I rub my chin. “Funny how you act like you’re protecting her, when you’re the one who dragged her into all this to begin with.”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“What?”
“I brought her what she wanted. I brought her the new guinea pig she asked for.”
“Let me get this straight … You shot her to persuade me to work for you?”
He arches a brow. “Look how it worked.”
My jaw flexes as a sense of fury spreads through my veins. He’s such a manipulative bastard.
“Why me?”
“Ah, what can I say?” He spreads his arms, smiling brightly. “You seem tough enough to keep her alive and stupid enough to play the hero.”
That fucking term again. Why does everyone think I’m a fucking hero?
“You know shit about me,” I hiss, staring down at him.
“It’s never too late.” He extends his hand. “I am Fabio Calvano.”
I glance at his soft, polished hand. It’s the kind of hand that’s never thrown a punch, never gripped anything but a trigger and a glass of imported scotch. He’s never had to fight for shit. He just pulls a trigger from behind tinted glass and lets his crew mop up the mess. All shine, no spine.
I should just kill him now and be done with it.
“You forget too easily, Fabio Calvano. I just told you my name.”
He doesn’t move, still waiting for a handshake. “What about your last name?”
“M …” I stutter, trying to hold it back. Fuck, I didn’t think of an alias. “Mitchell.”
“Are you a stutterer?” Wes asks, crossing his arms.
“Weird, I just got a chill down my spine. Do you have a window open?” I jeer.
He turns my chin with the end of his cane, forcing me to look at him.
“Welcome aboard, Adam Mitchell.” He lets go of my face, leaves the cane right next to him, and intertwines his fingers. “Your task is simple. Keep my daughter alive. Don’t let anyone touch her. Including you.”
My brows rise. “Touch her, as in …?”
He nods with a smile. “I’m sure you know what I mean, Adam Mitchell.” He pushes forward from the desk and looks at me in the eyes. “If any man touches my daughter, death follows.”
“A bit possessive, aren’t we?”
He pauses for a few seconds before he clicks his tongue. He takes out his gun and leaves it carefully on the desk. “Your job is very specific, and having an opinion isn’t it.”
“Okay, let me get this straight, because clearly my brain and Italian aren’t on speaking terms.” I cross my arms. “A man touches her—he dies.”
He scrunches his face, irony running through every expression. “Not quite right.”
“Then please, do explain.”
“A man touches her—shedies.”
My head drops forward in disbelief. “You’d kill your own daughter?”
