Page 65 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
A shiver tears down my spine at his words. What does that mean? He’s going to kill me? I walk out of the room, passing one of his men as he raises his fist to knock.
Once back in my room, I get straight into the shower. I’ve barely pulled on a shirt and leggings when a pounding fist hammers on my door. Opening it a couple of inches, I find a guy with a shaved head on the other side, a piece of toast in hand.
“Boss says you need to pack up. We’re leaving.” He takes a bite of his bread, chewing loudly.
“When?”
He checks his watch. “Half an hour.”
I close the door on him and press my back to it. Thirty minutes. It makes me wonder what could possibly have happened to send Enrique running on such short notice.
I grab a bag and start throwing clothes in it.
Half an hour later and I’m sitting in the back of a car, alone. Two of Enrique’s men are in the front, though they don’t speak to me. The car winds along back roads for hours, part of a convoy, until we reach a commercial harbor. All four black SUVs load onto the huge ferry, though no one gets out.
The crossing to Italy is long, and when we get to the other side, it’s still several hours before we reach a villa somewhere in the Italian countryside. By the time I stumble inside the house, I’m tired, and my back hurts from sitting for so long. The house is clearly unused. The air inside is stuffy, and a layer of dust coats everything: the floor, the furniture, the light fixtures. I snatch my bag from one of Enrique’s men and climb the stairs. The long hallway is lined with several rooms, enough to house a small army. I open a few until I find a small one with an attached bathroom, something that is clearly not the master, just in case I accidentally find myself in Enrique’s bed. With the door locked, I crawl onto the mattress and fall asleep almost immediately.
I wake in a panic, someone’s weight on top of me, pinning me down. A hand is clamped over my mouth, and my breaths become frantic with the restriction. I lash out, fighting against the hold.
“Shhh, shhh,” the person hisses at me. Enrique?
I fight even harder.
“There are people in the house! They’re here to kill us.”
Una. She’s finally come for him. I hear the fear in Enrique’s voice, and I revel in it. For the first time in weeks, something akin to joy blossoms in my chest.
I’m roughly yanked to my feet by my wrist. He’s like a crazy man as he peeks through the gap in the door. The methodical pop, pop, pop of gunfire echoes through the house. He throws open the door and jogs along the hall, dragging me with him. Ducking into another room, he hurries across and swings the doors to a balcony wide. His eyes scan the ground below frantically before I’m tugged forward.
“What are you doing?” I fight his hold, but he doesn’t let go.
“We have to jump. It’s our only escape.”
“No. I’m not jumping,” I screech.
“You have to,” he hisses. “They’re coming.”
The bedroom door explodes open, and Enrique shoves me in front of him. I was expecting Una, maybe even Sasha. What I did not expect to see were the pale, stoic soldiers dressed head to toe in black. I know from my limited run-ins with them that they’re Elite. The woman on the left looks as though she were chiseled from rock, and the man to the right has a permanent scowl set into his pale features. They both point their guns at us. She lowers her rifle, reaching for the radio at her waist before speaking into it in rapid-fire Russian. Another voice crackles through the device, and she returns it to her belt.
She then takes a phone from her pocket and presses something on the screen, holding it in her palm. The dial tone echoes around the room on loudspeaker. It clicks off, and someone answers in Russian. She says something, only a few words.
“Ah, Enrique Bianchi,” a man drawls in heavily accented English. “Do you know who I am?”
“I didn’t steal from you!” Bianchi almost screams, his grip on me tightening.
The man laughs, the sound sinister yet melodic. “Are my weapons not in your possession, Mr. Bianchi?”
“I thought those guns were Nero Verdi’s. I have no fight with you, Ronan.”
“It’s Mr. Cole!” the man snaps.
I think Enrique may have finally met someone less mentally stable than him.
“And I care not for your motivations. Only that you took something of mine.” He sighs as though he’s bored with this conversation. “It has been a long time since anyone dared to challenge me. Do you know what I did to the last man who tried?”
