Page 57 of Love Me (Touch of Death 3)
The barrage on Enrique’s business continues, day after day, night after night. I can sense the fear amongst his men, hear the whispers that The Kiss of Death is coming for them. He tries to keep me away from any business dealings, but he’s also stopped leaving me alone as though he doesn’t trust his own men. Perhaps he thinks they’ll defect under pressure, hand me over to save themselves. After all, I killed Sasha Ivanov. It’s me the Kiss of Death wants. But I’m Enrique’s bargaining chip out of this. So, he takes me to various meetings but mostly makes me wait in the car.
Today, I’m sitting at a table in an empty restaurant, one of his men across from me, the young one who made me shower. Enrique and another guy sit a couple of tables away, but I can hear their conversation. The man is dressed in an expensive-looking navy suit, his graying hair and short beard perfectly groomed. I can almost immediately tell he’s not mafia. He lacks that edge that men like Enrique, Nero, and my father possess so easily, something that tells the world they are dangerous.
“This is drawing too much attention, Enrique,” the man hisses. “I can’t be seen to be involved in this.”
“Then do something about it. The Russian is here! What am I paying you for?” I would guess a governor or chief of police, maybe.
“You know as well as I do how impossible that would be. Even if I were willing to risk my men, she doesn’t exist. I can’t very well arrest her.”
I can’t help but smile at the idea of a mere human even trying to get close enough to Una to put cuffs on her. I’ve seen her train with Sasha. He’s lethal, but she is something else. I understand why she has her reputation—death itself.
“This is a blip. The first sign of danger and you run? Really?” Enrique presses on.
“A blip? They have very publicly destroyed two ports and an airfield, killed, what…ten of your men? Several of your cousins, two uncles…” The man tuts under his breath. “This is not a blip; it’s a war. I can’t sit back and do nothing while the streets run with blood. My integrity will be called into question. Want my support? Then put an end to this.” A chair screeches over the floor before the man walks right past our table. He politely dips his head at me and leaves the restaurant.
The man across from me stands, tapping his finger on the table, which I assume means I should get up. His gaze remains fixed behind me, and he looks nervous. Enrique storms past us, and I’m guided toward the door after him. Outside, the street is moderately busy, with people starting to emerge for the evening. Couples walk hand in hand, and families laugh as they pitter along the cobbled streets.
The man clears his throat and holds the back door of the car open for me. On a sigh, I climb in beside Enrique. I expect his anger, but his silence might be worse. He says nothing as we make our way back to the hotel. Una and Nero are clearly piling on the pressure, but to what avail. Do they simply wish to tear apart everything he’s built while he watches? That could take time. Surely, Sasha would not wait so long.
I honestly can’t say what Enrique will do next, but Una and Nero may just regret backing this particular rat into a corner. He’s rabid, and he bites.
As soon as we step inside the penthouse, Enrique ushers me toward the bedroom. I instantly tense, unsure of what comes next. He hurries to the closet and throws a dress bag on the bed.
“Put that on,” he orders.
“What? Why?”
“Don’t ask questions, Adelina.”
I peer around the corner of the closet, watching as he strips out of his jacket, then tie, then shirt.
Grabbing the bag, I hurry to the door and escape. Once inside the spare room, I lock the door and toss the bag onto the bed before unzipping it. Inside is an emerald-green satin dress. It wouldn’t be the first time Enrique has dressed me up like a doll and paraded me around. I can’t say I’m not sick of it, though. Just keep playing his games, I tell myself.
Stripping out of the sundress and cardigan I’m wearing, I step into the satin gown and shimmy it up my hips. The material is snug, clinging to every line and curve of my body like a second skin. It’s strapless, and the material stops at my knee. Turning around, I glance in the mirror, angling my head to the side as I study my reflection.
My jaw is still bruised, and bags linger beneath my eyes, ingrained by what feels like years of grief, but, in reality, is just years’ worth rammed into a few short months. I used to miss the innocent eyes of the girl I once was staring back at me. Now I don’t. She wasn’t strong enough for this. Now when I meet my own gaze in the mirror, I see just how splintered I look. I am fractured and reformed, a mess of pieces haphazardly stuck back together. I don’t work like I used to. I’m definitely not as shiny or pretty, but I’m here, I’m functional. Just.
