Page 27 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
“Sit.” He guides me to a seat at the front of the small boat before tossing something at me.
A blanket. The chill from the sea breeze has already settled deep into my bones, and I can only imagine how cold it is past the bounds of the harbor. I grab the rough wool and tug it around me, tucking it beneath my thighs.
With one firm yank, the engine sputters to life. The sudden noise sounds like an explosion in the surrounding silence, and it makes me jumpy. As soon as we’re away from the jetty, I breathe a sigh of relief, but it’s short-lived. That breeze becomes a fierce wind, snatching at the strands of my hair and tossing them in my face. The little boat is thrown up and down in the water, and I grip the tiny bench beneath me so hard that my fingers start to go numb through lack of circulation. It’s been a long time since I’ve prayed, but I close my eyes, begging God not to let me die on this shit box boat.
It seems to work.
We finally reach the port in Naples just as the first grey tones of dawn creep over the horizon. I’ve thrown up three times, and I still feel sick as a dog. Sasha steers the boat to the side of the harbor, and it nudges up against a little dock before he ties it off. Climbing out of the boat, he holds out his hand. As soon as I stand, my legs start to shake, and my eyes feel like they’re bouncing up and down with the waves. He pulls my entire weight out of the boat and onto the concrete. I stagger over to a small ledge and sit, closing my eyes, waiting for everything to stop spinning.
“We need to move.”
I whirl around and throw up again. When I’m finally done, I turn to find him smiling. “Glad I amuse you.”
“It wasn’t rough.”
“Well, if you’d found us a decent sized boat and not a floating fucking wheelbarrow, it wouldn’t have been an issue.”
“It was easy to steal.”
“Steal? Wait, you didn’t even buy it, or rent it? So, basically, you could have stolen any boat, but you stole that.” Now that I see it in the daylight, it looks so much worse, the bottle green paint peeling and flaking to reveal rusty steel beneath. The little engine on the back looks modern enough, but it’s basically attached to a Victorian-era bathtub. If I’d seen that in the daylight, there is no way I would have got in it. “You didn’t even give me a life jacket!”
“You can swim.”
“You don’t know that!”
“Yes, I do. You were a national junior champion.”
“What the—”
“You can sit here and hope that the vomit in your hair will dissuade Mr. Bianchi, or we can move.”
“Did…you just make a joke?”
He walks away, and I jump up, hurrying after him. Regular service has resumed apparently.
9
Sasha
Since I don’t own property in Sicily, I’m using one of Nero’s. His mother was Sicilian, and the villa was hers. It sits on atop a cliff over-looking the ocean. Far below and inland is the small town of Cefalù. I remove the bags from the taxi and pay the man. Adelina stands in front of the villa, her gaze drifting up over the cream vine-covered walls and terracotta-tiled roof. Little pink flowers bloom all over the vines, and I’m amused at the prospect of Nero owning something so…quaint.
I move a pot next to the front door and find the key exactly where he said it would be. I know Nero never comes here, so inside I expect dust and a tomb of memories, but it looks as though his mother left it only yesterday. Everything is clean and tidy.
“Why are we here, Sasha?” Adelina asks, and I ignore her. “If you’re trying to keep me safe then this is a shitty plan. The Bianchi’s run most of Sicily. You’ve brought me to where they have maximum reach, which means you must have an idea.”
I’m not telling her anything, and my silence elicits a sharp breath from her.
“I’m not sure you realize just how powerful they are.”
“The downfall of powerful men is often in believing that they are powerful.”
Her narrowed gaze meets mine. She tries to work me out, break me down, but she won’t. Her comprehension can’t stretch to someone like me. We are entirely different entities. That’s the way I like it, to remain removed from the masses of humanity. Apart. Other.
“Find a room, and stay there until I tell you to come out,” I order, handing her bag to her.
“Why?” Always questions. She never learns. “You know, I’m not a child.” Spoken with the rebellion of youth. On a sigh, she snatches the bag from my hand. Her grumbling can be heard almost the entire way up the stairs.
