My Masters' Nightmare Season 1, Episode 15 "Finale" (10 page)

“Why?” he asked.

“I’m hoping you’ll see something.”

“What?”

I smiled. “My master’s nightmare.”

6

CHRISTO

I walked along the beach, fuming at
what the Black Russian had done. I hadn’t anticipated he’d show up out of
nowhere. I’d assumed he’d returned to Russia after our last meeting. But that
was the problem:
I assumed.
I’d been so caught up with my
schiava
and Frano, as well as my sickness, that I had become sloppy. I’d tried to not
show how much my cancer was affecting me, but it was getting worse. Earlier,
I’d barely made it to the toilet before retching blood and bile. But it didn’t
matter how sick I was, because I was going to kill that cocky Russian
figlio
di puttana
, making him regret the day he let me walk free.

I glanced over my shoulder, finding
the Black Guard, who’d escorted me out, gone. I couldn’t see Ercole’s house
either. Nothing but nature sounded me: sand, sea, and the grassy embankment. I removed
my phone from my pants pocket and dialed through to the American Spinelli, needing
to tell them about the Russian murdering their family members. They would take
Ercole’s death the hardest, the man a favorite. I would capitalize on that
grief, using the Spinelli to help me take down the bastard Russian.

As I continued along the beach, waiting
for a Spinelli to answer, my mind went to my
schiava
’s strange hug.
She’d kissed me on both cheeks as if she was going to kill me. I pushed the
thought out of my head, having more important things to think about than the
whimsical actions of a delusional woman. I needed to work out how to get my
nephew and brother back, especially Michael, who would be driven even more
insane by the Black Russian’s sister, the woman a true sadist.

The phone finally clicked over, a deep
voice greeting me with a “Hello?”

“Carmine, why are you answering for
the Spinelli?”

“They’re busy celebrating,” my
great nephew replied. “A bomb’s on its way to blow up the Black Russian.”

“What bomb?”

“The one that’s locked onto the
tracker in Rita Kovak’s leg.”

“Ha! That is such sweet justice.
I’m glad I got out in time. I just wished someone had told me earlier.”

“I think the Spinelli were worried
you would warn your friend the Black Russian.”

“He’s no friend of mine and I’m
happy the
bastardo
will die, along with all the other
bastardi
and
troie
with him.” Smiling, I looked up at the sky, seeing a shooting star,
a symbol of death. I frowned, realizing it wasn’t a shooting star. My eyes
widened as it drew closer. I didn’t run; I already knew I was dead.

RITA

A flash of light shot across the sky.
Smiling, I opened my hand—where the tracker had been not long ago. My palm was
empty.

Epilogue

FRANO

2 Weeks Later

Rita held my hand as I stood
outside the Black Russian’s room, my nerves eating away at me. I’d never been
this scared in my life.
Never.
What was waiting for me on the other side
of the door would change my life forever.

Rita squeezed my hand. “Don’t
worry, it’ll go well.”

“How can you know that? The Black
Russian’s famous for his sick torture. He could’ve been playing with me all
this time, pretending to be friendly, only to swoop down when I least expect it.”

“One name: Jagger.”

I frowned, knowing she was right. Jagger
had saved all our lives. He denied doing anything, but both Rita and I knew
he’d taken part in the orgy the Black Russian had wanted, probably asking for
our freedom instead of money. He’d packed Camila, Andriena, and Teodora off to the
airport, promising Camila he’d see her the next day, then had disappeared for
the night. The following day he’d turned up to lunch, looking worn out, only
putting on a fake smile when the Black Russian showed. In comparison, the Black
Russian couldn’t stop smiling, the man beaming from ear to ear, his eyes
constantly being drawn to Jagger. At that point, I was sure he wouldn’t allow
Jagger to leave. But to my surprise, he didn’t stop him from going to the
airport, even seeing him off.

“So, stop worrying,” Rita added. “I
don’t think this is a trick. And I wouldn’t let you walk in there if I thought
it was. I would never allow him to hurt even a hair on your lovely head.”

A small smile pulled at my lips.
“It
is
a lovely head.”

She gave my arm a playful smack. “I
love you, you arrogant asshole.”

“Don’t get me started on assholes.”

She smacked me again, then grabbed
my head and kissed me. I kissed her back hard, returning everything I felt for
her: love, passion, need, desire—the woman completing me.

I broke the kiss and took a hold of
her hand again, running a thumb over the engagement ring I’d placed on her finger.
She’d told me about the imaginary one I’d given her, something I didn’t
remember due to being drugged that day. But now, she had a real ring on her
finger, our wedding date only a few months away. I was finally going to marry
the woman I’d always wanted to, but before I could do that, I needed to meet
the person on the other side of the door.

“Do you want me to come in with
you?” she asked.

I nodded.

“Then let’s go in.”

She knocked on the door. A few
seconds later, the Black Russian opened it, allowing us to enter. It was a
spacious room, with a high ceiling and dark red wallpaper, the color bordering
on black. Pictures of buildings in gilded frames decorated the walls, the Black
Russian liking architecture. On our left was a massive wooden desk, its legs
embedded with intricate designs.

“Take a seat,” the Black Russian
said, indicating to a leather couch. “I’ll go get him for you.”

He disappeared through another
doorway as we sat down. A few seconds later, he reappeared with a boy. I pushed
to my feet, feeling chills at the sight. The boy looked exactly like me, just a
teenage version. He stared back; his surprised hazel eyes a reflection of mine.

“I’ll give you some privacy,” the
Black Russian said, leaving the room.

I didn’t say a word, all of my
attention glued to my son.

“Father?” he asked, sounding
American.

I nodded. The Black Russian had
tracked him down to Los Angeles. To my surprise, he hadn’t been sold into
slavery. Instead, a wealthy family had bought him when he was a baby.

He walked across the room, stopping
in front of me. “You’re young,” he said, still looking surprised.

“I was fifteen when I fathered
you,” I replied, wishing I could hug him. But I didn’t want to make him feel
uncomfortable, especially since he didn’t know me.

“I’m fifteen,” he said.

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you want me?”

I breathed out, willing myself not
to get emotional, the memory of losing him upsetting. “I didn’t know your
mother was pregnant. When I found out, it was too late. You’d been sold. Your
grandfather and I tried to get you back, but we couldn’t find you.”

He frowned. “Do you know why my
mother sold me?”

“She didn’t sell you. I was told
you were forcibly taken from her.”

“Do you know where she is now?”

“She’s dead.”

“Oh,” he said, his hazel eyes upset.
“I guess my parents only half-lied to me, then.”

“What do you mean?”

“They told me my biological parents
were dead.”

“They might not have known I was
alive.”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“Human traffickers often tell lies
to make a sale.”

He grimaced.

“I apologize if what I said upset
you. This should never have happened to you.”

He nodded. “Was my mother Italian
like you?” he asked, changing the subject.

“From memory, she was Maltese, and
I’m only half Italian. The other half is Croatian,” I said, still feeling upset
over the discovery. Thierry had confirmed what Christo had said. I’d gotten a
blood test as a result, sealing it in stone. “Though, you have two grandfathers:
one who raised me and one who loved my mother. Unfortunately, they’re both
dead.”

“Do I have other living relatives
besides you?”

I nodded. “My cousins Jagger and
Thierry.” My mind went to Thierry again. The boy was damaged, so much so that
he refused to leave the
Padre
. The Black Russian hadn’t been lying about
him. Jagger and I had gone to the Black Widow’s home to retrieve him. But he’d
refused to leave, saying he had to look after the
Padre.
Jagger had
screamed at him, telling Thierry everything that the
Padre
had done to
him, but all Thierry did was cry, continuously saying he was sorry and that he
didn’t have a choice. Jagger had told him that the Black Widow said he could
leave, but Thierry refused to listen, babbling continuously that he had to stay.
Jagger had lost his temper, yelling at Thierry that he was now dead to him,
then had stormed out of the room. I’d tried to change Thierry’s mind, but he
said he couldn’t leave the
Padre
alone with the Black Widow. He’d begged
me to get the
Padre
released, saying that the Black Widow was sadistic
beyond compare. I’d refused and had walked out, finding a shattered Jagger
sitting in the hallway, muttering to himself, looking like he was trying to
understand why Thierry had betrayed him. I’d taken him back to the Black
Russian’s home, leaving him in Camila’s care. But now they were both in Italy, visiting
the Santini.

“Where do you live?” my son asked,
cutting through my thoughts.

“Italy, but I have a place in New
York as well. If you want to return to your family, I will buy a house in L.A.
so I can see you more.”

He smiled. “You would do that for
me?”

I nodded. “You’re my son. I want to
get to know you.”

“I wasn’t sure you would.” His
smile widened. “Maybe I could take your last name.”

“Don’t you want to keep your own
one?”

His face soured. “It’s not mine
now. I’m not even American.”

“What about your adoptive parents?
You’ll hurt them if you give up their name.”

“They lied to me for years, led me
to believe something that wasn’t true, and anyway, I should have your last
name. So, what is it?”

“D’Angelo.”

His eyes widened. “You’re kidding
me?”

“No, why?”

He laughed. “I don’t think I should
take your surname.”

“Why?”

“Haven’t they told you my name?”

I shook my head. “What is it?”

“Angelo.”

JAGGER

Four Weeks Later

Our car pulled up in front of the
Santini house. The three-story villa resembled a classical masterpiece, framed
by miles of grass. It was cream-colored, with pillars and bay windows. It also
had a lookout tower, where a soldier was watching over the property. I pushed
out of the car, Camila following. We’d grown closer over the past six weeks. At
times we were like an old married couple, while other times we acted more like
bitter enemies, our arguments vicious. I knew most of them were my fault. I was
mentally unstable, still prone to seeing things that weren’t there, often
causing fights that should never have started. I also got angry when she tried
to boss me around, something she did a lot. Regardless, I still cared for her
and hoped she didn’t give up on me, because I was starting to fall for her. I
slipped my hand into hers, making her smile. I smiled back, glad she was with
me.

My auntie Concetta emerged from the
front door. “Jagger!” she cried, looking ecstatic. She was a stunning woman,
with violet eyes and a face too young to be in her fifties. Her long brown hair
was swept up in an elegant style, accentuating her high cheekbones, while her
lilac dress accentuated a figure that would put most women to shame. Like
Alessandro, she worked out vigorously, the Santini having an in-house gym.

She quickly descended the front
steps, holding her arms out wide for a hug. I let go of Camila’s hand and wrapped
my arms around my auntie, returning the hug. She eventually pulled back and
took a hold of my face. “I’m so happy you’ve agreed to stay with us. I would
love to make it permanent, and you’ll be safe here, the FBI won’t be able to
get to you.”

“I’m not worried about them,” I
said. Although the FBI wanted to arrest me, they had no substantial evidence to
do so. Honey’s body hadn’t been found, while Rita was backing me up, saying I
was a victim, not a villain. Camila had verified her story, placing the blame
on Christo and the
Padre
, making it even harder for the FBI to arrest me.
If anything, the head agent was only persisting since he was furious over what
had happened to some of his men, which had nothing to do with me. Christo was
responsible for their deaths, and if Teodora hadn’t given a false address for
her cousin, they might’ve been able to save the blond agent. The Black Russian’s
sister had fallen in lust with the man while visiting her brother, and since
the Black Russian loved pleasing her, she ended up taking the agent home.