Page 14 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
When I round the corner, the first thing I see is a gun pointed at my face. I raise my hands, my gaze drifting past the weapon to the small blonde woman brandishing it. Her eyes narrow before she lowers the pistol, sliding it into a holster on her thigh.
“You’re the Sicilian girl.” At best, it’s an acknowledgment, and she turns her back to me.
It takes me a moment to calm my startled heart. “Yes.”
She starts the coffee machine before walking to the fridge. The way she moves… It’s just like Sasha. Her footfalls are so light, they’re inaudible. When she turns, her eyes flick over me. It’s not a judgmental look, more…assessing. Her hair is so pale it’s almost white, and her eyes are the strangest shade of violet blue. Her petite, curvy frame is clad in tight black clothing. Everything about her is hard yet feminine. “Nero said you’d be here. Where’s Sasha?”
“I don’t know. We don’t exactly…hang out.”
Her red painted lips twitch into a smirk.
“Uh, I’m sorry. I haven’t really spoken to anyone since I’ve been here. Who are you?”
“Una. Nero’s better half.” She raises a brow. Of course, she is.
I can just imagine them together. Dangerous and beautiful.
“Adelina.”
I’m not sure what the protocol is here. I’m not certain whether to shake her hand or what. She makes no move toward me, and her body language suggests that she absolutely does not want to be my friend. Everything about her leaves me unsettled the same way Sasha does, but she might be worse, less human somehow, and yet…Dante must be hers. He has the same strange colored eyes, slightly bluer than her violet, but unique all the same.
“Your Dante’s mother.”
And there it is. Her hard demeanour softens a fraction, and a soft smile touches her lips. “Yes.” She picks up her coffee, sipping it as she walks toward the living room doorway. “Welcome, Adelina Ricci.” She makes a point of saying my name, like she wants me to know that she’s aware of exactly who I am, one step ahead. She walks away without a backward glance; every step silent, lethal, graceful.
Well, that was…interesting.
As I pass through the living room, I catch sight of Una and Sasha down a hallway off the living room. I haven’t ventured to that side of the penthouse. Sasha’s head is bent low to Una’s level as they speak in hushed whispers. It appears intimate, and his head snaps up as I pass, those glacial-blue eyes locking with mine for a second. An uncomfortable feeling settles in my gut, and I pull my gaze away.
Nero has a reputation amongst the Sicilians. He’s considered the mad Italian who married a satanic Russian demon. I always thought the hatred of the Russians was ridiculous, but in all fairness, the mad Italian is the nice one between the two.
Scurrying up the stairs, I tell myself it’s a good thing. After all, if I need protection, scary people are what I want.
I stay in my room until the evening. My stomach growls, cramping hard enough to force me out of hiding. It seems my short burst of exercise has spurred my appetite once more. The downside is that I now have to go downstairs. It’s not that they’ve been awful to me; they haven’t, but I’m an outsider in their world, an imposter. I grew up around bad men. Killers. Criminals. But those men were family to me. Our lives were just as much about love and laughter as they were about the business. That joy is absent here, or I’ve yet to witness it.
I creep through the penthouse, expecting to find the place empty. When I reach the living room, I hear the soft, lilting tone of a woman singing. I assume it’s Margo, but I don’t recognize the language. Rounding the corner, I pause when I see Una. She sits at the breakfast bar with Dante in a highchair, singing as she mixes a little plastic bowl of food for him. He claps his hands with a wide grin on his chubby face. I’m intruding on a private moment, so I take a quiet step back.
“Come in,” Una says without looking at me. I pause, torn. She glances over her shoulder, and those strange eyes lock with mine. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”
Shuffling forward, I awkwardly pull out a stool and take a seat at the breakfast bar. I remember which drawer Sasha pulled a take-out menu from the other day, and tug it open, removing the first menu my fingers touch.
“Margo will make you anything you want.”
“Oh, that’s okay. I don’t want to trouble her.”
“It’s safer,” Una corrects. “Fewer people coming to the building.”
“Oh.” Of course, I hadn’t thought of that, but she’s right. “I can make my own food.” I get up and move to the fridge. It’s stocked a little better today with eggs, some spinach and peppers, milk, chicken. “Do you want an omelete?” I ask her.
