“What’s wrong?” Josef asks, his face instantly awash with concern.
“You are really pale,” Beatrice adds.
“I just felt a wave of nausea.” I place a hand on my stomach. “Maybe it was something I ate or too much wine.”
“You didn’t drink too much,” his mother says. “Perhaps something you ate didn’t agree with you.”
“I’m gonna go to the bathroom. I can meet you outside.”
“We’ll wait for you in the lobby,” Josef says. “It’s best we all stick together.”
I flee to the bathroom with beads of sweat dotting my brow.
Once inside the stall, I sit on top of the closed toilet seat and rest my head in my hands, taking measured breaths in an attempt to calm down. I’m an idiot, and my idiocy is going to give the game away or get my mother killed. My fingers tremble as I remove my cell and open the message Pablo sent.
All the blood drains from my face when the photo loads. It was taken recently. Cristian and I are on the dance floor, holding one another tight, our brows pressed together, and our mouths scant inches apart.
Fucking hell.
Pablo’s mole must be here.
My heart rate skyrockets as the organ thumps frantically against my rib cage. Sheer panic charges through my veins as I struggle to breathe.
A new message arrives, and I almost throw up all over my expensive dress when I read it.
Good girl. Now take him home and fuck him.
23
SLOANE
Cristian is waiting for me outside the bathroom when I emerge sometime later. I don’t know how long I was in there, panicking and hyperventilating, before I pulled myself together and found the strength to put one foot in front of the other.
“I was about to send in a search party,” he says, gently tilting my head back. “You’re very pale.”
Yeah, no shit. “I’m not feeling so hot.”
“Let’s get you home.” Cristian puts his suit jacket around me before sliding his arm around my shoulders. He keeps me close to his side while escorting me down the hallway toward the lobby, and I’m grateful for the warmth emanating from him because I’m chilled to the bone. I am not cut out for spying, and I don’t know how much longer I can keep pretending. I don’t know what to do; I have no one to confide in, and it’s killing me inside.
“Oh, sweetheart.” Beatrice lightly clasps my clammy face in her hands when we reach them. They are waiting just inside the doors, protected from the chilly February weather outside. A sleepy Elio is in his grandpa’s arms, his head resting against his shoulder. “You feel feverish.” Cristian’s mom looks over at him. “You should all come stay with us tonight. It’s closer, and I can look after Sloane.”
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest, hoping no one hears the hysteria in my tone. I don’t want to lead Pablo directly to Cristian’s parents’ house, yet it’s not like I can dispose of the damn cartel cell.
“Thanks, but we’ll head home,” Cristian says, and I hope the relief isn’t evident on my face. “We’ve got Sunday lunch plans tomorrow, and it’s best we sleep at the penthouse. Maybe next weekend?”
“Sounds good,” Beatrice agrees as six bodyguards appear outside to escort us.
The front of the once-stately home that is now a luxurious golf hotel and resort is closed to vehicles, but it’s only a short walk to the large parking lot at the side. Umberto lifts Elio from Josef’s arms. The little guy is fast asleep, tuckered out from all the excitement today. Umberto and Clint walk ahead while we hang back, strolling at a more leisurely pace as we talk. I cling to Cristian’s right side, my eyes darting wildly around the place. I’m on edge and probably imagining the eyeballs I feel on my back. I’m only half paying attention to the conversation as I scan the surroundings while we walk.
The grounds are stunning here. Miles and miles of woodland border lush lawns and manicured gardens. We pass by neat flower beds, enclosed behind decorative beige low stone walls. The area is well lit, though largely unoccupied as most all the guests are still inside enjoying the celebrations.
Up ahead, Umberto closes the back door after securing Elio in his seat. Clint is just rounding the front of the car as we approach when a flash sparks in the dark sky. I only notice because I’m avidly scanning our surroundings. I’m opening my mouth to say something when a pop rings out, and something whizzes over our heads.
It’s instant pandemonium.
“Get down,” Cristian yells, shoving me to the ground as his father does the same with his mother. “Papa!” Cristian roars, jumping over me to lunge at his dad, slamming him to the ground and covering him with his body as more shots pepper the air. The bodyguards have opened fire, but I don’t know what’s going on as I’m curled into a ball, shaking and terrified, with my hands covering my face. Is this Pablo? Is he done waiting, and he’s taken matters into his own hands? But then why send me that text?
“Is my son protected?” Cristian shouts.
