Rescued by a Villain®

Chap. 10

Keisha:

"So why am I here again?" I ask and he cocks his head at me before shaking it.

"I really don't know," he tells me, taking a sip from his tumbler. Most likely it's scotch or whiskey. Totally fitting. But what shocked me was the glass of red wine before. Well, he is Italian as far as I can see. "We have yet to know why you broke into my father's house to steal his things when there were houses, with similar expensive things within them as well."

"I wasn't talking about that," I retorted tugging at the chains holding me up. "I meant why are we in this white room. I don't get why I am chained up to the ceiling. This really isn't necessary, I have learned my lesson."

He gives me an incredulous look and I roll my eyes. Okay, maybe I am a tough nut to crack, but I have learned my lesson. Always runaway than run towards man down. That is ingrained in my brain now. Although I do find it unusual how I just dropped everything to see if he was shot. I mean, I literally felt myself panicking to an extent I never knew before. Just by the thought of me doing him harm or him being dead. It makes absolutely no sense. He is in the mafia for fúck's sake. He signed up to die. It almost sounds as if I am growing attached, caring for him and all that bull. Nope it can't be.

Maybe I just need a rebound and my mind is tricking me. It does that sometimes.

"I have," I tell him and he shakes his head, getting up from the single white chair in the room. He moves towards the counters lined up around the room. They have sinks and everything. It almost reminds me of a lab. Except for the tools in here looking more like tools belonging in a hardware store and the glass sunroof above. The only thing shining on me is the moon light, alighting the room to make me see the stark whiteness of its walls. "Like seriously."

"I trust my instincts, and my instincts say not to trust you," he made sure I got a good look of his brooding dark eyes, almost as dark as his hair. "So I won't, puttana mia," 

"Hey, that's the first time you have called me something in Italian," I say with a chirper voice than I and obviously he since he cocks his head at me. No other emotion on his face. I swear, sometimes he reminds me of the Russian. Italians are supposed to be the expressive ones, whether it be with clothes, food or emotions. It's all there. Russians are the ones that hide expressions and try to take over the Italians territory since the Italians were here first. The Italians react first and boom! You got war baby. The downfall of Russians is that they're not a unit, they all are out for themselves, and they are too cocky to hide. Italians on the other hand are too hot headed and they don't just protect blood as their motto is, they love them. That my friend would be found as weakness in any scenario. Illegal or legal. And no, I don't know if any of that is factual. My grandfather was Russian so he told me all that crap when I was eight. The old man saw how bored I was and decided to enlighten me about mafia things. At the time I didn't care, now...I don't know. It kind of gets me taking. My father is also Russian with this gigantic tattoo on his shoulder. Can he be...? Nope, I would have known. They aren't in any freaking mafia. My parents are too weak for that bull. "You suddenly sound all sexy."

"You make it sound as if it's something good," he states and now I officially realize how desperate that sounds. I try to shrug, but being chained up to a ceiling doesn't really give room for that. Oh well, so much for annoying the sh!t out if him. His expression is still blank. "I always call my victims names before killing them."

He is now up and personal in my face, his breath strong of whiskey that just makes a girl feel hot and cool at the same time. He has a knife to my neck and I can feel it making a small puncture right near my jugular. Without over thinking it, I lick his nose and he rears back.