Page 33 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
I glance down the quieter side streets until I find one that cuts off the main road and down toward the ocean. There are a few cars parked at the end. It’s so narrow that the banged-up vehicles are touching the wall, most missing side mirrors from being carelessly swiped. I spot a little Fiat and unzip my bag, removing the metal coat hanger I stashed there earlier. I slide it between the window and cracked the seal, catching the lock and releasing it in a matter of seconds. Lorenzo taught me how to do this. He believed it was an important skill Gabi and I needed in case we ever found ourselves in a situation where we needed to run. Of course, we then used it to steal Daddy’s cars for joyrides in our teenage years.
I climb inside the little red car and yank the plastic panel away beneath the steering wheel. I dig in my bag and find the kitchen knife I stole. Severing the wires, I strip the plastic off the end, touching them. The engine coughs, so I twist them together. The car sputters to life with reluctance, and I touch the accelerator to give it a bit of life. I anxiously search the surrounding area, convinced someone is about to run out to drag me from their car. I pull away and turn around, heading back up the perilously narrow street until I’m on the main road. I’m nearly there, now to just make the two-hour drive home.
The house is a beacon of light. I haven’t been here in over a year, and I’ve missed it. The limestone villa sits high in the hills, overlooking the city of Mondello. It’s really more like a mansion. Daddy built it for Mama. She loved it, and when she died, he could never bring himself to leave. It’s the only home I’ve ever known, and I can’t believe he would allow the Bianchi’s to chase him from it.
I pull up to the tall metal gates and two figures separate from the shadows, their rifles firmly clasped in front of them. I wind down the window and Tony, one of the younger men in my father’s employ, approaches the gate.
His brows pull together in confusion. “Miss Adelina?”
“Tony. It’s good to see you.” His eyes flick over me, and I’m not sure why. “Are you going to let me in?”
“Uh, yes… of course.” He lifts a hand, and the gates slowly glide open. As I pull forward, I notice all the cars parked in front of the house. There’s no reason for this many people to be here. I can think of only one event that would attract such a crowd. A wedding. No, no, no. She didn’t. Jumping out of the car, I sprint for the front door. It’s locked, but I still have a key. Fumbling through the pockets of my bag, my fingers clasp around the metal. I shove it in the door, and it falls open. Two guns are immediately pointed at my face and then lowered.
“Miss Adelina,” the two men say in unison.
I ignore the men and rush through the house. People stare at me as I pass, and I slowly start to acknowledge them. They’re all wearing black. Every single person. One other event would bring this many people together… When I finally stumble into the formal dining room, I see the coffin. I instantly know, perhaps I always did, because I was right; Daddy would never run. Never. A sharp stabbing pain radiates through my chest, and I swear I can feel my heart cracking, splitting apart in a way that will never be repaired. The room falls silent, everyone witnessing a daughter’s crippling grief. Tears streak down my cheeks, and I move forward on trembling legs. Before I reach the coffin, someone steps in front of me. I blink and look up at the towering form of Ronaldo.
“Adelina.”
“You lied to me,” I whisper.
“I’m sorry.”
“I need to see him.”
He closes his eyes for a second. “It’s best that you don’t.”
I shove at his chest as hard as I can, and though it’s not enough to move him, he does move aside. Those few short steps feel like miles as I narrow the space to the closed casket. Reaching out, I wrap my fingers around the lip of the highly polished wood. On a deep breath, I lift it. The upper part of the lid swings violently, bouncing on its hinges. For a moment, I fix my gaze out the window that frames his resting place with elegance. I can’t look. I don’t want to; once I do, it will be true. But I know I need to.
I drop my gaze, and all the air rushes from my lungs in a painful breath. My father’s once strong and formidable features now appear withered. There’s nothing left of the man I remember. The deep bronze hue of his skin has turned a sick and waxy gray. And whoever did his makeup did a horrible job of concealing the bullet hole in the center of his forehead. As grotesque as it is, without the blood and gore, it’s almost tranquil. But it’s not, because my father was murdered. Shot in the head. Fifty years old, and his life was cut short. My breath catches on a sob, and the pain in my chest spreads until I feel it in the very depths of my soul. All I can think is, I wish I could see him. Just one more time.
