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I shake my hands as the cable tie finally shoots loose and bring my legs together as soon as one leg is free. The urge to kick him in the face is there, but I suspect it’s only going to give him more fodder. The last person I want to see again is this man in front of me. He is pure, undiluted evil.
As one of the men comes out onto the beach and wades into the water, I know it’s futile. I’m hauled to my feet by my hair and made to stand. The exchange is clumsy, but soon I’m tossed over this massive guy’s shoulder, and he hikes me to shore. I’m not sure why he’s bothering, as my dress is wet and ruined.
He doesn’t put me down and I hang limp, fighting the nausea of the boat ride and my new situation as we enter the shade. The pressure on my stomach isn’t helping. I can’t spare him. I puke, my eyes tearing. The man curses as my breakfast stains his black trousers like a waterfall.
He drops me and I stumble, but already another gun is in my face. “Walk,” the command comes, and I hobble forward as I remember for the first time that I left my ballet flats under the breakfast table.
The path leads up at a steeper incline than I expected and soon opens to a breathtakingly beautiful villa. There’s a massive swimming pool to the side, but we’re heading in the direction of the veranda. A man is sitting there, working on his laptop, breakfast still laid out on the table. A ginger cat is baking in a stretch of sun, and it lifts its head with a lazy blink as we pass.
We’re almost at the table when the man closes his laptop and looks up at me. “Tasha Scalera. Matteo Scalera’s wife. This is unexpected.” He waves at me to join him at the table, and I’m pushed into a seat at gunpoint.
He studies me and I glare back. An old man, brushing seventy, possibly older if it weren’t for money used to hide his age. Watery brown eyes and a diamond earring that looks out of place. A cut in his ear as he turns his head to ask someone something in Italian.
“He’s not my husband,” I say as the gunman taps my elbow. I put my hands on the table where everybody can see them.
My hosts blinks at me and his gaze drops to my hands where I’m wringing them together.
“Yet you’re wearing Bianca Randazzo’s engagement and wedding rings.” He smiles at me. “I should know; I was best man at the wedding and the ring bearer.”
Crap. I’ve jumped from one Mafia stronghold into another. Ever since Matteo walked into my life, I can’t catch a break. Someone holds a silver platter out to me with a wet facecloth and a green shot of something. I take it gingerly, sniffing the wet cloth surreptitiously before I wipe my face. I’ve taken too many drugs involuntarily lately and eye the green cup with unease.
“Mouthwash.”
I don’t relax under this pretended kindness, but I rinse and spit into the cup provided. It’s as if I’m at the freaking dentist. “I’m not Matteo Scalera’s wife,” I repeat. “I’m just someone he brought with him to Sicily. I’m innocent.” In more than one way.
He studies me for a few seconds, then takes up his coffee cup and empties it. He puts it back in its saucer with care. “Here’s the thing. Whether or not you’re married to Matteo isn’t key. What is his, is mine. You’re his, in some way or another, which means, you’re now mine.”
I sink into my seat, wanting to drain out to the ocean. That must be Mafia math. And equals I’m done for.
“If you’re his wife, he will come for you. If you’re his whore—” He raises his hands in a very Italian way. “—well, then you’ve come to the right place.” He lifts a finger, and another goon stands closer. “Tell Mara to come over immediately. Mark her as one of mine. Put her to work.”
A gun muzzle pushes into my back, and I’m forced to stand. My legs are so shaky, I barely manage.
There’s no need to read between the lines here.
Everything is crystal clear.
34
MATTEO
I should have chartered a helicopter. Driving is fucking killing me right now, especially since Tasha traveled on a speedboat where there’s no traffic to contend with.
If Randazzo has been keeping an eye on my place, the most logical thing for him to do when he captures a rogue unit jumping randomly off a cliff is to take her in for interrogation. Now the clock is ticking, with her probably being tortured, while I’m stuck behind some fucked-up camper van that drives half the speed limit. My driver understands the urgency, but crashing won’t help Tasha either.
I’ve calculated everything to the T for this meeting, and now have to deal with a curveball I didn’t anticipate. Never mind dealing with the Sicilian once and for all, my focus is on saving Tasha first. The last thing I want for her is to become one of the women at the club last night. Without a doubt, Randazzo will slot her right in, drugged until it’s the only way she can function, her spirit broken.
I have to get Tasha back. Should I get to eliminate Randazzo in the process, I’ll consider myself lucky.
I have the best luck.
And Burley is here. He’s been stretching and fisting his fingers a thousand times since we clambered into the car. He has murder on his mind. I might adjust the initial plan just to accommodate him.
There’s a gap and the driver speeds past the camper van, and suddenly the road is open. Two other cars are backing us up; men I would have had with me in any case.
By the time we approach the compound an hour later, every scenario has replayed in my mind. I have to keep my cool. Stick to the original story. I’m here to sell the family farmhouse, I brought my wife on our honeymoon, the Don wants to have a clean cut with his past. I’ve been sent as emissary to come in peace as the Don is dying.
A security checkpoint at the gate keeps us for twenty minutes as they search every fucking nook and cranny of the car for weapons, the undercarriage for bombs and scan us for weapons too, airport style. They confiscate our phones and I protest, but I expected this. My phone is only a decoy, but Randazzo clearly lives on the edge. He must be a nervous guy.
