Page 49 of Revenge on the Mafia

He whistled a slow, irritating sound that I felt all the way to my toes. “Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”

I hung up. Contemplated moving his money around. At the least, his bonds.

“You could call her.”

I turned to find the girl two steps away from the kitchen. She took in my glare but didn’t back off. “She has a phone.”

She fucking did. Why was I losing IQ points? Everyone who worked for us got new phones. Ones that we could track. Something we’d learned after the last time Enzo lost his shit trying to find Daria. But I wouldn’t call. Wouldn’t give her the chance to refuse it. I’d just track her down and drag her back.

ANNA

5th August

Es tan peligroso que no sobreviviré. No puedo jugar sus partidas.

He is the kind of dangerous I won't survive. I can't play his games.

Each tick on the rusty clock pounded in my pulse. Another twelve hours to crawl by before my flight. It was too risky to hang around the airport. So I’d made the Uber drop me back at the first dingy motel I’d stayed in before getting the job as Niccolò’s housemaid.

Lying on the bed, I stared at the ceiling. Counted the number of damp stains and bubbles around the cracked plaster. It was as messy as my life.

I’d only had one job to do. Even that, I had failed.

The memory of him pulsed in my core. His hand gripping my ass, fingers coiling in my hair, the way he’d buried his groan in my skin, the way he’d jerked beneath me.

Anna. His voice… the weight of lust in it.

Remembering his touch made me cross my ankles, squeeze my thighs, and bury my hands under the weight of my head.

Next to the door, my bag lay where I’d abandoned it. The weight of it was far less than my conscience. Guilt twisted my insides like the stain of oil on clear water. Papá’s death was in vain. A sudden memory hit me. Papá standing near his office window, smoking a pipe. I scrunched my forehead, trying to see more. But as always, it drifted away like smoke. Something always blocked me from seeing more.

I had so many questions. He taught me to play the piano. I knew that. How could a boring accountant do something magical like that? How could he have been killed? What had he done to deserve it? How could I think of getting answers when I didn’t even remember that he’d smoked a pipe?

So many unanswered questions. And his killer was still alive.

New York traffic buzzed outside. Every few minutes, sirens filtered into the room as loudly as if I were out there on the street. In my hurry, I’d left my headphones behind. Another mistake among so many. The bubbles and cracks on the ceiling merged into one blurry mess. A painful realization ate into me. I was done. This was it. It was already a miracle that I’d managed to kill the Don. A double miracle that I hadn’t been caught. I knew I should cut my losses and go back home because this was as far as I was going to get. I couldn’t move on. But at least I’d tried. The disappointment tasted like ashes in my mouth. That had to be enough.

The door clicked. Swung open. Niccolò Martello walked in.

My guilt was walking into the room. I blinked.

It was an absurdity that I wasted minutes on before I realized it wasn’t all in my mind. He was really there.

¿Qué demonios?

I didn’t move because I was too stunned to understand his presence. He’d found me so easily. So calmly.

His eyes traveled over my body. Cold steel plates that took in my crossed naked feet and legs. They walked up to my dress that stopped a hand's breadth above my knee. His stare fixed on it for a heartbeat, like he was willing the fabric to move. His jaw flexed. With a soft hiss of his breath, his gaze climbed up to my face. No part of that journey had left me cold.

“Get your bag.”

His hypnotizing gaze lost its hold. My brain thawed, and I moved into action. Sitting up in bed, I glared at him. How the hell had he even gotten inside my room? Completely intact except for the bandage on his neck. A joke on my behalf because it was ridiculously small.

I didn’t waste my breath asking him. There was only one thing I was sure of. I was done with this man. “No.”

For a beat, dark annoyance stared back at me. “Get your fucking bags, Anna. You don’t get to quit on me.”

He was back at his boot camp. I had to move or smash my head against the wall. Jumping off the bed, I said, “You don’t get to come here and tell me what to do.”