I look at the four men kneeling by the greenhouse, their hands tied behind their backs. The bastards managed to shoot one of my guys while we stormed the place. I reach into my jacket, pull out my gun, and aim at the first dickhead in the line. The sound of my 9mm splits the air.
The other three men look at the body splayed before them, then start fidgeting, trying to get to their feet. I send two more bullets flying. One hits its target in the head, the other, in the neck. The last of Calogero’s men was able to stagger to his feet, but now he’s just standing there, staring at his dead buddies.
I holster my gun and set off across the lawn. With my peripheral vision, I spot Otto in front of the main house, motioning to my men to get outside. He’s holding a Molotov cocktail in his hand. I stop in front of Calogero’s surviving goon and pin him with my gaze. “Turn around.”
The man swallows and follows the order. His bound hands are shaking behind his back.
“You’re going to deliver a message to your don.” I cut the zip tie at his wrists.
For a few heartbeats, he remains rooted to the spot with his back to me, then, he chances a glance over his shoulder. “What’s the message?”
“Everybody clear!” Otto’s voice thunders from the driveway, followed by the sound of shattering glass.
Orange flames quickly engulf the interior of the house, climbing the walls to the outside and licking up the terrace posts. Dark smoke rises into the sky, spooking a flock of birds in the orchard. En masse, they take flight, their frantic cries mixing with the sound of crackling wood.
“That’s the message.” I nod toward the burning building, then turn around and head toward my SUV where Guido is leaning against the grill, watching the raging fire.
“Now what?” he asks when I approach.
“Recall every team from our European bases. We’ll need the manpower.”
“Already did. They’ll be here in the morning.”
“Good. Have them deployed at all the likely places where Calogero may hit us back. He’ll need a few days to regroup before he makes his move, so we have a brief window of time to prepare.” I get behind the wheel and pull out my phone. “And up the security on the house. I have to drop by Catania, and it’ll be a few hours before I get home.”
“Let me guess. Another visit to that jeweler?”
“Maybe.”
“You just started the damn war, but instead of helping me coordinate our men and make plans, you’re heading off to shop for trinkets for your Russian princess?”
“Exactly.” I hit the gas.
* * *
All the lights except for two sconces on the landing are off, shrouding the hallway in darkness as I walk toward my bedroom. I stop in front of the door and listen, but I can’t hear anything. Without making a sound, I turn the handle and slip inside.
The reading lamp over the headboard is lit, illuminating the bed. The neatly made and empty bed. Vasilisa is on the couch by the fireplace. Asleep.
I leave the golden bag on the nightstand and crouch beside my sleeping beauty, taking in Vasilisa’s face. Her eyes are a little puffy, and there are a few crumpled tissues on the floor. She’s been crying. A knot forms in my stomach. Reaching out, I brush my knuckles along her soft cheek, then slide my arms under her, and carry her to the bed.
Once I have her tucked in, I head to the walk-in closet and start gathering Vasilisa’s clothes. She will be mad as a wasp at me in the morning, but it doesn’t matter. I want to see her wearing nothing but my shirt again.
It’ll probably be the very last time.
Chapter 16
He was here last night. I know it the instant I open my eyes and find myself in bed instead of on the couch.
I couldn’t make myself go to sleep in the same bed where he gave me the most magnificent pleasure, only to crush me with his threats afterward. The other side of the bed is empty, but when I flip around and bury my nose into the pillow, his smell is all over it. The impulse to hug that pillow to my chest is strong, but at the same time, I want to tear the damn thing to pieces.
“I’m locking the door tonight,” I mumble into feathery softness, then spring out of bed and maniacally start pulling off the sheets and pillowcases. Once everything that bears his scent is removed, I head into the bathroom to have a shower. A foot over the threshold, I come to a jarring stop. The neatly lined up products—shampoo, shower gel, deodorant—mock me from the shelf beside the tub. All of them are his. Whether I want it or not, I’m going to be covered in his scent.
Well, not happening.
I grab the bar soap from the dish next to the sink on the vanity and get into the tub. It’s the only cleanser that doesn’t contribute to his manly scent, so I end up washing my entire body, hair included, with it.
Twenty minutes later, when I emerge from the en suite smelling like baby powder and with my hair in a frizzy mess (washing it with hand soap was not a good idea), I notice the exquisite-looking golden paper bag set on the coffee table. With slow steps, I approach the couch and take a seat, staring at the offering, feeling defeated. He bought me a present. Again.
I pull the bag toward me and take out two velvet boxes. The larger one holds a white gold tennis bracelet adorned with dozens of diamonds so flawlessly clear that they reflect the light like tiny little mirrors. A small diamond-encrusted charm hangs from the dazzling alternating cluster of gemstones on the stunning band. The shape is of the lily of the valley. I look down at my chest where the identical pendant rests over my cleavage. It’s the only gift from Rafael that I kept and wear.
My eyes sting. I press my fingers to the bridge of my nose and take a deep breath before opening the second box. It contains a set of matching earrings. This is not a random purchase, but a thoughtful token a man would give to a woman he loves. I struggle to swallow over the lump that’s lodged in my throat. How could he? You don’t threaten to kill the family of someone you love. And you don’t keep your loved one captive.
Carefully, I put the jewelry back into the bag, wipe the tears from my eyes, and head to the walk-in closet. The overhead lights turn on when I slide the door aside, illuminating the rows of empty shelves on the left wall where my clothes have been. I do a three-sixty, looking around in confusion. Rafael’s suits, shirts, and everything else are still there. But other than my underwear and socks, and the fluffy white cardigan, everything else of mine is gone!
“That jackass,” I snap and reach for his dress shirt. But then, I change my mind.
He wants to play dirty?
Game on.
* * *
“What a lovely morning,” I chirp as I step inside the kitchen, heading straight to the stove where Irma is cooking scrambled eggs. “Can I have some of that goat cheese on the side, as well?”
“Yes . . . of course,” she mumbles, her eyes as wide as saucers as she takes in my outfit.
“Thanks.” I smile and sit down across from Guido at the counter-height breakfast table. His eyebrows are in his hairline while he stares at me and does a great imitation of a fish struggling to breathe.
“Are we implementing a new dress code around here?” he asks.
“Not as far as I know.” I take the coffee carafe and pour myself a cup. “Why do you ask?”
“Yesterday, I stumbled on Rafael storming through the house in his birthday suit. He traumatized all the female staff. And now . . . you.” He motions with his cup in my direction.
“Your brother confiscated my clothes. Again.” I shrug and take a long sip. “I had to work with what I had available. It’s not like I’m naked.”
“I beg to differ.” He shakes his head. “I’ll tell Irma to pull down the blinds.”
“Why?”
“Because the gardeners are gawking at you and salivating. They may end up cutting off their fingers instead of rose bush branches.”
“I prefer natural light.”
Guido sets his coffee on the table and stands up. “I’m out. Don’t want to be around when Rafael sees you and loses his shit.”
