Page 20 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
He nods, dark brows knitting tightly together. “For now.”
As soon as we’re inside, the car pulls away from the curb. My gaze flicks from the rearview mirror to the side mirrors and back again. I don’t like to be this exposed. The Elite are organized, militantly so. Them, against me, Gio, and one girl. I eye the heavy traffic moving alongside us at a snail’s pace and consider whether they’d try to make a move in the open. Una and I never would have taken that kind of chance, but then, we wouldn’t be stupid enough to storm an apartment where the odds were so clearly against us.
Gio swerves in and out of the busy New York traffic as car horns blare and taxi drivers lean from windows, shouting obscenities. It would seem as though we are drawing attention in the obnoxious SUV, but it serves a purpose. If anyone is following, it would be obvious. They’d have to swerve and wind through the cars just as well. Soon enough, we’re at the runway at LaGuardia. Nero’s private jet sits ready, his pilot and regular stewardess standing at the bottom of the steps.
Adeline climbs the stairs and disappears inside the small plane. I follow and take the seat across from Adelina.
“Where are we going?” she asks.
“Naples.”
“We’re going to Italy?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“Don’t we want to be a little farther away from Sicily?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I don’t answer, and she blows a breath through her lips.
“So, what? I don’t need to know?” No, she doesn’t.
My lack of reply has her jaw tensing and her face turning an angry shade of red. Leaning back in my chair, I close my eyes as the plane taxies for takeoff.
“Fine. Just ignore me.”
A slew of Italian words spill past her lips in a tirade, and I find myself amused. She’s like a kitten with its claws out. It’s not until we’re in the air that she finally falls silent, and I try to sleep, knowing I won’t get much rest over the next few days. Here, we’re safe, but the second we land, we’re at risk.
As soon as we land in Naples, we get a taxi from to the port. The ferry crossing is short, and we stand on the deck as the cumbersome boat makes its way through the calm water. Adelina stands a few feet away, her fingers wrapped around the railing and her feet only inches from the edge of the deck. The wild wind tosses her hair around like an angry lover. The distinct scent of the ocean drifts on the breeze, bringing with it a sense of freedom and endless possibility. I inhale deeply, embracing it. I love Una. We freed ourselves from an invisible cage, but at times I feel like I just stepped into another of my own making. New York feels oppressive to me.
I sense the same feeling in Adelina, a relief of sorts. Everything about her seems content, relaxed even, despite being on the run. Closing her eyes, she tilts her head back, and a hint of a smile touches her lips. Of course, she’s from Mondello along the coast of Sicily. I have researched everything about her, but even without an extensive background check, I’d know this is her home.
She turns her face up to watch the gulls riding the air current above us, and sunshine plays through her hair, turning it from brown to copper to mahogany. “I never want to go back to New York,” she says. “I missed the smell of clean air.”
I felt the same when I first left Russia and followed Una to the concrete city. I can still feel the icy chill of the only home I’ve ever known, the burning air that reaches to the very bottom of my lungs. There was space, always space, and endless snow, stretching for as far as the eye could see. Everything was just void…of color and heat and people. New York is a mess of sensations. A jumbled ball of sounds, smells, people, and buildings. Everywhere. In some ways, that makes it safer. An ant may hide amongst a colony easily. However, if it’s being hunted by another ant…
An hour later, we’re in Ischia, off the coast of Naples. The entire island can be crossed by car in less than an hour. There’s nothing here, absolutely no reason for anyone to think we’d be here, and that makes it the perfect place to hide. Two ants on an island. As soon as we step onto dry land, the locals stare at us, well, me. It’s winter, and tourists aren’t common this time of year.
We traipse over the cobblestone sidewalks that border the winding, narrow roads. Shops selling fruit and vegetable, clothing, and various trinkets all line the streets. The weathered buildings sit close together, their shuttered windows and little iron balconies bearing down on us just like their curious residents. We’re in a vulnerable position. Any one of those balconies would be an ideal vantage point to take a shot. If I wanted to kill us, it’s where I’d go.
