Page 18 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
“Your life is of little concern to me, Adelina. Marry Matteo Santori.”
There’s the smallest tightening at the corner of his eyes. No one else would see it, but I spent so long trying to read him, I spot it immediately. The problem is, not only do I need him to be bothered by it, but part of me wants him to be, which is ridiculous.
Indignation raises its ugly head, and my temper skyrockets from out of nowhere. “You know what, Sasha, be mad at me if you want. Yes, I left you and went to Enrique. Yes, we slept together, and I married Enrique right afterward. You knew what my plan was the entire time. You knew what to expect.”
He stares at me, his expression completely blank.
“And now you act like I’m not even worthy of your time, as though I’m a disgrace, and all the while, you—”
“I what?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue. You killed my father. Instead, I take a deep breath. “You knew what I intended to do.”
He edges even closer until my chest brushes his. “And I tried to sway you more than once.”
“I succeeded, didn’t I?”
“Only to find yourself agreeing to yet another marriage barely a week later.”
I almost smile. “I thought you didn’t care.”
Our eyes crash together, my anger wrestling against his cold rage. My heart trips over itself, and feelings I thought long gone fight their way to the surface. I realize that if I’m to do this with him, I need them. I’m not a good enough actress for this. Sasha fell for a naïve girl with a soft heart. Mine has become so entombed in stone that, of course, he’s no longer weak for me. Weakness is his weakness. I close my eyes for a moment and think back to a time when he felt like the savior I never knew I had always needed. I remember how invincible I felt within his hold, as though he could deflect bullets.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Sasha.” When I open my eyes, he’s still staring at me, eyes like steel. “And I don’t want to marry Matteo.” I drop my head forward, and a long breath trickles past my lips. “Tell me not to.”
“Strategically, it would be wise to.”
Looking at him, I lift my hand and tentatively place it to his chest—his heart beats slow and hard beneath my palm. “Don’t think about strategy. What does this say?”
He frowns down at the spot where my hand sits. “I don’t know.” The words are confused, and for a moment, he sounds lost. Sasha is lethal, but in many ways, he’s like a child.
Seeing my opportunity, I slide my hand up his chest and around the back of his neck. “I told you I would come back to you,” I whisper, my lips barely an inch from his. “But you didn’t wait for me.”
“Your absence, when you were with him—”
It’s the tiniest crack, and it’s all I need. I cut Sasha off by brushing my lips over his. My heart stumbles, even as my mind recoils. I force myself to remain there, my fingers tightening on the back of his neck. His lips are warm and soft, so completely at odds with the steely, cold figure he is. His fingers wind around my waist, and I expect him to pull me closer, but instead, he pushes me away. His eyes remain closed, lips pressed in a hard line, like a statue. When he frowns, the scar that catches his eyebrow and runs down his cheek sinks into his skin a little. “I can’t do this with you,” he says through gritted teeth. And then he releases me and walks away.
I’m left in a state of confusion, not about his feelings, but my own.
6
Sasha
Enrique Bianchi’s home sits, an ugly glass cube set into the hillside. The sun reflects off it like a glinting gem. I press the binoculars to my face, scanning each window closely. It’s quiet, too quiet. Bianchi’s is predecessor clearly not using the property. The odd figure lingers within the walls, but I catalog maybe six men, not including the guards on the gate and perimeter. Security isn’t nearly as tight as it was the last time I was here, confirming further that the property holds no significance anymore.
I drop the binoculars and take out my phone, calling the contact saved only as Sicily #1.
It rings twice before a deep, heavily accented voice comes over the line. “Yes?”
“I need information.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Where is Sergio Fonzo residing?”
There’s a beat of silence. “Give me forty-eight hours. I’ll be in touch.” The line goes dead.
Forty-eight hours. It’s too long. Being here in Sicily, doing nothing, is making me restless.
It’s as though my body is trying to crawl out of its own skin as my mind fights the lingering chaos. The rational and irrational are in a constant battle of locked horns, and I no longer know which one is winning. One minute, I want to protect Adelina, and I’m angry at myself for harboring such engrained instincts toward her. The next, I want to walk away and never see her face again.
