Page 28 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
I walk through the house and out into the garage. An SUV sits untouched.
I close the exterior door and set the alarm before getting into the car. Leaving Adelina isn’t ideal, but the alarm system is connected to my phone. If anyone comes in, or more importantly, go out of the house, I’ll know.
I have a small window and limited time to act on the information Gio sent me yesterday. He still hasn’t been able to track the whereabouts of Enrique, but one of his contacts assured him that Luca Santori—one of Enrique’s closest men—will be at a restaurant only twenty minutes from here, tonight.
It’s the only piece of information I have, so I need to act on it.
I drive down the winding driveway that loops over the hillside like a piece of dropped spaghetti. At the bottom, there are a few small cottages that lead into the outlying areas of the town. I skirt the busiest sections, following the coast a few miles to the next village. The sun starts to drop below the horizon, shimmering over the ocean and casting long shadows across the road in front of me.
I reach the town and pull up on a narrow cobblestone street with several small shops lining either side. Cutting the engine, I get out and survey the area. It’s quiet, with only the occasional local going about their business.
An old lady with a dog shuffles past me. “Buongiorno,” she says without looking up.
Farther up the street, two children kick a ball between them, laughing as they try to get it past each other. It all seems normal, but that doesn’t mean it is.
The restaurant is a beacon in the surrounding darkness of the otherwise quiet street. Fairy lights scatter through the ivy that crawls up the exterior of the building. As soon as I step inside, the silence of the streets is lost.
People chatter, their voices blending into a low, incessant hum that almost drowns out the lulling tones of the piano. Glasses tinkle and cutlery clings. My senses are instantly drowned, and it puts me on edge. I take stock of the entire room, spotting three possible exits. I note the diners: a group of college-aged girls, several couples, a few families.
Slipping into a table at the back, I take a seat and wait. When the waitress comes over, I order a bottle of wine that I won’t drink and a glass of tap water. She hurries away, just as Lucas Santori walks through the door, on time. He’s with a friend, and both are dressed in suits. They step into the busy restaurant, the pair of them laughing.
They take a seat and order. The waitress brings me the wine, opening it before she pours a glass.
“Grazie.”
She ducks away, leaving me to my dark corner of the room. And that is where I stay, watching, waiting.
The customers leave one by one, and I can’t stay much longer without my presence being noticed. Thankfully, the two men finally get up and stagger to the door, unsteady from too much wine. I give them a minute before I toss some money on the table, leaving the bottle untouched.
As soon as I step outside, I can hear the raucous laughter of the two men. They’re so oblivious, I could be right behind them, and they wouldn’t notice. I follow for several streets before Lucas’ friend claps him on the back. They kiss cheeks, and he disappears inside a building. Alone now, Lucas takes a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it, strolling along the cobblestone street. When he slips into shadows of the nearby buildings, I make my move. His drunken state makes him easy prey. Sliding my gun from the holster, I shove him into a side alley. He stumbles, reaching clumsily for the weapon beneath his jacket. But my hand is on his back, shoving him face first against the wall before he can move. I press the barrel of my gun to the back of his skull. “I will not hesitate to kill you.”
“Do you know who I am?” he slurs.
“Who you are is why I am here.”
I turn him around, pinning him to the wall by his throat. His mouth opens and closes like a dying fish.
Piggy eyes glare at me with venom, and he grits his teeth on a snarl. “Portatore di morte.” Bringer of death.
Over the years, the Elite have become feared and respected by almost every criminal organization in the world. The Mexicans named us the Devil’s servants, the immortal warriors of Satan. Una was always the most prolific of Nicholai’s killers, referred to as The Angel of Death or the Kiss of Death, for her calling card. I’ve been called a death bringer, a demon, and even God’s judgment by pious men. The reputation of the Elite has spanned the globe, unrivaled, and more often than not, it works in my favor.
