Alessia’s stomach clenched and turned over with the knowledge that her husband truly was a cold-hearted bastard. She was glad she’d made the decision to leave him. She could not stay, knowing what she knew. She was simply not a good enough actress to keep up such a pretence. If she had not already made the choice to return to the Bath Beach compound, she would have made it in that instant.

  All thoughts of food fled from Alessia’s mind. She had one focus now, one purpose. She was going to tell her husband that she would not spend one more night under this roof as his wife.

  Alessia patted Matylda on the shoulder. “You should go to the kitchen now. Stay there no matter what you hear.”

  “Miss Alessia?”

  “Thank you. I want you to know that. I want you to know how grateful I am for everything you’ve done for me, you’ve been more than simply an employee to me, but you don’t need to hear this. You don’t need to be in the way of the fallout.”

  Matylda understood that Alessia was saying goodbye. “Thank you, Miss Alessia. I think much of you, too. You will be safe?”

  “I’ll try to be.” Alessia hoped she wasn’t lying.

  “Can you tell me where you go?” Matylda asked.

  “I’ll go to my uncle’s,” Alessia said. “I’m going to stay with him.” If she ever did move into her grandfather’s house, she intended to send for Matylda, but now was not the time to make promises that she might not necessarily be able to keep.

  “Good luck, Miss Alessia.” Matylda moved forward suddenly and landed a kiss on Alessia’s cheek.

  “Good luck to you, too,” Alessia whispered. “I think we’re both going to need it.”

  Matylda retreated to her quarters, but she turned before she rounded the corner of the hallway, pressed her fingertips to her lips, and blew a kiss to Alessia. Alessia repeated the gesture. She hoped Matylda would be safe from Benito’s anger. She hoped she would survive his rage. More than anything, she hoped she could pull off the performance she was now going to have to give. It was going to take iron self-control not to take Nikolai’s gun and shoot Benito between the eyes.

  To remove the itch of temptation, Alessia took the gun out of her pocket and placed it on the soil of a potted plant on the sideboard by Benito’s study door. If the worst was going to happen, she would have a weapon close by. Alessia smiled as she thought of Nikolai, and of Irina. Between the two of them, they probably would have harangued her and told her to leave the phone and take the gun, but she knew she could not. Benito would be like a cat on a hot tin roof, to begin with. A phone he might overlook, but a gun, such an obvious shape and weight, would bring all his defenses into play.

  She rapped her knuckles lightly on the dark wood door, just as she would if it had been a perfectly normal night in their home.

  “Come in.”

  Alessia obeyed the bland invitation. She wondered what emotion she would see on Benito’s face as she walked through the door. Perhaps he would be surprised that she had returned. Perhaps he would feign shock and affection. Perhaps he would be outraged that she had not died…

  “Cara!”

  He was out of his chair and rounding his desk with his arms outstretched before Alessia could comprehend that he actually meant to lie so baldly to her. Apparently, he didn’t know that she knew that he’d tossed her to a gang of thugs. He meant to act as if he was still her loving husband. She hadn’t formulated a plan of action or even a response before he wrapped his arms around her. He tried to pull her into a hug, but her body would not move willingly. She simply could not relax in his embrace. Benito’s sheer audacity had thrown her completely. Shock overwhelmed her revulsion. She couldn’t hug him back; she was simply a statue in his arms.

  “Where have you been? Whose clothes are you wearing?” Benito fired questions over her head, then he moved his hands to her shoulders and held her away from him. His expression twisted to disdain and disgust. “Why the fuck is there a Mets shirt in my house?”

  At that moment, Alessia understood that she would have to play this encounter so very carefully. She had not really decided how she would approach Benito, but now she knew. She would not tell him that she knew he was responsible for her papa’s murder; that knowledge she would keep close until it could serve her better. She would not give him any more than she absolutely had to.

  “I was kidnapped.”

  “What!” There was not nearly enough outrage in Benito’s tone. He didn’t bring her close again, but his fingers tightened painfully over her shoulders. “By who? Who would dare?”

  He was fishing for information. He wasn’t concerned whether or not she was injured. She knew that, to a casual observer, she didn’t look hurt, but perhaps it was not unreasonable to expect her husband to ask if there were injuries he could not see. Instead, he was asking what she knew.

  “A gang from Brooklyn.” She would not tell him she knew exactly who her captors had been.

  Benito managed to a credible job of forming a pained expression on his face. “Ah, but the world’s going to hell without Santo. You have no idea who they were?”

  “None at all. I didn’t recognize any of them.” There were members of the Bushwick Avenue crew that were still breathing. Alessia had no doubt that Nikolai would fulfill his promise, but she had no idea when she would be safe. Until she knew, she would have to look over her shoulder. This time Benito might actually give the instructions for her capture.

  “I didn’t know. Cara, I had no idea. No one told me. How could it be that no one told me?”

  The whine in Benito’s tone grated on Alessia’s skull. “Who would have told you? Roberto is dead. They shot him before they took me. I have no guard that reports to you. Did you not even wonder where I was?”

  “Even Matylda said nothing,” Benito whined, brushing her inconvenient question away.

  Alessia knew that statement to be a lie. There was no way on earth that Matylda would have carried on and not told Benito that she was missing. Benito might have been callous enough not to ask, but Matylda would have said something; Benito had simply ignored her.

  Eight years of marriage. A partnership. A bond. A pact between families. For almost nine years now she had lived her life in the manner that other people had expected her to. She had rarely voiced her opinion, she had certainly never pressed one, or fought for her point of view, and what had such passive acquiescence bought her? She had almost been violated because her husband considered her disposable. Her grandfather had been killed because her husband had considered Santo his enemy, even though he was family. She had been kidnapped because she had trusted her husband to do what was necessary to secure their lives, to secure her life. She had never tried to think for herself, she had never stood up for her desire to be better protected. And worse, she had never known that she had needed better protection because she had trusted her husband, and her papa, to tell her if there was danger. She had trusted other people with her safety, and they had let her down. She was done leaving her life for others to live.

  She had not answered him, and apparently, her silence had been too long. Benito finally took his hands from her. He took a step back.

  “How did you get free?”

  “Nikolai Volkov rescued me.”

  “Volkov?”

  “Yes. I’m wearing his clothes.”

  Benito spat on the parquet floor by his polished shoes. “And his scent on your skin and his cum in your pussy, no doubt. You fuckin’ slut!”

  Alessia recoiled a step as if he’d physically slapped her with his vulgarity. “He came for me when you did not,” she hissed.

  “And how did he know to come for you?”

  “He was paying attention. He was not gambling his life away like a fool.”

  “How dare you! How dare you say that! Do you know how weak that makes me look? Christ! How dare he? He should’ve given the information to me. You were mine to get back!”

  It was ridiculous. It was beyond ridiculous. If she hadn’t sensed the danger in her situations, Alessia would have laughed. Benito was ranting about a problem that had been his to avoid. The gang had called him. He’d refused to come for her or to ransom her. Her stomach turned over as Alessia realized that facts had no place in Benito’s reality. Now he was insulted and felt disparaged. It was an exhausting feat of mental gymnastics to figure out how to deal with him, how to anticipate his attacks and defenses. It was a game she no longer had the energy or inclination to play. She would leave immediately. She couldn’t bear the thought of sharing a roof with this man for even one more night. She wanted the life she had seen laid out before her when she had been talking with Frank and Enzo. That life had seemed possible when she had been with Nikolai.

  Alessia straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “I am not yours for any reason. I am leaving. Tonight. I don’t want to stay here anymore. I don’t want to stay with you.”

  Alessia stood her ground as Benito stepped closer once more. She would not be intimidated by him. When he stood toe-to-toe with her, she fought to keep the steel in her spine. When he gripped her throat, she let out a strangled gasp. She had expected him to strike her; she had not prepared herself for this.

  His hand had not tightened so much that she could not speak, although she fought for the breath for every word. “Take. Your. Hand. Off. Me.”

  “You are my wife,” Benito spat in her face.

  “A wife,” Alessia gasped. “A possession. A symbol no more important than your Rolex. No longer.”

  “You can leave when I let you go.” Benito released her neck, but he did so as he pushed her. He put the force of his body behind the shove and Alessia stumbled back until she hit the wall.

  The blow of her body slamming against the plaster knocked the air from her lungs. Alessia sucked in oxygen until she could make sounds. “What I am… what I was, was dependent… vulnerable. You never had guards for the house… for me. You made yourself look weak… stupid… from before yesterday.”

  “Fuck you.” Benito aimed a gob of phlegm at her, but she dodged, and the sputum stuck to the wallpaper where her head had been. “You don’t tell me how to run my affairs.”

  She straightened again, fighting every instinct. Every muscle of her body wanted to curl up to make herself a small target. She stood tall and proud. “I am leaving. Not when you say so. I go when I choose, and I choose now.”

  “No. you do not. You are staying right here.” Benito stalked forward, aiming to intimidate her with the scant few inches of height that he could claim. She had no weapons to hand. Her gun was beyond the door. She had nothing, not even a high-heeled shoe. The fronds of a fern brushed her arm. Alessia realized she was standing next to several pounds worth of plant, soil, and pot. Her left arm was not her dominant arm, but if she wanted the element of surprise, she would have to improvise. She curled her arm around the pot, scooped it forward, and shoved it into the air with as much of her body weight as she could push into the movement.

  Benito tried to dodge the missile, but it glanced off his hip before crashing to the floor and shattering into a chaos of spilled soil. It hadn’t stopped him, but it had checked his step.

  There was a lamp next to the spot where the plant had been. Alessia snatched at the heavy brass base, but the cable only had a couple of feet of give. She pulled, but the plug stayed firmly in the socket, jammed there by the bulk of the sideboard. She was out of time and space. Benito was on her. His hands closed around her throat. His thumbs pressed down. His face was a mask of rage and hatred. He looked like he wanted to kill her, but Alessia feared that he would not. He would try to break her.

  She swung the lamp. The Tiffany shade fell to the floor, crashing into a rainbow of priceless glass shards. There was no momentum behind her swing, but the brass was heavy and solid. Alessia aimed for Benito’s skull. The lamp connected with a spot just behind his ear before the weight of the thing pulled it from Alessia’s fingers. It dropped to the floor with a resounding thud.

  Benito swayed. His rage twisted into something even more evil, then his eyes rolled.

  Alessia prayed to the Virgin for mercy.

  His hands slid away from her neck.

  His knees buckled. He tumbled down, slumping against her legs, trapping her against the sideboard.

  Alessia wriggled free, scared to kick him in case he woke, too frightened to be held in place a moment longer by his bulk.

  She was free. Benito was not moving. She was under no illusions; she hadn’t hit him hard enough to kill him. Likely he was only stunned and would come around soon, but for now, she had precious seconds.

  Alessia fled the study. Leaving the door wide, she paused only to pick up her gun.

  Matylda was in the corridor, drawn out by the crashes and bangs. “Miss Alessia?”

  “Go.” Alessia was already heading for the kitchen, looking for the bowl that held their car keys, aiming for the door to the garage. “Go before he wakes up.”

  “Mr. Dioli is hurt?”

  “Not hurt enough.” Alessia scrabbled in the tangle of metal and plastic and leather fobs. She found the slim steel tag for her Audi and yanked it free, scattering others across the countertop.

  “Miss Alessia, are you hurt?” Panic hitched in Matylda’s voice.

  “No. But I’m going. I have to.” She went to the housekeeper. Her hands were full, but she leant forward and kissed her on the cheek. “If you must stay, call 911 for him. Perhaps it will slow him down.”

  “Slow him down?”

  “I need to get away before he can follow me.”

  Convinced she could hear movement from the hallway, too terrified to check if she was imagining heavy steps, Alessia dived through the door and half-ran, half-tumbled down the stairs to the garage.

  She was still barefoot. Driving was going to be all but impossible, but she couldn’t risk running to her room for a pair of sneakers. There was nothing in the kitchen or the garage that was of use to her. She hit the switch on the wall to raise the garage door, awkwardly catching the sharp edge of the plastic wedge on the wrist of the hand still holding Nikolai’s gun.

  The machinery began to whir into action. Without the massive Lincoln squatting in the limited space, the room felt empty. Only her and Benito’s Audis wallowed in the now cavernous room.

  She squeezed the locking fob until the doors made the noise she needed them to, then she flung herself into the driver’s seat. She peeled out of the garage before the door was barely above the height of the car. The antenna caught but pinged back with a thunk against the bodywork as the door rose the extra inches required to let it slip free. She reversed all the way through the still open gates and out into the street with only a cursory glance for oncoming traffic. The tires squealed, and the darkness filled with the smell of burning rubber. Alessia remembered to flick the headlights on and the night came alive.

  She’d reached the end of the street before she dared to glance in the rearview mirror. For a heartbeat, she was terrified. A car was following her; it was too close to be anything but that. Then she remembered the guard Nikolai had left for her. She was trembling; it was hard enough to keep the car where it needed to be on the road, so she didn’t dare raise a hand and wave. She couldn’t even form the thought process required to dig the phone out of her track pants and call Nikolai, or Enzo, or anyone, so she drove, or tried to drive, and hoped that Nikolai’s man called him and that no one would try to stop her before she reached the Bath Beach compound.

  CHAPTER eighteen

  Nikolai stood before the floor-to-ceiling picture window and watched as the froth-capped waves of the azure Mediterranean lapped with comforting regularity against the pristine white sand of one of the best beaches in Tel Aviv. A knock sounded at the door to his hotel room; the sound was muffled by the distance between the sitting room and the lobby. Nikolai remained immersed in the peace of the vista before him as Lev, his personal guard for this visit, answered the door. He heard the rumble of courteous conversation and turned to watch as Feliks Volkov walked through the entryway to the room.

  Feliks was the youngest son of Nikolai’s great uncle Volya. The underworld war of 1980 that had claimed the life of Nikolai’s unseen grandfather, Savva, had also taken the lives of his great uncles, Boris and Volya. With a practicality typical of their family, his great aunts had banded together. Their children had been men by that time, Feliks had been seventeen, but the grief had solidified them into a single family unit. They had been military wives for many years; Irina was not of their circle, but she had not required their support, she had simply taken Boris’ seat at the head of the family table.

  Nikolai and his branch of the family always referred to their cousins as uncles. Partly it was due to the disconnect between the two branches. Feliks, and his brother Pyotr and their cousins Andrei and Artem, had followed their fathers into the military, something unheard of in the glory days of the Vory v Zakone. Irina had embodied the full outlaw nature of their family. Her brothers had straddled the line between outlaw and legitimate lives. They had seen the opportunities in the killing fields, amidst the blood and chaos, and they had begun smuggling drugs and guns using their military connections. Those drugs and guns had then been sold on by Irina, forming lucrative and longstanding alliances.

 

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