Page 4 of Loathe Me (Touch of Death 1)
“I’m here because you aren’t safe.”
I know the drill well. I spent most of my childhood being taught what to do if I’m kidnapped, how to throw a punch, shoot a gun, how to run and hide. It’s part of why I wanted to come to University in England. I needed to get away from it all, and after months of convincing my father that I could take care of myself, he eventually obliged. Of course, he sent men to watch me. He probably thinks I haven’t noticed them.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
“Stop asking questions, Adelina! Pack your damn bag. Now!”
Jesus, is a little information too much to ask for? I throw a couple of pairs of jeans, some shirts, and underwear in the bag. I then reach up on tiptoes, feeling around in the top of the closet until my fingers brush over a small wooden box. Taking it to the bed, I remove the lid. I grab my passport and a stack of bills worth about ten thousand Euros, and I toss it all in the bag. Then I scribble out a note for my roommate, Sara before I leave, locking the door behind me.
Gabi waits outside by the car. Her phone is pressed to her ear, and she’s talking in hushed tones. The second she sees me, she turns and lowers her voice as she rounds the car. My sister has become far more serious over the years. While I disappeared and went to university in England, she became my father’s second, forged to take all the responsibility that comes with being at the top of a Sicilian crime family.
Gabi is heavily involved with the family business, and for many years, I resented the close bond my father and sister have. As I grew older, I felt like an outsider in my own home. They would stop talking when I walked into a room and often treated me like a child. Since I left home, I’ve come to see my sister’s role for what it is: a lack of freedom. Gabi never had a choice. She had to stay in Sicily and fulfill her duty where I had some semblance of choice on what route my life would take. I often pity her.
Until times like this. When she turns up and just rips me from my life.
Ronaldo approaches me, taking my bag. “Miss Ricci.” He offers me a small smile, though it doesn’t reach the older man’s eyes. The old scar that runs from his eyebrow to the corner of his lip sinks into his skin. Ronaldo is like a really scary uncle that’s always been around, serving my family faithfully. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too.” I push up on tiptoes and kiss his cheek before he opens the back door.
I climb inside the SUV. Gabi is already seated, her phone in hand, fingers flying across the screen. Business. Always business.
I have no idea where we’re going now, but just as I always follow Daddy’s orders, I’ll follow hers. Such is the life of a mafia daughter.
The jet touches down, and I peer out the window at the distinctive skyline on the horizon. New York. As soon as the door opens, there’s a scent; sea salt and diesel, garbage and exhaust fumes. It drifts on the wind like a bad omen of what’s to come.
Daddy brought us to New York once, years ago. It was Christmas, and he took as ice skating in front of the huge Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. At that time, Gabi and I had never been any farther than Sicily or Italy, and we’d never seen snow. It was like something out of a fairy tale, but even then, I missed the heat of home. It’s been so long since I smelt the sweet scent of honeysuckle and jasmine and the burning warmth of the Mediterranean sun on my skin, broken only by the fresh sea breeze.
Cool air whips around me, dragging me back to my unfortunate situation. I shiver, clutching my jacket tighter around me. I’ve grown used to the cold in England, but this is worse, harsher somehow. Ronaldo hands me a pair of gloves, and I offer him a grateful smile.
“Thanks.”
He nods, opening the back door of a Range Rover for me. Climbing inside, I still when I see a man I don’t recognize at the wheel. His dark hair and olive skin resemble home, and it makes me uneasy. My senses are on high alert right now, not only because my sister came to get me, but she flew me halfway across the world. She won’t say why, but it’s never been so bad that I couldn’t just go home and remain behind my father’s protective walls.
Slowly, I reach for the door handle, tugging it. It doesn’t budge, and I pull it harder. The man’s eyes meet mine in the mirror.
