Even as he casually removes his glasses, wiping the lenses with a handkerchief, his eyes never waver from mine. By the time I reach the wingback chair he pointed to, my heart feels like it’s going to punch through my chest. I drop onto the stiff cushion and wrap my arms around the stack of linens as hard as I can.
“You look vaguely familiar, Miss…?”
“Iris,” I whisper. “I… I work at the Spada Estate.”
“Hmm… I see.” He keeps his glacial eyes on me as he reaches for the empty tumbler and pours two fingers from the bottle. “Ice?”
I blink in confusion.
“Neat then.” He sets the drink that’s likely worth a few hundred dollars a glass on the side table between our chairs. “So, tell me, Iris, what are you doing here?”
Rattled by his nonchalant tone, I continue to stare at him dumbly. It’s as if he’s simply chatting about the weather.
“I’m helping out with the party,” I finally choke out. “I mean…I was. But…now I’m lending a hand with getting the guest rooms ready for the night. I…I must have gotten turned around and obviously entered the wrong room.” I try to keep my voice steady and force myself not to glance at the dead body just a few feet away, even as my heart beats wildly against my ribs. This close, the smell of blood is overwhelming. It’s invading my senses so vehemently I can almost taste the metallic odor on my tongue. The effort not to show any interest in the woman is colossal, so I keep staring into Mr. Ruffo’s eyes. But that gun, mere inches from me, is even harder to ignore.
“Mm-hmm. And? What did you see? In the room you entered by mistake?”
“I…I didn’t see anything,” I croak.
Mr. Ruffo tilts his head to the side, observing me with that icy stare without saying a word. Contemplating my answer, I’m sure. The silent moment feels as if it lasts forever. Hours. Days. Eons.
Panic wraps its claws around my throat. Any moment now, there will be two dead bodies in this room. I’m certain of it. My only chance for salvation is in the fact that I work for Don Spada, and no one would dare kill one of his people without his permission. Right?Right?Jesus Christ, I hope that’s how things actually work. Something tells me, though, thatthisAdriano Ruffo doesn’t care one bit about protocol.
“Are you sure about that, Little Iris?”
His baritone is like an unexpected roll of thunder on a summer night. Jarring. Turbulent. Threatening. So surprisingly deep. The sound rumbles through me, and every cell in my body tenses. I never would have expected such a sophisticated man to possess such a voice. A predator’s voice. And I’m the obvious prey.
A shiver rushes down my spine. I’ve been around dangerous guys all my life. But even in my time around Don Spada, the most volatile man I know, somehow I’ve never beenthisscared. Somehow, I’ve always known what those types of men were capable of. What to expect. They didn’t frighten me, even after I’d seen some of their atrocities firsthand. But ofthisAdriano Ruffo—I’m terrified out of my mind, without him even making a single clear threat. I haven’t a clue what he may decide to do to me. Kill me? Not? I simply can’t picture him doing it. But also, seeing him now, I can’t imagine he won’t.
As if my body isn’t my own, before I can even comprehend what I’m doing, I snatch the gun off the table. One second, I’m sitting next to a man I’ve kinda been crushing on; the next, I’m standing before him with a weapon pointed at his head.
An absolute hush falls over the room. Everything stills. My breath. My heart. The air. And then, as if slowly rising from the abyss, the ticking of a grandfather clock penetrates the dead calm.
“Three times in one night.” A subtle note of amusement tints Mr. Ruffo’s quietly spoken words as he refills his tumbler. “Well, that is certainly a record.”
I draw in a deep but shaky breath, gripping the gun harder. If my fate wasn’t sealed before, it definitely is now. Adriano Ruffo is going to kill me. Unless I kill him first.
My palm sweats as I tighten my hold on the grip and let my forefinger slide to the trigger. But I can’t make myself pull it. I just can’t.
My lower lip quivers. I inhale again, hoping it will somehow infuse some courage in me. It doesn’t work.
I can’t become a killer.
Can’t trade his life for mine.
Even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to live with it.
Slowly, I lower the gun. I do it with my gaze locked on those icy blues. While they watch me without an ounce of fear.
My legs start to shake, so I drop back onto my seat and lay the gun on the table, right next to the glass of scotch he poured. Snatching it up, I throw about half of the contents down my throat. It burns as it slides down my esophagus, and I double over, coughing and trying to suck in a breath. That only sets my lungs on fire. Tears well in my eyes as I struggle to regain my composure.
“Fascinating. This evening has been full of surprises,” Mr. Ruffo says, still casually leaning back in his chair. “Why did you not pull the trigger?”
“Because I’m not a murderer,” I rasp.
Silence descends between us again. It’s heavy and loaded. Suffocating. Mr. Ruffo leans over and, bracing his elbow on the armrest, props his chin on his hand. His frigid eyes bore into me.
“The safety was on.” His voice rumbles, punching through the strained lull.
