Page 50 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
I step inside, and Enrique is at his desk like the prince on his throne. I expected to feel anger, hatred, anything… I’m just numb, too tired and broken to feel. The tiny smile on his face slips, and I know he wanted to hurt me, more than anything. I stand there, just inside the door. The other guy closes it behind me. Enrique pushes to his feet and comes out from behind his desk, eyes narrowing as he approaches.
“Darling. How are you?” he asks.
I blink, my eyelids feeling heavy. I can’t remember the last time I slept. “What do you want?”
“Well, Nero Verdi left me an intriguing message, requesting that you call him. I decided it was too interesting to ignore.”
Nero? Why? I say nothing, and a tiny line sinks between Enrique’s brows. He turns away, moving back to his desk and leaning against the front. He picks up the phone, dialing a number before placing it on speaker. It rings several times before the line clicks off.
“Yeah?”
“Verdi. You requested a call.”
“I did, but not for myself. Is your wife with you?”
“She is.” There’s a pause, and silence reigns for long minutes rather than seconds.
“Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Bianchi,” Una’s lilting voice finally drifts over the line.
“The Kiss of Death,” Enrique drawls. “To what do we owe the pleasure.”
“I thought it courteous to give you the warning you denied my brother before your whore stabbed him in the back. You hear that, Adelina? I’m coming for you. I will slaughter what is left of your pathetic mafia, and then I will find you.”
I know it’s all an act, but it makes me wonder what she would have done if I had killed Sasha. Then again, I have nothing left for her to take—no family, and without them, the family business means nothing.
“Do you hear me, Adelina Bianchi?”
“Yes,” I say, my voice flat and muted to my own ears.
“Good. And when I’m done with her, I’m coming for you, Enrique. I’m going to cut your limbs off and watch you bleed to death.” I can hear the cold smile in her voice.
The line cuts off, and Enrique laughs.
I turn away and wordlessly walk toward the door.
“So, you did kill the Russian.”
I pause for a moment before opening the door. He allows me to leave the room, and I’m grateful. I know I can only remain in this numb state for so long. Sooner or later, this darkness will give way to anger, and there is no room for blind rage when dealing with Enrique. He will undoubtedly die, that is the one thing I am sure of, but anger will not achieve that. I have learned my lesson on that front.
Days pass, one blending into the next in one monotonous existence. I’m not sure if I’m buried in my grief or am simply clinging to it now. I’ve come to like the bleak, gray fog that makes everything else fuzzy and unfocused. Every so often, I drift down memory lane. I picture Gabi’s face a hundred different ways, from childhood until her brutal death, and it always hurts.
I expected Enrique to taunt and mock me in my fractured state, but he doesn’t. The door to my room isn’t even locked. He has no need to imprison me because he’s broken my spirit, and he knows it. With Gabi’s death, he’s played his ultimate card.
I lie on my back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Suddenly, a loud shout cuts through the peace in the house, more like a roar, really. It’s enough to plant a grain of intrigue. I sit up, peering through the tiny gap in the door. Pushing to my feet, I tiptoe into the hall. The sound of things smashing and breaking travels up the stairs. I find myself creeping forward onto the top step of the stairs, then the next.
“Who was it?” Enrique shouts.
“The bodies bore the kiss of death,” someone answers.
“Damn it!” More smashing, and a tense silence that seems to entomb the entire house.
For the first time in what feels like forever, my spirits lift a little, and a tiny smile touches my lips. Una is making her move, and Enrique is powerless against death herself. I know this will only be the beginning of Nero’s strike.
“The shipment?”
“Gone, sir.”
“Fuck!” More banging. “Fuck! Fuck!” I’ve never heard Enrique so unhinged or enraged.
There’s a beat of silence, and a door slams before the distinctive clicking of shoes over marble comes down the hall. I scamper away, crossing the landing to my room. A few seconds later, and I hear someone in the hall. My bedroom door is thrown open with so much force that it collides against the wall with a crack.
Enrique stands there, his shoulders heaving on ragged breaths, pure rage covering his features.
I sit up on the bed, crossing my legs as I stare at him.
