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And now she’s gone. She’d still be here if I’d spent the night.
I should have known a stint at a strip club would kill all fucking joy. Ever since I carried Natasha Armstrong with her wet little ass in that tease of a bikini into my apartment in Boston, I’ve been jinxed. I couldn’t stand watching the strippers, never mind fucking one of them. Not when the last woman I watched stripping was Tasha, when she tried on the dresses for me, with her untarnished skin, doubting her own beauty, but her body pure perfection.
Worst was, there was something about the strip club I couldn’t pinpoint that creeped even me out. Never mind the overall seediness and dirt and gunk on the floor that would give Stephano and Luca a twin heart attack, the women all had tattoos. Some had them on their hips, on their lower bellies, their breasts. There were two who were already naked, tattoos on their cunts, piercings everywhere.
I understand tattoos as well as the next guy, but these were all the same. They were the markings of possession, of ownership. It was only when I pored over the smaller details, as I went through the envelope the mole gave me, that it clicked. One photo was of that specific tattoo. The marking is Randazzo’s seal.
I spent maybe half an hour at the club before I had to get the hell out of there. My driver found some backstreet hotel where everybody would suspect me of spending the night with a whore. This guaranteed me some peace, and I spent the next six hours memorizing and poring over the details of Randazzo’s compound. I’m as prepared as I’m ever going to be, but now I’ve got to deal with Tasha’s disappearance. An unexpected snag if ever there was one.
She’ll surface. The locals working for me will know where to look.
The car stops in front of the old stone house and I get out, buttoning my jacket. I wanted to change for my meeting with Randazzo, and that was the only reason why I headed back here in the first place.
As I stride through the house, it’s clear they’ve lost the fucking plot. Massimo, the butler, isn’t anywhere, and far off, through the French doors and past the veranda, I see men gathered. Staring like a bunch of idiots into the ocean.
I make my way over the lawn to where Burley is on his phone. As soon as he sees me, he ends the call and the rest of the men, who’d stood idly by, scatter.
“Boss—” He breaks off, knowing me well enough.
I climb over the small wall and look out to the ocean and then down the cliff. I have no fear of heights, but this isn’t something many people do on a daily basis. She’s fucking gutsy and, in my mind, I salute her. Well played, kitten.
“She’s crazy, boss. I couldn’t stop her. One minute I’m still drinking my coffee and the next she’s sprinting like an Olympian down the lawn. She didn’t hesitate. She just looked to both sides and then flew over the edge. Nobody dared shoot at her, what with her being your wife.” He takes a deep breath. “Who the hell jumps this, boss? Who the hell…”
“Alex. Alex would have jumped this.” I glance at him and that shuts him up. I turn and head back to the house. “You’re tracking the boat that picked her up? Where are you going to intercept them?”
Burley falls in next to me. “That’s the thing, boss. The local men who stood guard on the cliff… they recognized the men. They say those guys were Randazzo’s.”
My hand shoots out and grips his throat. It’s thick and muscled but he doesn’t flinch as I squeeze. “Randazzo’s men?” I growl, my earlier rage erupting.
Burley nods. “Yes.”
“And you choose to tell me that now?” I squeeze.
“Matteo,” he groans. “It all happened like half an hour ago.”
“They’ve been watching the house.” I let go of him. Randazzo knows I’m here, but he’s also not taking chances. “Best we don’t waste time. And you’re coming along.” With Tasha no longer here to guard, I’m going to need Burley by my side. He can choke Randazzo until his eyes pop. Seeing and reading between the lines of the information the mole gave me, I don’t want to even think?—
I don’t know what’s worse; Tasha dropping to her death from a cliff in Sicily, or Tasha being kidnapped by the Sicilian.
33
TASHA
We’re heading back to land, the water spraying in my face. My wrists bleed where the cable tie has cut into the skin, salt water stinging the wounds. I gasp in relief when the boat finally slows as we head close to shore. There’s no harbor or town in sight. We’re basically in the middle of nowhere. Our captain switches the engine off and is on his phone, speaking in Italian. The words are indistinguishable except for Scalera, which comes up several times.
I drop my head as the man who hit me comes to stand next to me. “Randazzo wants to see you.” He cups my cheek where the painful sting of his palm feels swollen. He lifts my face up, forcing me to look at him. “Lucky girl.”
His spit has mingled with salt water on my face. The least I can do is return the favor. I spit at him, but my aim sucks and it hits him in the chest.
He laughs. “You are going to have the time of your life, mia cara.”
The boat’s engine starts again and I jerk away, but he gets in a last brutal squeeze of my chin.
We head even closer to shore, the crystal blue water an idyllic daydream to my nightmare. The shore is thickly lined with palm trees, promising a lush oasis behind them. The pebble beach is narrow, but it’s there. As the boat gets as close as it can to the shore, I blink in the stark sunlight. Men are coming through the palm trees, holding guns.
When the captain hands the spitter a knife from a small cubbyhole, I strangle a scream, but he only comes closer to cut my cable ties.
“You should scream,” he says, conspiratorially. “Randazzo likes that.”
