Page 30 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
“No.”
“You’re exasperating.” She turns away and keeps stirring.
“Why hasn’t the alarm gone off?”
“It did. I disabled it.” She waves a hand through the air dismissively.
“How? You don’t have the code.”
“You might need a new alarm.”
On a heavy sigh, I walk through the house to the garage door where the little box for the alarm sits on the wall. The front panel has been pulled off, and a few severed wires hang out. I stalk back to the kitchen, my teeth grinding over each other. “You damaged the alarm.”
She doesn’t even bother turning to face me. “My father is a mafia boss with two daughters. You aren’t the first man to try to lock me up.”
“You leave us vulnerable to attack.”
“Then don’t lock me in.”
A rare lack of control washes over me, and I grab her wrist, yanking her to face me. I expect her fear, want it even, but as I meet her gaze, there is none. Only defiance. Behind those eyes, a war is brewing, and it matches my own. “That was stupid, Adelina.”
“No, you were stupid. It’s me they want. I’m every bit as invested in my own safety as you are. More so. Stop treating me like your prisoner and realize that we’re in this together. I’m fucked without you, and I know it.” Ah, malyshka. How foolish you think I must be.
I pull her closer, her chest bumping against my stomach. “I don’t trust you.”
She inches closer still until our eyes lock and our breaths intermingle. “I don’t care,” she whispers. Yanking her wrist from my grasp, she steps back and picks up a plate from the counter behind her. “I made you food.” She drops it on the bar in front of me before picking up her own and walking out of the room.
I haven’t seen Adelina all day. I’m sure she’s locked in her room, planning her next escape attempt. I check the time. It’s eight o’ clock, and I need to leave soon. Climbing the stairs, I knock on Adelina’s door and enter.
She stands at the end of her bed, wearing her jeans and a bra. Her eyes go wide, and she turns away, giving me her back. “Jesus, you know, when you knock, you’re supposed to wait for permission to enter.”
My eyes roam over the length over her back, stopping on the black rose tattoo that sits at the base of her spine.
“Why a rose?” I ask.
She grabs a tank top and yanks it over her head before facing me with her hands on her hips. “What do you mean, why? Why not? It’s a tattoo.”
“But it’s on your skin. Permanently.” Why anyone would allow another human to repeatedly inject ink beneath their skin for no apparent reason, I do not know.
She rolls her eyes. “It was my compulsory seventeen-year old slag tag.”
“Slag tag?”
Her lips twitch, and she ducks her head to hide a smile. “It means nothing. I was young.”
“It was three years ago.”
Now she glares. “I’ve matured a lot.”
I would beg to differ.
“Anyway, aside from being a pervert, why are you here?”
“I am not a pervert.”
She raises one eyebrow, and I choose to ignore her.
“I’m leaving.”
“Okay…” I slowly close the distance between us, and she eyes me like an approaching rattlesnake. “Where are you going?” she asks.
“I have business to handle.”
“I thought I was your job.”
“You need to stay here.” I take another step, and she wisely retreats.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry, malyshka, but I do not trust you.” I dive for her, tossing her over my shoulder.
“Sasha! What the hell—” She writhes and thrashes around like a feral animal.
I drop her on the bed and take the handcuffs from my back pocket. The metal snaps into place around her wrist before I fasten the other cuff to the headboard.
Her eyes dart from me to her wrist and back again. “You did not,” she growls. She lunges for me, and I simply step out of her reach.
“I won’t be long.”
“Sasha! What if Enrique’s men come for me? You can’t leave me like this,” Adelina begs, but I turn away. “Sasha!” Her voice breaks, and when I glance back, tears well in her eyes. “Please.”
“Your acting skills are wasted on me, Adelina.”
Her face instantly morphs into one of cold, hard resentment, her tears dissipating. “You’re a dick. You can’t do this!”
“Yes. I can.” I close the door behind me and leave the house, but not before I re-activate the alarm I fixed this morning.
The club sits in a basement beneath an ordinary residential townhouse. The main door sits on a quiet cobblestone street, so I park a little way down to keep a clear view of the front.
The only sign that there’s even anything here is the small sign above the door, elegant script carved from steel that reads, Essenza. It’s not lit and would be easy to miss. The clientele all appear high end. Men in suits, women in tight dresses and heels. A single man guards the door with his hands clasped in front of him as he assesses the street. Climbing from the car, I approach the door. The man spares me a brief glance and pats me down before allowing me inside. The music drifts up the stairwell from below; it’s a low hum that rumbles through the walls. In the main club, blue lights flash, cutting through the darkness. The outer walls are occupied by private tables and small clusters of people. There’s nothing unusual about the layout. The open floorplan makes scouting the place easy, except for the VIP area. The stairs are guarded at the base—as Nero indicated—and I have no doubt Bianchi will bring more security detail with him. I deliberately came here early so I could scout the place. The VIP is mezzanine that juts across a lowered area of the floor. There’s a short set of stairs up there, guarded at the bottom. I have no doubt Bianchi will bring more security with him.
