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As I quickly fasten the seat belt, Damiano places a paper bag on my lap.
“If you’re going to get sick, use the bag,” he mutters, his tone harsh.
“Thank you,” I reply.
Sitting next to Damiano makes me feel a hell of a lot more tense, and I clasp my hands together on my lap.
I’m confused as to why he wants me to sit beside him.
It’s probably to keep you close so you won’t try to make a run for it once the plane has landed.
Suddenly, the plane dips, and my stomach rolls with fear. I squeeze my eyes shut, and not caring whether Damiano will be angry, I grab hold of his arm.
This time, there’s no fabric, and I feel the heat of his skin.
The plane dips again, and I let out a squeak.
“Christ,” Damiano growls beside me. “Your nails are sharp.”
When he takes hold of my hand, my eyes fly open, and it’s to see him moving my hand to his.
For a moment, I forget about the plane.
I’m stunned out of my everloving mind when his fingers wrap tightly around mine, but then the plane shudders as it touches down on the runway. If it weren’t for the seat belt, I’d climb into Damiano’s lap for safety. Instead, I turn my head and press my face against his bicep, another squeak escaping my lips.
The aircraft slams on its brakes, and my body jolts from the force. My other hand grabs hold of Damiano’s bicep, and I press as close to him as the seat belt allows.
The plane slows down drastically, and the first thing I become aware of is the scent filling the air I breathe. It’s warm and manly, with notes of spice and something rich.
I can smell the power before I feel it beneath my hands.
Before Damiano can say anything, I yank away while my face goes up in flames.
“I apo–”
“Stop apologizing for something you intend on doing again,” he grumbles while unclipping his seat belt and climbing to his feet. “Come.”
Again? Does that mean he plans to take me somewhere else?
I quickly free myself from my seat belt and get up. Once again, Damiano’s guard takes hold of my arm and pulls me to the side so I’m out of his boss’ way.
Half the guards leave the plane while Damiano straightens his sleeves before shrugging on his jacket.
Only when one of the guards signals that it’s safe does Damiano head down the stairs.
I follow with his guard, and having the man’s hand on me, I mutter, “If you’re going to drag me around, I should at least know your name.”
“Carlo,” he murmurs. “I’m the head of security and Damiano’s second in charge.”
He must be just as dangerous as Damiano, if not more.
It’s much colder in New York than Palermo, and I shiver as I walk away from the private jet.
Reaching an SUV, I climb into the backseat with Damiano. He pulls his phone from his pocket and keeps busy replying to messages and emails.
When Carlo starts the engine, I glance at the dashboard and notice it’s nine pm. I forgot about the time difference between the two countries.
As we drive away from the airfield, I stare at the foreign landscape, or as much of it as I can see at night.
