Trapped by Seven Mafia Wolves novel Chapter 39

**Stain In My Mind**

**Jace’s POV**

I find myself utterly immobilized, my heart thundering like a war drum in my chest, as the sound of approaching footsteps reverberates ominously in the stillness. From the depths of the shadows, Nico materializes, a figure cloaked in tension, like a storm ready to unleash its fury. He stands just a few paces away, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his familiar scowl carving deep lines into his forehead—a mask of irritation that hints at something more tumultuous beneath the surface. But then, his gaze shifts, landing squarely on my shirt, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his mind as his expression morphs. His eyes widen, darting toward the small, crimson smear that mars the fabric of my sleeve, a vivid splash of color against the otherwise mundane fabric.

He glances down at his own hand, and I catch sight of the tiny droplets of blood staining his skin, stark against his pale complexion.

Blood.

“What the hell?” I whisper, instinctively raising my sleeve to scrutinize the dark spot more closely, my mind racing with questions I can barely articulate.

“Da dove viene il sangue?” Nico squints, his voice tinged with annoyance and confusion, as if the sight of the blood is an affront to him personally.

“She ran into me,” I blurt out, desperate to preempt any further inquiries. “Nearly knocked me over. She looked like she was fleeing from a damn ghost.”

A heavy silence stretches between us, taut and electric, as if the air itself is holding its breath.

Finally, with a frustrated huff, he shoves his hands deep into his pockets, his voice low and curt as he mutters, “Le ho afferrato il polso.”

(“I grabbed her wrist.”)

A knot tightens in my stomach at his admission, a wave of dread washing over me, cold and unrelenting.

“What?” I manage to ask, my voice barely rising above a whisper, as if the very act of speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile tension that envelops us.

“She pissed me off,” Nico snaps, his tone brusque, as if that explanation should suffice to absolve him of any wrongdoing. “I yelled, grabbed her wrist. She started screaming like I was killing her. Then she ran. That’s it.”

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