He reaches into the car and puts his hand around my throat. Not strangling me, not even tightening his hand, but I know it’s a warning. “Yes,” he agrees. “You’ll be good, or you’ll regret it. Stay right there, little mouse.”
He slams the door shut and a wave of fear hits me, my head throbbing. I close my eyes and take a few deep breaths, blowing out slowly, trying not to yak up all over the sleek dashboard. The urge to hurl retreats, and I find my nose filled up with something spicy and aromatic, something that makes me remember that one tour of Italy I did in senior year, back when my mother was willing to shell out for that kind of thing.
Ever since she discoveredCute Crims, I’m not even allowed to order Italianfoodanymore.
I turn my face, following my nose, and open my eyes again. Alessandro has gotten into the driver’s seat, and as I watch, he starts up the car and pulls out. It’s dark, but the streetlights illuminate the car interior as we drive under them, a slow strobing in time with the throb in my head.
I feel a little better when I focus on Alessandro Castellani’s gorgeous profile.
The strong nose and generous mouth, the angular jawline with that perfectly sharp-trimmed beard that I can never replicate, not with my blond fuzz that grows in fine and meek.
He turns his face to look at me, and I can’t look away. This close up, I see how far the scar runs over his face—from forehead, through eyebrow, stopping just before it reaches his mouth. It makes me shiver to think how he got it.
He grins, or maybe just bares his teeth; it’s hard to tell. “Maybe I’ll make you as pretty as me, eh? When we get where we’re going.”
“Where are we going?” Maybe it’s my headache and churning stomach that make me brave enough to ask.
He glances at me from the side of his eyes, as though unwilling to let me see his full face again. “To your grave, perhaps.” I suck in a breath, but he chuckles at my reaction. “Ah, that sweet little face of yours… Even terrified, you’re still pretty,topolino.”
Everyone thinks I’m pretty at the start. It’s when I open my mouth that the problems start. Either I get too shy and tongue-tied, or I say things that I realize later were inappropriate. Unwelcome.
Weird.
I’m not great in social situations, and I know it. So I keep quiet now. If I’m alive because of my pretty face, I’d like to keep it that way.
“Yes, your grave is where weshouldbe going,” Alessandro mutters. “But you intrigue me.”
Intriguing is better than dead. I’ll take it.
“Incidentally,” Alessandro goes on in a conversational tone, “my father died from a cardiac arrest.”
I shouldn’t snort, but I do. “Okay.”
“You think you know different?”
“Everyoneknows different.” It occurs to me that, as usual, I’m saying exactly the wrong things. “I’m sorry he died, by the way. Sorry for your…loss.”
Alessandro says nothing, just drives on. I shut up, too, but when I recognize the street we’re on, the gates ahead, I sit up a little straighter. I’ve Google-stalked this place more times than I can remember.
Alessandro Castellani is taking me into Redwood Manor.
He’s noticed a change in me, glancing over again. “Don’t try anything. My men will cut you down immediately—or I will. You just sit there, look sweet, and do what you’re told.” He pulls up in front of a large wrought-iron gate, and reaches out to pull my chin around, looking me straight in the face. “You’ll do as you’re told, won’t you,topolino?”
My Italian isn’t great, despite my attempts to learn online, but I’m willing to bet I can translate what he’s calling me:little mouse. It makes me sound harmless.
Harmless is good. Don’t want the dangerous mobster to think I might be anythingbutharmless.
So I give a nod and he lets go of my face, giving that twisted smile once more before he presses the button to let his dark window slide down an inch. “Hurry up,” he says in a bored voice to the guard standing there, who gives a nod, and a hand signal.
The iron gates open with a small shudder, sliding wide to let the car through.
I try to focus on the driveway, try to fix landmarks in my memory as the car smoothly takes the twists and turns. Redwood trees march alongside the first section of the drive before the view opens out. I can see the grounds, the gentle rise and fall of manicured lawns, hedges and trees, glimpses of marble statues…
I stare out the windows, jumping a little when Alessandro’s low, smooth voice breaks the silence: “It’s a nice place, eh?”
“It’s incredible.” I’m stunned enough that I forget my vow of silence.
“So many places to bury a body.”
