My brain refuses to work. “Passport?”
“You arrived here illegally, kitten.”
“There’s too much attention on us to risk taking you back to the States without a passport,” Angelo adds from the doorway before he leaves.
Of course. The English fucker drugged me before he smuggled me out. I have no recollection of the journey or the steps he took to conceal me from the authorities.
Kane says nothing more while he gently combs my wet hair to remove tangles. It takes a while. My stomach rumbles loudly. When was the last time I ate an actual meal? I can’t remember.
Also, I must have burned a ton of calories while out in the open, evading capture.
“Let’s get you dressed in some warm clothes, kitten, then you need to eat something.” He places the brush down and reaches for some boxers, sweats, and a thick fleece top.
My panties and bra are still damp, so I awkwardly peel them off, taking care not to put any weight on my ankle. It’s sore, but I remember Kane checking it when we arrived and saying it’s a sprain, not a fracture.
I wiggle on the bed as I pull the sweats and boxers on. They are massive, and I have to fold the waistbands over several times to prevent them from falling down. The fleece is warm and cozy, though, and I’m definitely not handing that back ever.
Kane averts his eyes while I get dressed, which I appreciate. Once I’m ready, he picks me up again and carries me downstairs.
The ground floor of the cottage is compact, with a small stone-flagged living room where a fire blazes away, and a tiny attached kitchen.
Angelo stands at a stove, his back to me. He looks out of place here. They both do. The ceilings are low, not much higher than me, and both men are tall. I wonder how many times he’s banged his head on the door frames and smirk.
A memory of the man I killed floats into my mind, sending my mood plummeting.
Will there be any repercussions from that?
I know the hunters wore body cams, so whoever watched the footage must have seen me attack him.
“Sit down, Chiara.” Angelo’s order makes me jump. He’s staring at me in concern as I stand frozen. When I glance at thesmall, scrubbed pine table, there’s a stack of pancakes on a plate and a pot of what smells like coffee.
Not needing to be asked twice, I pull out a chair.
“Where’s Kane?” I shovel scrambled eggs and chunks of pancakes slathered in syrup into my mouth.
“Collecting some more firewood.”
“Where are we, and who’s Declan?” I should have asked when he mentioned the guy’s name earlier, but my brain wasn’t back online.
“We’re north of Glasgow. Declan is Irish mafia. He’s connected via marriage to Kyril Orliov, head of the Russian mafia. Milo, Orliov’s wife’s other husband, is a tech genius. He helped us track you down, and because we didn’t have time to waste, he got Declan and his guys on board. It made sense, as they were already in the country on other business.”
From Angelo’s sour expression, I have a feeling he’s not happy about having to work with this Declan guy. No doubt favors were called in or asked for. That’s usually how it works with the mafia families. Favors are valuable currency.
I process what he’s told me.
“I want to meet Thea Orliov,” I mumble with a full mouth before swallowing. My stomach feels like it might burst, but I’m determined to finish all my food. Angelo might be an annoying asshole, but these pancakes are too good to waste.
Angelo’s eyes narrow. “Like I told you before, not going to happen.”
My eyes roll. The sweet man who washed the blood from me in the shower has disappeared, replaced by a controlling dickhead.
By the time I’ve stuffed the last fluffy pancake into my mouth, my eyelids are drooping. Angelo notices because of course he does. The fucker notices everything.
But before he can move in my direction, Kane’s there. He picks me up from the hard wooden chair and lifts me bridal-style. Idon’t miss the murderous expression on my husband’s face, but he nods.
“I need to make some phone calls anyway.IfI can get a fucking bar of reception in his fucking place.”
“Come on, kitten,” Kane says. “Let’s get you tucked in.” The gleam of amusement in his eyes tells me he’s well aware of how much Angelo hates that, but neither acknowledges the tension between them.
