Stone of Thieves (Robbin' Hearts Series Book 2) (18 page)

The Conté rips off my blindfold.

Blinking back blood, the room is as murky as I imagined. But through what’s left of my blood and tears, I make out de Bargona and two of his big men in front of me. The dungeon-like walls are lined with old hatchets and scythes and other iron devices that appear to be ancient instruments of torture. For someone as arrogant as de Bargona, they could easily be from some Medieval collection that he shows off to impress his friends. Except there’s one more important detail: the edges of the walls are lined with fractured skulls and bones. And several of them still have remnants of skin and hair—

A disgusting hot stream of vomit explodes up my throat as I hurl onto the floor, my belly twisting from my wounds.

“You see?” the Conté laughs at me, pointing to the wall. “This is what waits for you if you lie to me.”

I’m not able to wipe my mouth, so I swallow, feeling the stomach acid burn against my throat. I’m sure it’s pointless, but in my last days of life, I have to know.

“H-How did you know I was here, in Italy?” I manage to form the words, despite my swollen tongue. “You attacked us the first night we got to Venice—”

“You’re as stupid as your
madre,
” he cuts me off, tearing the blindfold now from Alessia, too. Her eyes appear as dead as always. “Look at you two, just alike. She runs off with trash in America, and so did you. She thought I would never find out, but the
cagna
couldn’t hide
la bambina
. And you—”

He grabs my face again so tightly that my skin burns.

“You have made me a
milionario
.”

His smile is echoed with belly laughs by his thugs.

“Did you really think you could remove money from a secret account in the name of Rubina de Bargona, and I wouldn’t hear about it? I have powerful friends,
mia ragazza
—and now all that money is
mine
.”

I thrash fiercely against my zip ties, but I only manage to cut them further into my flesh.

“Th-that’s my money! It came from my dad—”

Vittorio shakes his head. “You are dead, remember
stupida
? Right after birth.”

The consequences of his words leave me gasping. I know my dad didn’t want anyone to trace that money back to his own sketchy exploits. That’s why he used my original name?

The Conté points at Alessia. “Isn’t that a pity? And your
madre
is legally insane. I have the sole right to all of your money. Too bad your trash father didn’t think of that. See? I have your death certificate right here.”

He holds it up to my face where I can see the date: a day after my birth, 18 years ago.

“I don’t care!” I hiss at him, casting a spray of spittle. “All money has ever done in this family is create monsters like you. Take it, you asshole—you can’t have my soul.”

“No?” The Conté lays my death certificate at my feet. In spite of my fury, it makes me shiver. “Take a good look at your
madre
,” he says. “She didn’t do as I said, and I destroyed her soul long ago. If we don’t find the stone at the convent, I will kill her, too. Neither one of you is of any use to me, especially now that I have your
fortuna
.”

He turns to his men.

“Would you like
per stupro
—how do you call it?—to rape these beautiful women before we go? They are all yours,
miei amici
.”

The shock that bolts through my veins jolts my body like electricity. He would actually offer his men to rape his own daughter and granddaughter? His evil leaves me both frightened and reeling.

Vittorio de Bargona flashes his perfectly white, distinguished teeth, and I wish I could vomit on his tailored gray suit. But all I can do is kick and wail against my zip ties, feeling the blood trickle down my limbs.

Yet his two men trade glances and then stare at me without a speck of lasciviousness in their eyes. In fact, what I detect in the hardened faces isn’t cruelty at all, but . . . fear. And that’s when I get it.

It’s one thing to kill me. But it’s quite another to have sex—and possibly trade blood—with a known
Thagarni
. They’re afraid of what might happen, that I might be able to control their souls.

“Ha-ha!” I cry, spitting at them. “Come touch me, you jerk! I’ll bite you and swallow you whole you for eternity.”

The Conté slaps me across the face so hard my cheek slams against the wall. The room teeters for a moment, and I’m actually grateful for the zip ties now that hold me in place.

“We’ll see how much you laugh tomorrow if I don’t find that stone.” He gestures at the skulls that line the walls. “Don’t worry, Rubina,” he says as he turns to walk away. “You will be in fine company.”

His breath warms my cheek, moist and soft.

Tickles my hair against my forehead.

God, how I want it to be Creek!

To be his soul come back to me for comfort. To remind me he loves me.

I know I’m probably dreaming, or hallucinating from exhaustion and my wounds. I closed my eyes for a moment, hoping to gather my wits and figure out some kind of desperate plan, even if it’s totally futile. But whatever sleep I’ve fallen into now is disturbed by the sweet sensation of soft lips against my skin.

I’m afraid to glance up.

Because this man-smell I detect doesn’t belong to Creek. His scent is wild—reminiscent of forests and campfires, pine sap and hardwood leaves and lake water, along with the natural, warm aroma of his skin.

But this scent is ethereal, laced with jasmine and patchouli, like Granny Tinker’s wagon. It’s a more exotic—gypsy—smell.

I know who this is, and he scares the shit out of me.

Bravely, I flutter open my eyes, heart racing.

Before me is a desperately handsome man with dark curls and bottomless brown eyes.

Bohemas.

I recognize him from my vision while holding the stone, and that reckless kiss in de Bargona’s map room. He is Martiya’s lover of old—that passionate heart that never ages.

And I hate myself for it, but I take a peculiar comfort in his presence, even though I know he’s a ghost.

“Don’t you bother telling me stupid, mysterious things,” I hiss at him, in no mood for cryptic or puzzling messages from some lovelorn spirit. If he had any balls, he would’ve joined Martiya, the love of his life, in that ruby heart a long time ago. Or he’d cut these zip ties somehow and set us free right now.

He smiles at me, amused. Then he begins to gently wipe the blood off my face. I see it stain his ghostly hands—impossible as that may seem. And to my surprise, he takes a lick.

As his tongue relishes the flavor of my blood, I hear him sigh. Oddly, the color of his face and clothing looms brighter, and I swear I can feel the heat of his body near mine. He’s so handsome beside me, it’s enough to crush most girls’ hearts, spirit or not.

He pauses to gaze at my mother and me, tilting his head to admire the beauty of what he sees. I know what he’s thinking—that we could practically be sisters, and between my mother and I, we’re flesh and blood echoes of his beloved Martiya. How very, very tempting for him—but why should I give a fuck?

“Get us out of here!” I whisper loudly, rattling against our ties hooked to a chain against the wall.

But Bohemas only shakes his head.

“If your lover was really dead,” he says in a low tone that makes me shiver, “don’t you think he would be here right now instead of me?”

All breath siphons from my body.

What the hell?

He can’t be serious . . .

He’s mindgaming me for attention. That’s what all ghosts want, right? He’s after another kiss, to give me a sweet bit of hope so I’ll come alive for him in total gratitude—maybe even fuck him. I wrestle against my zip ties and wince, glaring at him.

“Th-that’s impossible,” I stutter, gathering breath. “I saw Creek get shot straight to the chest right outside of the convent.”

This abrupt confession makes tears choke at my throat again. I shake my head to try and regain control.

Bohemas laughs. The sound fills the dark air around us and becomes deeper, as if falling through the wet stones.

“You think all gypsies look alike?” he presses.

I feel his ghostly fingers run along the embroidery of my peasant blouse, making goose bumps scatter across my skin. He traces the flowers near my cleavage where his fingers pause. “Some of them wear holy garments, you know.”

My mind whips in confused circles, and I turn away. I have no idea what he’s trying to imply. He’s just a goddamn ghost—crazy and fucked up as they come.

Persistent, his fingers work their way slowly beneath the delicate cotton of my blouse, lingering in the space between my breasts. I despise it that his strangely warm touch provides solace in the dark hopelessness of this basement. And the scent of him has changed, saturating the air with the man-smell of horses, blacksmithing, herbs and coal. He gently pats my breast. “They know how to heal a broken heart, Rubina.”

“WHO?”

I turn to face him and demand he be clearer, but he’s gone.

In his place lies a skull at my feet shrouded in black burn marks.

I let out a scream.

To think that Vittorio de Bargona’s ancestor actually collected the skull of a man he’d incinerated out in a gypsy meadow sends vomit raging up my throat again. Dry heaves burn at my mouth, and I wonder if Martiya’s skull is here somewhere, too. It’s then that I realize all the bones down here are trophies to the de Bargona’s of their power—and their brutal methods. I twist and turn against my zip ties and cry out my mother’s name.

Like always, Alessia doesn’t even blink.

All this time, she’s simply stared at her feet. I try bumping against her to rattle her into some recognition, yet she remains stiff as the wall she’s tethered to.

Doesn’t she know we’re going to die down here? Become more trophies for the de Bargona’s sick collection? I wouldn’t be surprised if the Conté keeps our clothes in his closet to sniff and remind him of his victories.

No! I wail inside, imagining our skulls lined up against a wall like all of his other targets.

It can’t be like this.

This is
not
the way my life is supposed to end.

All this bullshit about being a
Thagarni
—some stupid Gypsy Queen! With no magic stone around, or Zuhna’s herbs or Granny Tinker’s crystal ball, what good is it? There’s only one thing I know for certain—if we don’t get out, we’re gonna die here. And Creek would
never
forgive me, even in the afterlife, if I allowed myself to become another victim to an abusive man like his own mother Caroline. He loved me because I’m a fighter—that’s the
real
magic I possess. He saw me knock myself out to provide for my dad and the people of Turtle Shores, and find my mom against all the odds in the hope of rescuing her. And when we were sleeping in that gondola in Venice, he promised he wanted me whole so our love could go on forever. As far as I’m concerned, that means kicking my way out to the very end, regardless of whether I succeed.

In a fury, I thrash again, feeling the ties slice into my skin, trickles of blood moistening my clothes. There has to be a way out. Has to!

My foot accidentally slips against the skull, totally creeping me out. It makes a hollow sound on the stones as it rolls over and cracks open a little, jagged as a knife.

That’s it—

Bone.

Even after the inferno in the meadow where Bohemas died, his skull is
still
here. It’s hardness has lasted for centuries.

Maybe that freaky ghost was trying to help me after all.

Carefully, I scoot the skull toward me with my boot. It rattles over the stones—a sick, hollow sound—and I turn it over. Lifting it up by the crack near the jaw with my toe, it’s incredibly shaky. I take my blessed time, holding my breath. An inch higher, then another inch, until it’s close—so close—to my fingers. Desperately, I push against the zip ties that bruise my wrist until my fingers . . . grab it!

I can’t help trembling a little at the thought that this once belonged to a human being. Bohemas, someone capable of love.

Shaking my head, I force myself to focus on cracking open the skull farther, revealing a sharp-edged piece that already rips savagely into my skin. Wincing, I razor it across my zip ties anyway, harder and harder, until I’m bleeding like hell—and the tie pops free!

“Oh God, Bohemas!” I gasp into the darkness. “You did it! Thank you.”

Instead of lingering in gratitude, I immediately start hacking at the other zip ties like a butcher. I’m a bloody mess from where the jagged skull piece has slashed my skin—but that’s the price I’ll gladly pay. As soon as I step my legs out of the cords, I turn to my mother.

I don’t want to hurt her, but there’s no other way, and we don’t have much time.

“Mom!” I cry. “This is gonna hurt like a bitch, but we gotta get the hell out of here. I’m taking you home, Mama. Back to Doyle. Your angel.”

I hack at her ties, too, but she doesn’t wince.

“
Angelo?
” she whispers, hardly louder than a breath.

Goose bumps flare all over my body. I want to react, but I don’t dare stop cutting.

“Yes, Mama,” I reply, floored that she always seems to respond to that word, but unsure if it means anything, or if it’s simply more of her textbook crazy. “We’re going back to Doyle, your angel.”

“
Angelo
,” she says slowly, as if rolling the word over her tongue to see how it might taste. Her eyes appear to search the floor, but then she shakes her head. “
Angelo, dove si trova mia bambina?
” she calls out with a heartbreaking plead in her voice. Her words echo against the walls.

The only word I understand is
bambina
—baby. And the way she studies the floor is as though her baby is lost somewhere among the stones, among the skulls. Her body begins to tremble wildly, making it hard for me to keep from cutting her.

“Mother—
madre!
” I cry, stopping to shake her a little while my bloody piece of skull drips onto her shoulder. “I’m your baby, your
bambina!
Don’t you see me? I’m here!”