Page 14 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
My eyes close for a second, my body gravitating toward him without permission. Memories flash through my mind, the feel of his hands on me, the caress of his breath, the brush of his lips. They’re followed by a sickening kind of shame that has bile creeping up the back of my throat.
“Make a fist like this,” he says quietly.
I snap out of it, my spine stiffening. “I know how to throw a punch.” I’ve taken self-defense classes since I was six years old.
“You know how to defend yourself. It’s not the same as an attack.”
I swallow and fall into silence.
“Clench your fist like this.” He shows me, balling his tightly. “Straight wrist. Power comes from the shoulder.” He demonstrates. One punch and the bag swings, the thick metal chain it’s suspended from creaking. He steps back, folding his arms over his muscular chest as he waits for me to do the same.
I suddenly feel stupid, weak, and woefully inadequate. I punch the bag, driving all the power I have into it, and the bag sways this time, though not half as much as when Sasha hit it.
“Good.” That’s all he says before turning away.
I’ve been so occupied with the notion of getting close to him, I never really stopped to consider the actual act of killing him—Sasha Ivanov, a man trained for the sole purpose of ending lives. Perhaps for the first time, I realize how monumental my task is. I couldn’t kill Enrique, and Sasha is a damn site more formidable than a spoilt mafia boss. He’s a cold killer, a soldier, Elite. I stand no chance. Unless I can get close to him.
Unlike Enrique, I won’t make the mistake of hesitating.
Matteo’s home is a glistening white jewel in the Sicilian sun. A guard checks our credentials before the enormous metal gates swing open, allowing us through. Gravel crunches beneath the tires as we pass pristine lawns. Sprinklers arc high into the air, painting rainbows in the midday sun. Lorenzo pulls up outside the front door, and I step out of the car. The first thing I notice is the lack of armed men. As we approach the door, it opens, revealing only a butler. No guns, no men in suits.
“Welcome, Ms. Bianchi.” The butler dips his head.
I hate that name. “Thank you.”
Inside is an enormous marble lobby with a grand staircase. In the center is a table with a vase of scarlet red roses sitting pride of place. The red is stark against the white backdrop. A chandelier hangs above it, and the sunshine hits the crystal droplets, scattering speckles of light over the floor like glitter. Everything in here is too pretty, too perfect. It’s almost like being in a movie.
“Mr. Santori is awaiting your arrival. Please follow me.” The butler smiles and turns away.
We cross the lobby and walk down a hallway. Each room I pass is equally as beautiful as the foyer. I’m finally lead to the back of the house, where I find an enormous sunroom waiting for me. It’s so warm in here, like summer all year round.
Matteo sits on a white couch in the middle of the room, looking like something out of a magazine. He’s as impeccably presented as his home in an immaculate suit, his jet black hair perfectly groomed. He’s a handsome man with an easy smile, though he lacks the hardness in his eyes that men like Enrique and my father possess. His family lingers on the fringes of the mob world, respected and upholding of its traditions, yet relatively uninvolved in the grittier power struggles that run rife in our society. What money they make from illegal activities, they invest in legal ventures. They’re wealthy, though my father always said that if they were willing to get their hands a little dirtier, they’d be unstoppable. In a way, though, their family gets to live the best of both worlds.
“Adelina.” He pushes to his feet, long legs quickly closing the distance between us. His hands gently clasp my shoulders as he leans in, brushing his lips over one cheek, then the other. The clean scent of citrus and freshly washed linens greets me. I find my cheeks heating slightly under his lips.
“Matteo.”
“Please, sit. Would you like a drink?”
I step forward, leaving Lorenzo standing at the door. “Water, please.”
Matteo glances at the butler, and I hear the man hurry away. He resumes his position on the couch, and I take the seat opposite him.
“Your sister said you wanted to meet.” His expression suggests that he’s somewhat confused by my presence. “We heard Enrique was killed.”
“Yes.”
“By someone at the wedding?” Of course, Enrique has allowed the lie to get out, but a blurred version. Even in a false death, he’d never allow people to believe that his own wife could kill him so easily.
