Love Me (Touch of Death Book 3), page 5
I sigh. “Don’t take it personally. My father kept us, well, me, away from most mafia business. I didn’t even know I was betrothed to Enrique. He and his brother were the only mob kids we were ever really allowed to play with. Now I know why,” I say, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
“I understand. Well, I offered to help you because I’ve watched you grow up. I know you tried to break away from this world, and yet you found yourself more immersed than ever. I thought I could offer you something more. Something…almost normal.”
I picture that, what it would look like to be married to a man like Matteo, with legitimate businesses and more morals than most of the men I’d been exposed to.
“So yes, I offered to help you, and I will do so again.”
“You’ll help me?”
“On two conditions.”
I still, instantly irritated by the prospect of stipulations, even though I know all too well that this is how things work. “Go on.”
“I will help you take the Bianchi seat, if, once you have it…you wear my ring on your finger.”
My blood runs cold, and my heart plummets in my chest. “What?”
“Think about it, you don’t want this life, Adelina. I have watched you from afar, wanted you, wanted…to give you more. Six months. Wear the ring for six months, and if after that time you do not want to marry me, then I will release you from any betrothal.”
My heart rate ticks up, thumping angrily against my chest. They’re all the same, all wanting something from me. “What’s the second condition?” I spit.
“That if you decide to marry me, you give up the Bianchi seat to your sister.”
“What?” I almost shriek the word. “Why would I do that? She has zero claim.”
A small but sad smile crosses his lips. “You never wanted this life, Adelina. If you marry me, you can give it up. I’m aiming to phase out all our illegal business within five years.” He shrugs. “We won’t need it. This can be your normal. And your sister can run the Ricci/ Bianchi empire, safely, backed by all the right people. I’ll make sure of that. She’ll be untouchable.”
For a moment, it all unfolds before me, so promising, so safe. Matteo is good and kind and handsome. I can picture a life with him. But the prospect of another man brokering me like a calf at market grates my nerves. I need him, though, because, with the right political contacts on my side, I’ll practically have my own army. Nero says he’ll back me, but if there’s something I’ve learned in the last few months, it’s to always look out for yourself, trust no one, and do not put all your eggs in one basket. Gabriella’s business has taken a hit in the absence of my father. Once Enrique is dead, I’ll be in a position to take his place, but only if I bring something to the table: money, allies, and power.
At one time, this was nothing but revenge, but somewhere along the way, it became my own personal war on everyone and everything. This is not simply justice for my father's death; this is justice for myself, for every mafia daughter who is sold off and married to a man she does not love or even like. I’m angry and hurt by my father’s murder, but truthfully, I’m more hurt by what he did to me, what they all did to me. In the face of all that, can I truly agree to yet another marriage to a man who would use it as a bargaining chip?
“Six months, Adelina. If you wish to walk away after that, I won’t stop you. I promise.”
What do I really have to lose? Sasha’s face flashes through my mind, and my heart stumbles in my chest awkwardly. I instantly hate myself for it.
“I’ll think about it,” I say.
He nods and follows me as I push to my feet. “I understand.” He once more leans in, kissing both my cheeks, only now, his lips lingering on my skin feel more intimate.
“Thank you for your time, Matteo.”
I make my way back through the house, Lorenzo falling in step beside me. The butler waits by the front door, and I wonder if he just lingers there all day.
The entire way home, I chew over mine and Matteo’s conversation. He must have had a crush on me or something. Why else would he suddenly take the opportunity to vie for my hand? Though really, he’s not. I could walk away after six months. The offer is a strange one, and I can’t help but think that it’s a little desperate on his part. He doesn’t have the lack of emotion needed to force me into a loveless marriage, yet neither does he have the courage to simply ask me to date him. Truthfully though, in our world of war, death, and power alliances, where is there room for simplicities such as dating?
When I arrive home, the house is quiet. I make my way to the kitchen and am halfway through smearing peanut butter on a bagel when Gabi finds me.
“How was your meeting with Matteo?” she asks, startling me. The knife in my hand clatters to the counter, spattering peanut butter everywhere.
I turn to face her, wiping a glob off my hand. “Good. I think."
She waves her hand through the air, hedging for me to say more. “Well, what did he say?” she finally gives up.
“He’ll help me.”
“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” she says, tilting her head to the side.
I nod. “He wants me to marry him.”
Gabi scoffs before an incredulous laugh falls from her lips. “What?” She almost growls the word.
“He’ll help me take the Bianchi seat, and then he wants me to become engaged to him. He said, if I don’t want him after six months, then he’ll walk away.”
“That’s…”
“Generous?”
“No. God, Adelina. It’s like marriage proposals have become an old hat or something to you. Why do these men in power think they can just take a bride and aid their own cause?” Her fists ball against her thighs, and her cheeks tinge pink.
“It’s the way it is, Gabi. You know this.”
“Well, it needs to change!" She starts pacing along the length of the kitchen island and then back again. “I thought better of Santori.”
“Gabi, in his own way, I think he’s trying to do me a favor.”
“No. You can’t do it. I won’t let you barter yourself like this again.”
“He offered me an out remember. He’s not really trying to get me to marry him, just…date him, I guess.”
She stops and narrows her eyes on me. “You’re really considering this? You want to whore yourself out to Matteo just to gain power.” She looks disgusted, and it annoys me.
A humorless laugh slips from my lips. “Daddy would be proud.”
She opens her mouth to speak but freezes when a throat clears behind her. When she spins around, I see Sasha standing in the doorway, his shoulder propped against the frame and thick arms folded over an unnaturally broad chest.
“Sasha.” His name seems to get stuck in my throat as his eyes lock with mine. They’re ice cold and unforgiving. “I didn’t hear—”
His eyes shift to Gabi. “I have a name for you. Sergio Fonzo.”
I frown. “Who is Sergio Fonzo?”
“The man you need to kill, Ms. Bianchi.”
Ms. Bianchi. That’s new. I’m not sure if he means to wound me, but the cut strikes deeper than it should. “Or should I say, the man you’re going to pay me to kill?” The tension makes the air suddenly thick. His indifference and professionalism are one thing, but why does he sound so bitter? That’s not like him.
“Gabi, can you give us a minute?” I ask.
My sister hesitates before moving toward the door. “Sure.”
Sasha steps aside to let her pass before focusing on me again. He’s positively terrifying right now, and I truly believe that if he were paid to kill me, he would. There’s not a trace of mercy or warmth to be found in his glacial gaze. He is every inch the weapon he was trained to be.
“What is your problem?” I demand.
He lifts one brow almost lazily. “I have no problem.”
“You’re not a good liar, Sasha.” I find myself creeping closer to him.
“I did not lie.”
“You don’t want to kill this guy? Is that it?”
“I’m more than willing to do a job. Despite Nero’s belief, I have better things to do with my time than sit around and watch you play mafia boss. Or is it mafia wife? Again.”
Realization washes over me. “So, you overheard my conversation with Gabriella?”
“Yes.” And he’s clearly bothered by it. Good.
“It upsets you.”
“I do not get ‘upset,’” he says blankly.
“And yet you’re making sarcastic remarks. Let’s be honest, humor isn’t in your nature.” I push him, hoping I’ll set off enough of a reaction to crack that icy veneer. I need the man beneath the cold soldier, and I know he’s in there. I’ve seen him, kissed him…loved him. I don’t realize I’m only a foot away from him until I have to tilt my head back to make eye contact. He tilts his chin down, and his breath washes over my face. I can see the emotions he keeps so well leashed bubbling to the surface.
“Your life is of little concern to me, Adelina. Marry Matteo Santori.”
There’s the smallest tightening at the corner of his eyes. No one else would see it, but I spent so long trying to read him, I spot it immediately. The problem is, not only do I need him to be bothered by it, but part of me wants him to be, which is ridiculous.
Indignation raises its ugly head, and my temper skyrockets from out of nowhere. “You know what, Sasha, be mad at me if you want. Yes, I left you and went to Enrique. Yes, we slept together, and I married Enrique right afterward. You knew what my plan was the entire time. You knew what to expect.”
He stares at me, his expression completely blank.
“And now you act like I’m not even worthy of your time, as though I’m a disgrace, and all the while, you—”
“I what?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue. You killed my father. Instead, I take a deep breath. “You knew what I intended to do.”
He edges even closer until my chest brushes his. “And I tried to sway you more than once.”
“I succeeded, didn’t I?”
“Only to find yourself agreeing to yet another marriage barely a week later.”
I almost smile. “I thought you didn’t care.”
Our eyes crash together, my anger wrestling against his cold rage. My heart trips over itself, and feelings I thought long gone fight their way to the surface. I realize that if I’m to do this with him, I need them. I’m not a good enough actress for this. Sasha fell for a naïve girl with a soft heart. Mine has become so entombed in stone that, of course, he’s no longer weak for me. Weakness is his weakness. I close my eyes for a moment and think back to a time when he felt like the savior I never knew I had always needed. I remember how invincible I felt within his hold, as though he could deflect bullets.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Sasha.” When I open my eyes, he’s still staring at me, eyes like steel. “And I don’t want to marry Matteo.” I drop my head forward, and a long breath trickles past my lips. “Tell me not to.”
“Strategically, it would be wise to.”
Looking at him, I lift my hand and tentatively place it to his chest—his heart beats slow and hard beneath my palm. “Don’t think about strategy. What does this say?”
He frowns down at the spot where my hand sits. “I don’t know.” The words are confused, and for a moment, he sounds lost. Sasha is lethal, but in many ways, he’s like a child.
Seeing my opportunity, I slide my hand up his chest and around the back of his neck. “I told you I would come back to you,” I whisper, my lips barely an inch from his. “But you didn’t wait for me.”
“Your absence, when you were with him—”
It’s the tiniest crack, and it’s all I need. I cut Sasha off by brushing my lips over his. My heart stumbles, even as my mind recoils. I force myself to remain there, my fingers tightening on the back of his neck. His lips are warm and soft, so completely at odds with the steely, cold figure he is. His fingers wind around my waist, and I expect him to pull me closer, but instead, he pushes me away. His eyes remain closed, lips pressed in a hard line, like a statue. When he frowns, the scar that catches his eyebrow and runs down his cheek sinks into his skin a little. “I can’t do this with you,” he says through gritted teeth. And then he releases me and walks away.
I’m left in a state of confusion, not about his feelings, but my own.
6
Sasha
Enrique Bianchi’s home sits, an ugly glass cube set into the hillside. The sun reflects off it like a glinting gem. I press the binoculars to my face, scanning each window closely. It’s quiet, too quiet. Bianchi’s is predecessor clearly not using the property. The odd figure lingers within the walls, but I catalog maybe six men, not including the guards on the gate and perimeter. Security isn’t nearly as tight as it was the last time I was here, confirming further that the property holds no significance anymore.
I drop the binoculars and take out my phone, calling the contact saved only as Sicily #1.
It rings twice before a deep, heavily accented voice comes over the line. “Yes?”
“I need information.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Where is Sergio Fonzo residing?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Give me forty-eight hours. I’ll be in touch.” The line goes dead.
Forty-eight hours. It’s too long. Being here in Sicily, doing nothing, is making me restless.
It’s as though my body is trying to crawl out of its own skin as my mind fights the lingering chaos. The rational and irrational are in a constant battle of locked horns, and I no longer know which one is winning. One minute, I want to protect Adelina, and I’m angry at myself for harboring such engrained instincts toward her. The next, I want to walk away and never see her face again.
She killed Enrique Bianchi. She’s no longer a naïve, innocent girl, and yet she is, in so many ways. Because as much as she hated being a pawn, I realize, she knows no other way. And so this low, simmering rage continues because she went to such lengths to avenge a father who would have sold her. Only to achieve that very goal and sell herself yet again. For the hundredth time, I have to remind myself that she isn’t my problem.
I descend the hillside and climb into the car parked at the road at the bottom. The engine roars to life, and I pull away.
This bar is really more of a run down little café that happens to sell beer. It sits right by the beach but lacks the curb appeal to attract tourists. The entire place looks dilapidated and dirty. The sign is hanging off, and one of the windows is boarded up, though it looks as though it’s been like that for a while because the chipboard is beginning to rot.
There are only four tables inside and a few outside. Two old men sit by the door in companionable silence. They sip beers and smoke cigarettes, watching the world go by.
I take a seat inside, two tables back from the doorway. I know there’s also an exit to the rear, through the kitchen. The waitress approaches me, a young girl with dark hair in braids.
“Coffee, please.”
She nods and goes behind the little counter, starting the machine, which hisses loudly.
I’m sipping my coffee when a man finally steps inside. His gaze shifts around the small bar before nervously landing on me. He pulls out the chair across from me and sits down. He’s a small, middle-aged man with a faded-blue baseball cap shadowing his face. His jeans are dirty, and his hoody has holes in it.
“Sasha Ivanov?” he mumbles.
I nod and place my coffee mug on the table. “Do you have the information I asked for.”
He nods jerkily, his agitation clear. “Yes, here.” He slides an envelope across the table, and I snatch it, tucking it inside my jacket pocket.
“Thank you.” I hand him the receipt for my coffee and turn it over before handing him the pen. “Your account details.”
He writes them down, and within minutes, I’ve transferred five thousand dollars to his account. Men like him are cheap, though the risk is relevantly small, asking questions will often attract someone’s attention. Especially questions that are relevant to the inner workings of the Bianchi family.
He pushes to his feet, shoulders hunched over as he stumbles to the door and exits the bar as quickly as he came. I can feel the waitress’s gaze on me, so I drink the rest of my coffee and leave.
Once back in the car, I pull the envelope from my pocket. There are photos mainly; members of the family, men who work for them. But every one features the same man, Sergio Fonzo. His heavily scarred face is distinctive. His mother was Sebastian Bianchi’s sister, Enrique’s Aunt. Sergio’s parents were killed in a car accident, a bodged assassination attempt that should have killed the boy. Instead, he was left disfigured. I know all this because years later, Una and I were sent to kill his older brother, courtesy of the Italians.
Enrique Bianchi kept his cousin close for years, leaning on him heavily for the dirtier side of the business. He’s well known for torturing and killing without mercy. He’s a man with a story and a reputation. In the mafia, that means a lot. Men will back him, through respect, fear, or both. As far as they are concerned, he’s earned his place. This is the man that Adelina wishes to challenge.
My lips twitch as I consider that because truthfully, she won’t have to. This is no David and Goliath story. These days David pays an assassin to kill Goliath before the fight has even started.
This is the man I have to kill.
I turn over the first photo, seeing place names scrawled in black ink, along with times and dates. It’s a good place to start because Fonzo is clearly not at Enrique Bianchi’s former residence. They’re no doubt closing ranks, plotting when and how they will come after Adelina. A strong move from any new leader would be to avenge the old one. If it were me, I would eviscerate the Ricci family and send a strong message. I suspect they will act within days. People in the Ricci household know Adelina is there now, and loyalty is easily bought, especially when broached by what looks to be the winning side.
If I kill Fonzo, the Bianchis will be scrambling once more and descend into anarchy, but it won’t be for long. There is always another to take his place. I have to wonder how heavily Nero is prepared to push this.
