotta

I must admit, I’m petrified. The evening with Ugo had been a disaster from the start, but I never expected him to exert such brutal dominance over me. Never, in a million years, did I think he would flirt with another woman on our first night out as an engaged couple. How dare he humiliate me like that! If Papa hears this, he will not let it slide.

Outside, the cool night air does little to calm my racing thoughts. I hug myself, trying to stop the shivering. Suddenly, Ugo is there, his eyes dark with fury. Before I can react, he slaps me, the sting sharp and shocking. I stumble backwards. Ugo’s large form bustles me into a side alley, where he slams me against a wall, his fingers clawing at my dress, tearing the delicate fabric.

I struggle, trying to fend him off. My breaths come in ragged grasps, and my pleas sound hollow and frail in my own ears.

Out of nowhere, a stranger intervenes. At first, I only hear his voice, then I see him as Ugo gets out of my face and turns to the man. It’s him. The same stranger who saved my life at the bank. His presence a very welcome beacon of hope in the chaos.

Surprise doesn’t even begin to cover it.

I watch from my place against the wall, heart pounding, as he sends Ugo crashing to the ground. For a moment, I believe that one punch might be all it takes to bring down a vile, weak old man like Ugo for good.

I sigh with relief, my body trembling as a wave of safety washes over me.

But then, Ugo rises again. Of course he does. His pride won’t let him stay down, even if it’s for the better. Ugo hasn’t seen my savior fight before.

But I have. And I already know which way the odds are leaning. If only I knew his name.

My savior slow-claps three times, the sound echoing in the alley. His face breaks into an excited, almost thrilled smile as Ugo dares to stand again.

“You bastard!” Ugo roars, charging at him.

My savior’s smile widens, welcoming Ugo’s attack. With lightning speed, he sidesteps Ugo’s clumsy tackle. In one swift motion, he grabs Ugo by the throat, his grip firm and unyielding. Ugo struggles, gasping for air, his face turning a sickly shade of purple as my savior’s fingers tighten around his neck.

I watch, horrified. Ugo’s eyes bulge, and the fight slowly draining from his body. His legs shake, and terror grips me - he might be killed.

“Stop!” I scream, my voice breaking. I can’t be a bystander to anyone’s death, even if it’s the man who assaulted me moments ago. “You’ll kill him!”

The stranger from the bank glances at me with such surprise that I wonder if he forgot I was here. His eyes lock with mine, and time seems to stand still. In this charged moment, the world narrows down to just the two of us. I’m lost in confusion—where am I, why am I here, and who is he?

Suddenly, there’s a sputter and a writhing motion. I avert my gaze, realizing its Ugo, still struggling beneath my savior’s grip. “Release him,” I whisper, my eyes locked on my tormentor.

With a scoff, my savior taunts Ugo. “Are you really that weak?” he sneers, finally releasing him and letting him collapse to the ground.

A creeping horror takes hold as Ugo stubbornly refuses to give up. His desperate, wild kicks aimed at my savior’s shins only amplify the chaos. What chills me more is my savior’s chilling laughter.

“You’re marrying him?” my savior asks, glancing at me with a mixture of amusement and disdain before stepping back.

Relief washes over me as he stops fighting my fiancé, but it is short-lived. Just seconds later, Ugo scrambles to his feet and lunges at my savior again, relentless in his pursuit.

My savior moves with a fluidity that’s almost hypnotic, evading Ugo with effortless grace. Ugo, blinded by rage, can only chase in frustrated, clumsy circles. Meanwhile, my savior, cold and calculating, seems to be toying with him, savoring the challenge.

“I’m going to get you,” Ugo threatens, his chin quivering with rage. “And then I’m going to go after the whore you’re fighting over.”

The words slice through me like a knife, sending a shiver down my spine. Tears well in my eyes as I hear the man, I’m supposed to marry, use such a vile term to describe me. It takes every ounce of strength I have to keep from breaking down in front of these two men.

My savior’s lips curl into a cold smirk as he glances at me, then turns his gaze back to Ugo. “I have no doubt you’re familiar with whores,” he says, his tone dripping with disdain. My heart sinks further, overwhelmed by the shame of being labeled something I’m not—something no one should ever be.

He pauses, letting the words hang in the air, a cruel smirk p laying on his lips. “But,” he continues, “she’s not one.”

A surge of relief floods through me, lifting my spirits despite the chaos. The tension in my chest eases, if only for a moment, as I cling to his words.

“Here’s the final thing you’ve overlooked, asshole,” my savior growls, his voice taking on a dark, menacing edge. “You can’t touch her. Not while I’m here.”

Ugo’s eyes flash with a mix of anger and confusion, clearly unsettled by the stranger’s fierce defense of me. I can see the simmering desire to assert his dominance, to claim me as his property. He swallows hard, a grim smile stretching across his face as he turns his gaze back to my savior. “You can’t stop me. I’ll have her—and your life, too.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with menace. My heart pounds in my chest, each beat echoing the fear and tension of the moment. Ugo’s grim smile widens, and I can see the madness in his eyes.

And then, all hell breaks loose.

In a blur of motion, my savior slams Ugo against the cold, unforgiving wall. Ugo retaliates with a knee to his balls, but my savior, with a cat-like reflex, coils and strikes. A thunderous punch connects with Ugo’s gut, doubling him over. Before he can recover, a bone-shattering right hook sends him crashing to the ground.

The sound of bone crunching grates at my nerves, and despite knowing Ugo meant to harm me tonight, I squeal in empathetic pain, the shock of it lingering through my bones.

The fallen man writhes in agony, his broken nose a grotesque fountain of crimson. Towering over him, my savior is a statue of lethal calm. With a cold precision that chills me to the bone, he draws a small, deadly knife and presses its sharp edge against Ugo’s quivering throat.

“Please…” I scream, unable to bear it any longer. “You don’t have to kill him.”

My savior turns to me, his gorgeous blue eyes looking dead at me. I can’t read his face, but I know what’s in my heart. He wants to kill Ugo for me, a woman whose name he doesn’t know.

I have my shortcomings, but permitting murder in my name is not one of them.

“I don’t have to,” my savior says, coldly. “But I’d like to.”

“Not here, not today,” I say, with a quiet dominance. “Not in my name.”

I begin to see a slow glimmer of humanity in his eyes as he listens to my words. “Your name…” he whispers, realizing he was about to kill a stranger for a stranger.

“It’s Carlotta,” I say quickly, trying to break the tension. “And you are?”

“Carlotta…” he whispers, staring right at me, soaking me in. His gaze travels from my eyes, to my cheeks, to my lips, to my shoulders, quickly down my body, lingering on the spots where Ugo bruised me, harrowed at the sight of where he tried to rip my dress apart.

I realize something. When Ugo sized me up tonight, I wanted to hide, to cover up myself, up to my chin. But with my savior, I stand straight and proud. I want him to see me.

Ugo tries to reach for the knife, grabbing my savior’s hand. “I’m going to kill you,” I hear Ugo say, wrestling for the knife. I gasp, but my savior breaks into a boyish grin, taking Ugo’s fingers in his own and crushing them, all the while looking at me.

“My name is Ettore,” he offers, and then turns back to Ugo. He lifts Ugo’s hand up in the air, examining the chubby fingers with a cold glint in his eyes. "You were saying something about killing me?" He asks, his voice a chilling threat.

Ugo whimpers in pain, his eyes wide with fear.

“No one threatens to kill me,” Ettore says, and then backflips onto his feet and lands a vicious kick to Ugo’s ribs. The sickening crunch makes me wince, making me forget about the gratitude for my rescue and lean towards horror at the ferocity of Ettore's actions. Ugo wheezes for a few seconds, before passing out dead-cold.

My heart races in my chest, pounding so hard I fear it might burst through my ribcage. My breath comes in short, shallow gasps as I try to steady myself, but the sight of Ugo's broken form sprawled on the ground makes my stomach churn. I can't tear my eyes away from the violence that just unfolded before me. “Is he dead?” I stammer.

Ettore, with his otherworldly blue eyes, walks through the darkness like a predator stalking its prey. He comes up to me, placing his hands around my arms. I look down in shock where his pale, scarred fingers meet my skin. Suddenly, my father and brother’s words come into mind.

We’re the D’Amicis. People always want something from us. When I don’t stay protected, I could be kidnapped. Why did this… Ettore, a man who doesn’t know me, go above and beyond at my behest not once, but twice?

What does he want from me? What is he capable of? From the violence I saw him unleash on Ugo, I don’t think I want to know the answer.

"Are you alright, Carlotta?" he asks, his voice softer, but is the underlying danger is unmistakable.

I nod, my throat tight. What can I say? Part of me wants to thank him, to fling myself into his arms and let him shield me from the cruel world outside. But another part of me knows that Ettore is just as dangerous – if not more so – than the man lying at his feet. And yet, I can't help but feel a strange, magnetic pull to him, even as I tremble with fear.

"Good," he says, a hint of satisfaction in his voice. “Then you’re coming with me.”

Wait… what?

Going with him?

“But –” I try to protest, to explain I’ll call my family for aid. Yet before I can even get a word in, Ettore suddenly reaches for me. His strong arms encircle my waist, lifting me off the ground as if I weigh nothing. He throws me over his shoulder in a swift, fluid motion.

"Put me down!" I cry out, my voice laced with panic. My hands grip the back of his jacket for balance. What is he planning? Where is he taking me?

"Stay calm, Carlotta," Ettore growls, the vibrations of his voice against my body only adding to my terror. "I'm doing this for your own safety. Don’t resist."

I can't help but resist him, my legs kicking against his muscular chest and torso. Images of what could happen to me flood my mind—violence, pain, submission to his whims. Father always said no one doles out favors without wanting something in return.

Perhaps I misread Ettore. Perhaps he wants more than what Ugo did.

"Please, Ettore, let me go!" I plead, tears streaming down my face. I feel powerless, like a caged bird desperate for freedom. How do I end up moving from one cage to the next?

Ettore's grip on me loosens for a moment, as if he senses my inner turmoil. "I won't hurt you, Carlotta," he murmurs, his voice deeper and rougher than before. It sends a shiver down my spine. "But I can't leave you here. That man could wake up at any moment, and I’m afraid…"

“Afraid?” I whisper, wondering what Ettore could possibly be scared of. He could take Ugo blindfolded.

“Afraid that I might not be able to hold myself back anymore,” Ettore explains. “Afraid that I might just kill him.”

My heart twists at how matter-of-factly he says this. My movements freeze, suddenly afraid as a thought crosses my mind: How many people has Ettore killed?

Since he’d loosened his grip, and I’ve stopped fighting, I almost fall off. I gasp as his hands grip onto my upper thighs, holding me in place. The slit that Ugo ripped has ridden up high, too high, and Ettore’s fingers now graze, pinch and dig into the skin right under my ass.

His grip sends a jolt of pain and arousal coursing through my body, mingling in a way that leaves me feeling both terrified and deeply aroused. I try to arch away from him. But Ettore holds me tightly, his grip unyielding.

"Don't do that," he warns gruffly, taking his other hand now to keep me in place. This hand lingers right on my ass, and I shiver, wishing the slit was higher. I tremble, afraid to know why I like how easily I fit into his arms. “You’ll fall off.”

“Where are we going?” I whimper.

I don’t know if my voice doesn’t reach him, or if he chooses to ignore me. I’m still afraid, aware of how I’ve just escaped one man to find myself at the mercy of another. And yet, I'm caught in a predicament, torn between my need for safety and my inexplicable attraction to this dangerous man.

I hear him tell someone to open a door. The next thing I know, I’m unceremoniously shoved into the backseat of an expensive car. It smells like new leather, and champagne.

I grab at the door, trying to get out, but it’s already locked. Up ahead, a driver takes his seat. I scurry over to the other side of the door, to escape, when Ettore enters and slams it shut behind him, his face showing a hint of anger as he frowns in my direction. “Sit still,” he commands. “This is all for your safety.”

My body trembles as I struggle to understand why he's doing this. What kind of man would tell me he's doing this for my safety while simultaneously causing such fear?

“Please…” I whimper, now crouching away from him. “Please don’t hurt me.”

I feel naked and vulnerable, my body and soul longing for safety, but Ettore's eyes never leave me. He looks at me with a gaze that's both protective and carnal. It's a dangerous mix, this protectiveness and arousal.

His lips curl into a smirk, his voice low and filled with tension. "Do you really think I want to hurt you? I’m taking you home.”

“Home?” my voice quivers, wondering what home he’s talking about exactly. His? Have I just been kidnapped by a total psychopath?

He leans over, his fingers now reaching for my upper thigh. I shiver, but sit still, at war with myself as he gently grazes the skin Ugo had clutched so many times this night. A warm heat pulses between my legs and every breath is a struggle to keep even.

But his hands don’t travel higher. His gaze remains where his fingers touch me, twelve inches above my knee. I look down, to find him caressing a bruise left by Ugo.

“Dammi il tuo indirizzo,” - Give me your address - he growls, still transfixed on the bruise.

And suddenly, any and all fear I felt melts away. He means to take me to my house. If only he’d told me earlier.

“It’s 612, Appia Antica,” I tell him, in a small whisper.

“Drive,” he repeats the address to his chauffeur.

I look out of the window, prepared to leave this harrowing night behind, but the car doesn’t move.