Page 29 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
I find the little stone bench that sits on top of the cliff, Mama’s bench. The view from this one spot is simply breathtaking in the day. The ocean stretches until it meets the sky, an endless void of blue. At night, the occasional boat can be seen, their lights dancing on the water like fireflies. I can’t see the edge of the cliff beyond, but it makes my heart flutter a little just knowing it’s there. A briny breeze kisses my cheeks, whipping my hair around my face wildly. A crescent moon catches on distant waves, its light swaying gently in a romantic dance.
My father always used to come out here to think. And so that’s what I do, sit and think, for what feels like hours. Think like Nero. What does Enrique value above all else? His pride, his power, his business. What would hurt him the most? What would damage his business?
I dial Matteo’s number and press the phone to my ear.
“Adelina,” he says. “It’s good to hear from you. Have you reconsidered my offer?”
“No, have you considered mine?”
“You knew my father wouldn’t like it.”
“Tsk, tsk, and there was me thinking the Santori family was pioneering a new era in the mafia.”
“Old habits die hard.”
“Indeed. I have a favor to ask.”
“Go on.”
“I need a contact, a client of Bianchi’s. You know everyone…”
“I would love to help you, Adelina, but you turned down my offer. I can’t be seen to take sides, and I can’t see why I should without motivation.”
“If you give me the contact, and I sway them to my side, I’ll give you a cut of their income.”
He inhales a deep breath. “A date.”
“What?”
“When this is all said and done, and you sit on the Bianchi throne, I want a date.”
It seems too simple. “I offered to date you, and you turned me down, as I recall.”
“I want one date.”
“Done.” My voice is laced with suspicion.
“I’ll text you the number of one of their gun suppliers.”
“Thank you.”
“When you speak to him, tell him…tell him you’re a friend of mine.” And just like that, he hangs up, and I frown at my phone screen.
Barely seconds later, my phone beeps and a text pops up on the screen. The name on it is Reaper with a number. That sounds ominous.
I dial the number Matteo sent me and place the phone to my ear. With each ring, my pulse climbs a little higher. At times like this, I feel completely out of my depth, as though I have no place calling people like this and trying to have any dealings with them. I feel like a little girl. Forcing the voice of doubt to the back of my mind, I steel myself, pulling an invisible mask over myself. It’s all an act, but one I’m learning to embrace more as each day passes.
“Yeah?” A voice finally answers, the accent coarse and British.
“Reaper?” There’s a pause, and he says nothing. “My name is Adelina Ricci-Bianchi. Matteo Santori gave me your number.”
A low rumble of laughter comes down the phone. “Well, well, I hear you’ve been causing all kinds of trouble.”
“I wish to meet with you.”
“And why would you want to do that?”
“You know why.” Men like this don’t get to where they are by being stupid.
“I’m not in the habit of having dealings with the enemy of my clients.”
I laugh this time. “But enemies require guns. War is good for business, is it not?”
A grumbled sort of agreement comes over the phone. “I’ll meet with you, but that’s it. One meeting.”
“Where?”
“I’m in Sicily in two days’ time. I’ll send you a location.” The line clicks off, and I finally release a long breath, relieving my lungs of the burning sensation that’s taken over.
Two days. I wonder if I have that long before Enrique contacts me. I can put him off that long. I know I can.
10
Adelina
The text came just as Reaper promised. The car winds through the countryside, slaloming around the quiet winding roads that lead down to the ocean. There’s a small dock that deals with smaller ships. Several warehouses line the front, and a sole security guard monitors the gate. As we pull up, he simply waves us through. My guess is Reaper uses this dock to ship his products into the country.
We pause on the dock front, beneath the glow of a lone light. I climb out of the car, my heels clicking over the concrete far too loudly in the silence. The scent of rotten seaweed and boat oil drifts on the cold ocean breeze. I shiver as it caresses the back of my neck and cuts right through the material of my dress.
There are no other cars here, and no one in sight. I fidget anxiously, barely able to stand still. That single street light casts the dockside in an amber glow, making the darkness beyond seem so much more ominous. I know Sasha is out there, lingering nearby, his crosshairs focused on anyone who might hurt me. That in itself makes me feel safer, but I can’t help the churning sensation in my gut. Something about this doesn’t feel right, and my father taught me to trust my gut always. But if I run now, then Reaper will have no further dealings with me. So, I stand steadfast.
