Lucien Delano was out of his chair and beside him in a minute, so quickly, that Piers had no time to react. His father’s large, calloused hands gripped his collar as he growled, his face dark with anger, shaking Piers as though he was no more than a leaf,
‘YOU BLOOD* PIECE OF SH*T! HOW DARE YOU BRING THAT MURDERING WH*RE HERE?’
Piers felt a crescendo of emotions, fear at the look of undisguised fury in his father’s cold eyes, anger at hearing how he had addressed Hila. He wanted to defend the woman but his father’s near-death chokehold on his throat and then, a hard fist slammed into his face and he cupped his face, as the force of the blow sent him reeling.
But the Capo and Claude had stepped in, urgently trying to prise open Lucien’s stranglehold choke on Piers. The younger man’s face was red, his breathing was labored as he tried to breathe. He felt the pain in his jaw, his eye was probably beginning to swell…
All thought was drowned out in a flood of pain as his father began his onslaught in earnest.
In a matter of minutes, his father had thrown him onto the floor as the others crowded in, trying vainly to shield Piers from Lucien’s rage.
‘Pappa…’ he heard the frantic plea in Claude’s voice as his father kicked him hard in the ribs and Piers let out an anguished yowl of pain.
Philippe was holding back Lucien along with a couple of the men who wore worried , tense looks as they attempted to restrain the Don who was like a mad bull, his eyes gleaming, face red with anger.
‘The mother*cker!’ roared Lucien, following it up with a slew of vulgar abuses that had Piers curl up, his body aching from his father’s blows.
*
Claude stepped before Piers, protecting his brother as he said,
‘Please, Sir. Listen to him.’
‘Get out of the way, you damned pup!’ bellowed Lucien, thrusting Claude away and aiming another kick at Piers who was crawling to the side.
‘Boss, please,’ said Philippe, his calm voice beseeching the man he respected the most. Lucien stopped, breathing heavily, glaring down at the younger man who was doubled over with pain, blood spurting from his nose, gasping for breath, his eyes shut and one of them already swelling. He turned away abruptly, his knuckles tingling with pain and he looked down to see that they were bleeding. Gustav had stepped forward, a drink in his hand and Lucien flung it down his throat, wordlessly holding out the tumbler for a repeat as he slowed his breathing down with a supreme effort. Claude was helping his brother to his feet and Piers looked anguished , a black eye developing rapidly, his lower lip cut.
When he looked at his father, it was the wounded look of a puppy who did not know why he had been kicked by the master he loved.
‘Get the f*ck out of my sight!’ shouted Lucien as he realized that there would be hell to pay when he got back home; when his Woman came to know of the fight, she would be furious.
But he quaffed off the drink Gustav had handed him silently and turned away, turning his back to his son who was leaving, leaning heavily on one of the men as he limped out.
Claude stepped forward,
‘The woman who attacked me,’ he began bravely, refusing to be cowed down by his father’s furious look as the older man swung around to look at him. Gustav magically materialized with a bowl and bathed Lucien’s hands in some water even though the Don tried to push him away impatiently.
Taking a chance, Claude plowed in, earnest and bright-eyed, pleading,
‘Pappa, Sir, the Monk was getting our Tara groomed. She has been in touch with some fellow who called himself Ben Iusuf. The poor idiot girl was chatting with him on a regular basis…’
Lucien’s shoulders tensed. His own daughter?
She had always been a dreamer and a little ‘fey’, as Schwartz called her teasingly. Even as he thought of his friend, the man burst into the room, looking startled as he took in the scene. Hurrying over, he stood beside the Don, immediately listening without asking any questions.
‘Tara?’ growled Lucien and Schwartz’s features sharpened as he seemed to comprehend.
*
Piers settled back on the bed with a groan. His men had brought him back to the townhouse and he was aching all over.
He wanted to weep as he recalled the fury, the hate in the eyes of his father who had beaten him up so badly. His ribs felt sore. He hoped the don had not broken any.
The door of his room was thrown open was the woman he had supported before his father charged in. She was followed by a frustrated-looking guard who had a rapidly blackening bruise on his jaw. Hila slammed the door in his face, shutting him out, and locked the door before she spun around to stride across to him.
‘Fool! she shouted. ‘Piers Delano, you fool!’ And then she continued, lowering her voice a little, as she stood, breathing heavily, feet apart, hands curled in fury,
‘Did you think that going up to the Don and telling him about my involvement would fetch you a bl*ody medal, you f*cking schoolboy?’ And then she said, scornfully, her hands clenched, face white with some unexplainable emotion as she stared at his beautiful face, ravaged and bloody.
‘Grow up, Piers Delano!’
He was off the bed in a trice, fury overpowering him as he gripped her upper arms, body trembling with rage. He had pulled her into his arms and brought his mouth down hard on hers before he knew what he was doing. Her lips parted after a second of shock and then, they were kissing each other frantically, her hands going over his naked torso, greedily, tracing the lean, muscular body.
He was beyond control. His hands went to her firm breasts, thrusting at him under the old shirt she wore, one borrowed from his wardrobe. His hands moved, pinching her taut nipple, twisting it, yanking it painfully and she gasped. Piers was unable to understand his emotions; he wanted this woman to scream as he hurt her, to twist his hand in her black hair. His tongue twined with hers as their passions ignited and they fell back onto the bed, she under him, still kissing like two people drowning, finding solace in each other in their last moments, in what was an explosive lovemaking…