Every muscle in Cesare’s body drew taut as he forced himself to hold back.
But it was no good, the need to find Ida was overwhelming. He leaned across the desk, reaching for his nemesis, when a thud made him turn. A door to his left slammed against the wall.
‘Ida!’
She was pale, the bright, dishevelled hair tumbling around her shoulders contrasting with her stark pallor. And the bright red stains on her hands.
Cesare’s heart plummeted as anger combusted into incandescent rage. What had they done to her?
‘Don’t sign it!’ she gasped. ‘Don’t give him anything.’
Cesare got to her in a few strides, but Bruno had reached her first. He’d been standing in that corner. He grabbed Ida by the shoulders, shoving her back towards the door.
Cesare acted instinctively. Later he could only recall the feel of a hard muscled shoulder beneath his hand as he swung the bodyguard around. Bruno’s massive fist hurtling towards his face. The blocking movement he’d learned all those years ago working in the slums. The sound of bone crunching as Cesare’s heel connected with Bruno’s knee. And the impact of his knuckles on solid flesh, both fists in quick succession, followed by the gasp of the winded man and the thud as he toppled to the floor.
Then Ida was in Cesare’s arms.
He ran his hands over her, checking for more injuries, eyes widening at the bright blood welling from her hands. There were shallow cuts between her fingers and at her wrists. The sight woke a growling beast inside him.
‘What did they do to you?’
His throat was so tight he barely got the words out.
Ida buried her face in his chest, hands clenching on his shirt, and he swore his heart stopped. ‘You’re here! You’re really here.’
‘Shh, it’s all right, Ida.’
He couldn’t believe she was safe in his arms. The last couple of hours felt like an eternity in which he’d aged decades. Relief was so sharp it cut his very soul, severing something within that had been bound tight and hard.
In his peripheral vision Cesare saw movement. The old man lifting a phone to his ear, gabbling about help.
Holding Ida close, Cesare crossed to the desk, plucked the phone from Calogero and threw it across the room. It shattered against inlaid marble.
Cesare’s breath came as short punches of oxygen.
‘You wouldn’t harm an old man!’
Cesare surveyed him, cowering in his seat. He wanted to smash Calogero. To make him pay.
Instead, he drew a deep, scouring breath and fought for restraint. His arms settled around Ida, cradling her close, her soft body like a benediction, a lightness in the dark whirlpool of his rage.
Calogero would pay. But Cesare would not lower himself to the villain’s standards.
Holding the old man’s gaze, he reached for the agreement, crumpled it slowly in his fist and shoved it in his pocket. Then he lifted Ida into his arms and marched to the door. ‘It’s okay,cara. It’s over.’
There it was, the sound of sirens and pounding on the street door. The police had been almost ready to haul Calogero in for questioning. Cesare’s urgent call had brought that forward.
He took the staircase slowly, conscious of his precious burden.
On the ground floor a number of heavy-set men in suits appeared but didn’t try to stop him. Not with police demanding entry. Calogero’s thugs were wondering about their future.
Cesare strode through the now open door and didn’t look back.
He’d been kindness itself, holding her until the shaking stopped. Sitting with her in the ambulance while a medic checked the bump on her head, gave her a painkiller and saw to the shallow cuts she’d got while sawing through her bonds with broken glass.
Cesare had been everything she could wish for. He’d rescued her when she feared she might never escape. The sound of his voice, the sight of him as she staggered into the room, had almost undone her. He’d dealt with her grandfather and Bruno, the men she’d lived in fear of for so long. He’d even brushed past the police, insisting they wait to question her. Then he’d taken her to his villa, draping his jacket over her shivering shoulders.
Ida should be ecstatic. Instead she felt sick.