Bella Donna

She would gouge his heart out with her bare hands if she had to.

Giovanni’s wounded leg worked in her favor because without it, he would have spun quickly and shot her in mid-flight. Instead, he stumbled slightly and Emma landed on him with all her force. She had seen enough rugby matches to know that you first knock the wind from an opponent, then you bring him down. She heard his head crack against the stone floor as he fell. He lay still, but she sat on him for good measure. Mickey thumped his tail on the ground and she bowed in his direction.

“Thank you for your recognition, kind sir,” she panted. “Very much appreciated. And now, for my next magical trick, I will truss our victim like a Christmas goose.”

First she tucked the pistol into the waistband of her skirt and then began methodically to tear strips from the pieces of fabric that had made her bed. When she had tied his arms and legs, she crawled over to Mickey to check his wound. A thin trickle of blood still oozed, but the serious bleeding had stopped. He had sustained a deep gouge in the fleshy part of his shoulder, but with no damage to the bone.

She scratched him behind his ears. “You are a brave dog,” she said. “Who do you belong to, I wonder?”

Her ankle was aflame and she sat to stretch it in front of her.

“Now what, Mickey?” She massaged her calf. “What do we do with him now he’s our prisoner? I suppose we just have to hope it’s not the Blackshirts who come for him.”

The dog panted loudly in her ear. What the hell was she doing here, wrestling outlaws, dirty and far from home? Two days ago, all she had wanted was to find her way back to Naples and then to England. Instead she’d wandered into some fantasy like the adventure stories that appeal to twelve-year-old boys. The thought of taking tea with the proper ladies of the county society was like thinking of going to the moon.

“Well, of course, Lady Utterley, it was almost impossible to take a bath, since there always seemed to be some lusting Italian lurking nearby. But I do find that sex-starved Italians give a really good fuck, don’t you?”

She spluttered with laughter. She was getting lightheaded.

The dog’s ears pricked and he stared at the gaping hole in the wall that had once been a doorway. Sure enough, there were more noises from outside. This time it sounded like more than one person. Blackshirts? Marco’s men? At least she had a weapon, even if she was unable to stand.

She cocked the gun and held it steady.

In the half-light of dawn, Marco paused to wipe the sweat from his brow. During the ambush he’d received a saber gash on the head, and someone had wound a cloth around it to stop the bleeding. It was only a scalp wound, but like all such, it had gushed a fountain of blood. He rubbed the crust that had dried on his jaw.

He dismissed the last of the stretcher-bearers and wiped his hands for the hundredth time on a bloodstained towel. His people had acquitted themselves well. With the advantage of surprise and the warning Emma had brought, they had been ready for the force that had meant to fall on them unawares. Then they had overwhelmed the small convoy with no problem. The Blackshirts had been overconfident, believing they had terrorized the whole area into submission. Like all bullies, they were cowards at heart, and those who were not wounded had fled. The others would be cared for and a decision made what to do with them.

Marco removed his foot from the strongbox where it had rested ever since he had begun to tend the wounded. His thigh protested at the sudden relaxation, and he rubbed the muscles to send the blood coursing through his upper leg again. He had not dared let the box out of his sight or touch after the skirmish. For hours he had treated the wounds of his own men and some of the Blackshirts, but the Comandante had not passed through his hands.

He called to Pietro as he passed. “Are there any more?”

“No, dottore.”

“What happened to the Comandante after he was taken?”

Pietro shrugged and a grin spread over his smoke-blackened features. “Who knows? The last I saw, some of the men from the village had him. He was wounded in the chest.”

Marco knew he was not the only one with a score to settle with the commandant.

“Where-?”

“Best not to ask, dottore. They had the castor oil hidden close by.”

Marco sighed. He was bone weary and knew that in any case he would not find out what happened to the man. God forgive him, but he hoped the sadist died, because otherwise he and his people would never rest easy. If they killed the tyrant, the men would be sure to hide the body where it would never be found. Desperate measures for desperate times.

Pietro turned away, but Marco called to him again. “And Signor Giovanni?”

Pietro shook his head. “No sign of him, dottore.”

Marco swore under his breath. It was a bitter pill to swallow to accept that his cousin had been working against him all the time. He knew how many men had been tempted by the easy pickings and the facile political rhetoric of the government. There were those who too easily lost sight of what was right.

Before the convoy had appeared he had warned all his people of Giovanni’s treachery and every one had vowed not to help him. No one had reported sighting him. Marco hoped he had fled the area and would not be heard of again.

Marco sat on a log, pulled the strongbox toward him, and aimed his pistol at the lock, imagining it was the head of his enemy, the commandant. He had always thought of himself as a peaceful man, dedicated to healing, but in the last few years he had found a depth of righteous anger in his soul that made him deal coldly and harshly with those who oppressed and murdered for gain or sheer pleasure. There had been too many good men maimed, too many women raped, too many children left orphans.

The box was full to the brim with official documents, each with two numbered copies. In his arrogance, the commandant had not even left a duplicate in safe hands. A guilty conscience gave you very few trusted companions, and the commandant had been amongst the guiltiest. He was a man who liked having influence over people’s lives, because he made them fear him or because they wanted the largesse he could bestow. Either way, he owned them heart and soul. He loved having favor seekers pandering to him, loved seeing once-powerful landowners cringe at his vengeance.

Marco sorted through the pile. There were deeds to property, orders for arrests, outlines of charges to be brought. With all these papers restored to their rightful owners or destroyed, the community could sleep peacefully in their own beds for a while. Unfortunately, Marco suspected the reprieve might be short-lived. Another would step forward to take the Comandante’s place, but this time the people would not be so easily intimidated and scattered. The captured consignment of weapons would help strengthen the resistance.

As he looked through the documents, Marco cocked an eye to the trail leading up the hillside. It seemed he had spent most of the last few days watching for Emma, yearning to catch a glimpse of her. He had sent Teresa and a reliable man, Matteo, to fetch her. The small procession should appear soon.

No woman had ever filled his mind and soul as she did, not even his sweet, childlike wife. The thought of Emma tormented him and the memory of her haunted him. It had begun as overwhelming lust, but after two short days he knew lust alone was not the reason why he wanted to lose himself in her, to melt into her, with a yearning so powerful it produced a physical pain. He wanted her by his side with her beauty, her courage and her indomitable spirit. Years ago his desires had been powerful, but they were pale candle flames compared to the burst of incandescence that consumed him now. He not only wanted her, but he needed her. And he needed her because he loved her. He had to know if she felt the same about him.

He longed to take her to his house, to make love to her in the sunlight and under the moon. He wanted to bathe her lovely body in sweet scented water and dry her with soft towels.

A few paces away he saw the flicker of a small fire where the men had boiled water to cleanse the wounds of their comrades. Restless, he gathered together all the indictments, the lists of accusations, the statements of false witnesses and fed them to the flame.

He had almost finished when Pietro returned. “The Comandante did not survive his wounds,” he announced solemnly. “We shall say prayers for his black soul.”

Marco nodded gravely. “Bene.”

Pietro shuffled his feet. Marco looked at him sharply. “What is it?”

“Signor Giovanni was seen during the fight. “