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“Come on, drink up, we have a plane to catch,” Matteo says. “A plane which you are going to board without giving me any trouble, understand?”
“Understand?” Rage engulfs me, but I can’t do anything but fist my hands so hard that my nails bite into my skin. “Perfectly.”
“Good girl. Bottoms up.”
I’m starting to hate so many words. His vocabulary is very limited when it comes to me. I glance to my coffee. This might be my last one on American soil. It might also be drugged.
I want to be drugged. I don’t want to know what happens next.
Without further thought, I take the cup and swig the lukewarm coffee down in one gulp. I bang the cup down on its saucer and stand so abruptly that all the men around the table startle and have their hands on their guns in a split second.
“What?” I say, glaring at them. “Let’s get this fucking show on the road.”
Right now I’ll do anything to stop them from tormenting my dad. He has aged a hundred years in the days I haven’t seen him, and I now know why he’ll never come for me. They’ve threatened to kill me if he does, just as they threaten to kill him if I don’t comply. For now, going through the motions seems like the only way to stay alive.
Stephano drops his hand away from his gun where it’s hidden in his jacket. “You should gag this one.”
“And tie her up,” Dominic adds.
“Better safe than sorry.” Benedict is still sitting. Clearly it takes more than a female tantrum to stir him.
Matteo hasn’t moved but stands with the same level of control I’ve come to know from him. When he turns to me, there’s a sparkle in his eyes. He reaches for my face, and his fingertips are feather soft as he gathers my hair behind my ear. The touch blazes down my body right to my sex where every memory of that night flares up, making me glow with unexpected and unwanted longing. For him.
“The person who gags my wife, or ties her up, gets a bullet in the head.” His tone is even, measured, and terrifyingly calm.
I don’t doubt for a second that he’d actually kill someone for simply gagging me. His words do something to me that I can’t even understand. He’s ignored me for two days. Two whole torturous days after what he did to me, after what he made me feel. After what he’s promised to do to me when we get to Sicily.
Asshole.
Gorgeous, hideous, beautiful, tortured asshole. Stockholm syndrome must be real because I’m standing next to a madman I’m falling for.
I must be losing my mind.
25
MATTEO
I ignore my brothers as they glare at me and gather the passports and travel documents Burley delivered last night. Matteo and Tasha Scalera are going on a two-week honeymoon booked on a private island in Greece, with a quick stopover to visit my ailing grandparents in Sicily. They were too old to travel for the wedding, so I’m taking my beautiful bride to see them instead.
“Matteo,” Dominic starts but I stare him down. I’m not in the mood for any words of wisdom now.
“See you on the other side.” I put my hand on the small of Tasha’s back and she moves in sync with me. She’s still riled up, her body tense. She’s also clever and knows when to fight and when to let go. I won’t let my guard down, but the real-time video footage of Peter Armstrong shifted the gears in her head. Every emotion played out on her face, and she understood the situation perfectly.
Tasha isn’t going to resist now, and the drug in her coffee is going to numb her just enough to function. Once she’s on the plane, she’ll probably pass out, and when we arrive in Sicily, she’ll be too confused to recall what happened.
I need her zoned out. I don’t need her to chat all the way to Catania. Just watching her walk down the stairs with Burley had me questioning my life choices. But I have no life choices. I have a job to do, and I’ll deliver. In two weeks, all of this will be over. Time is ticking for the Don, and I’ve made promises to my father that I will keep.
With my hand on her back, I steer Tasha to the front door where Burley is waiting. By the time we get to the SUV, she’s already less tense. By the time we get to the private jet departures’ lounge, where there’s border control, she’s perfect. All sweet and docile, and ready to collapse. Our check-in is quick. Flawless. Money is a shiny wet glaze over everything. I fucking hate that it’s so easy.
I hate Peter Fucking Armstrong more for crossing Il Consiglio in the first place.
We’re up the stairs and into the aisle of the jet when Tasha stumbles. I’m right behind her and have her in my arms. “Here, kitten,” I murmur. “I’ve got you.”
“I’m exhausted,” she whispers, her hands on my arms as I ease her down into her seat.
“So busy with the wedding,” I say as I buckle her up. “Just for takeoff. I’ll move you to the bed after.”
“What?” She looks up at me, but not really seeing, confused. “Where’re we going again?”
