Page 41 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
“Sasha?”
He turns his face to me, his expression full of concern. It’s only then that I see the gun in his hand. My father’s gun. He removes the clip to check it before sliding it back in and placing it on the bedside table right next to me. “It’s a good gun.”
“It was my father’s.”
He inhales an unsteady breath and folds his arms over his chest. “I need you to know how truly sorry I am about your father, Adelina. Everything that has followed…”
I shake my head. “I loved my father, Sasha. He was a good man, but…everything that has followed his death is because of the decisions he made.” I drop my gaze to the sheets in front of me. “I loved him, but he set all this in motion with Enrique.”
He’s silent for long minutes; then his eyes close, his brows pinching together. “You knew I killed Eduardo the entire time?”
“Enrique told me. When I tried to kill him.” He waited until the pivotal moment, like the twisted psychopath he is.
“So, when you came back…”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I always planned to kill you.”
“But if you escaped, why didn’t Bianchi come for you sooner. It’s been weeks…” I almost see the moment he figures it out. “He let you go.”
“To kill you. I convinced him you were a common enemy. That I could get close to you.” I’m almost ashamed of my actions now. “I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“So why would you go after his business? Did Nero manipulate you?”
I shake my head. “No. It was a combination of things. I needed to stay close to you. I also knew that if I went after his business, Enrique would break cover. You would kill Enrique, and I could kill you.”
A small smile touches his lips as my stomach twists horribly.
I’m a terrible person. “Why are you smiling? I lied to you and plotted to kill you.”
“I’m proud of you.”
I swipe a hand over my face. “Don’t be. I don’t even know who I am anymore.”
He reaches out, cupping my jaw and swiping his thumb along my bottom lip. “You’re Adelina Ricci, and you have suffered far more than anyone deserves, but you’re strong now.”
I snort. “Not strong enough to kill you.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “I would willingly give my life for you, malyshka.”
I cover his hand with my own and lean into his touch. “I know, and that’s why I can’t kill you.”
“Bianchi will not get to you,” he vows.
I nod, but his words mean little. I love Sasha, but I’m scared of what I’ve just unleashed. If there’s one thing these last few months have taught me, it’s that a single decision has far-reaching consequences, ripples that have an untold effect.
“I have to go to him. And you need to play dead.”
Sasha’s jaw tics, his expression becoming murderous. “No.”
He’ll never agree to this, but I know there’s no other way. I can’t bear to argue with him, though, not now, when I know I’m so close to having to leave him. Again.
How many times will he watch me go to Enrique and still be waiting for me when I get back?
13
Adelina
I descend the stairs, glancing at the little speckles of colored light that pass through the stained glass of the front door and decorate the terracotta-tile floor. My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I take it out, pausing on the bottom step.
It’s a text from an unknown number. “Tick tock. Times up.” Enrique.
I start to type out a reply, telling him I’m coming to him when suddenly everything just comes to a halt. I hear a loud bang somewhere in the house, and the ground rumbles beneath my feet. A mirror falls from the wall, the glass shattering almost in slow motion. I watch the shards spread across the floor. I’m so focused on them that I barely register the explosion. I’m simply standing one minute and thrown through the air the next. And then everything goes black.
I wake up to a high-pitched ringing in my ears. My entire body is riddled with pain that seems to penetrate all my bones. Someone is touching me, grabbing at my face. I blink through foggy vision and focus on Sasha. His lips are moving, but I can’t hear anything. His face is tight with concern as he grips my chin and gently twists my head one way and then the other. Then his hands slide beneath my back and thighs before I’m pulled against his chest. He takes me up the stairs and into his ensuite bathroom. I can’t remember what happened or how I got here. My head is pounding, and a wave of nausea grips me when he puts me down on the vanity. I’m stripped of my clothes as he dabs a damp cloth to first one ear, then the other. He then touches it to my forehead, my chest—each time bringing the white washcloth away crimson before he rinses it in the sink.
