“It’s in your best interest to be an excellent salesman then, Alessandro. You have my number. Let me know when you’re ready to talk again.” He seems relieved. “I’ll have my men deliver Lennon to your doorstep tonight.”
I stand, pretending to adjust my jacket to recover from the stab of pain in my ribs from moving. “Don’t bother. Just take her outside. My men are waiting and will take custody of her.”
His brow shoots up. “Outside of my home?”
I smile. Now I know which house she’s at. “Yes.” I nod at them both. “I’ll be in touch.”
Chapter 35
Lennon
I’m seated in a posh living room with marble floors, oversized leather furniture and walls full of oil paintings. Two Russians are keeping an eye on me. Kir, the guard I stabbed in the hand with a fork is staring daggers at me. I stare back, my eyes narrowed in warning.
He deserved it for brushing against my tit on purpose when he dropped a sandwich in front of me. Stabbing him was a reflex. It triggered the memory of Milo pulling the same stunt.
His phone vibrates. “Da?” His eyes flick back to me over his long, crooked nose as he frowns. “Ya ponimayu.”
After hanging up, he stands and talks to the other guard in Russian. They both turn to me, not looking happy. While the tall, lanky one checks his gun, Kir motions for me to get up.
“Well,printzessa,looks like you are leaving us.”
I push myself off the sofa and pause for a moment, waiting for the pounding in my head to settle. Once it does, I keep my gaze locked on them and move forward. I want to believe “leaving us” means they are letting me go. But for all I know they could mean “leaving” as in a “shooting me and dumping me in the ocean” kind of way.
I keep a few feet of distance between us as they lead me to the front door.
Kir reaches for my arm, and I jerk away, my skin crawling. “Don’t touch me.”
My head snaps to the side, a sting heating my face as he backhands me. I grit my teeth as he grabs my arm, squeezing and jerking me forward.
I will not cry. I will not cry.
As they march me out the front door, I pretend to stumble, my heel coming down hard on Kir’s toe. When he lets out a grunt of pain, I get a hit of satisfaction.
Two more armed guards stand on the front porch.
I take in my surroundings. There’s a full moon. The landscape palms rustle in the light tropical breeze. It’s paradise—unless you’re being held by armed sociopaths.
A few words are exchanged and then all four of them escort me down the brick driveway to the iron gates. Kir punches a code into a metal box mounted to the side of the gate.
As it slowly slides open, I shift on my feet, wondering if I should make a run for it. Then I remember the guns. Being shot in the back is not on my bucket list.
They shove me forward, and I gasp as I take in the scene in front of us.
A half dozen black Range Rovers are lined up along the moonlit street on either side of the driveway, engines humming, headlights on. A line of men dressed in black and holding semi-automatic rifles stand in front of them.
Kir’s fingers are still wrapped around my arm like a boa constrictor, his nails biting into the skin. I stifle the urge to suggest he invest in some nail clippers.
I glance up at him. I don’t understand what’s happening until I recognize the man who breaks from the line and jogs toward me.
Rocco.
He stops in front of me, his stormy gray eyes narrowing.
Kir releases my arm and says something in Russian.
The other soldiers laugh darkly.
Rocco sweeps his gaze over them, then reaches out and gently grabs my chin, tilting it so the cheek with the fresh red mark is in the moonlight. His whole expression changes, tightens into a blind rage.
