Elsa
I watch as another soldier goes down with a bullet, and then Alessia screams. Chaos erupts, and I dive under the table. As the men scramble, Marco comes after me, apparently unconcerned about Alessia, who is still screaming out there.
Another soldier drops to the patio, dead. I cover my mouth, trying to hold down my pasta. What is happening? Some rival gang attack?
I know it isn’t Marcello. He couldn’t have been clearer on the phone in Marco’s car. If there is a rescue team coming for me, it isn’t Marcello Viscuso’s.
Zio Lorenzo?
That also seems unlikely. How did he learn of my kidnap? Maybe Marcello finally met up with him and told him how I had been kidnapped and how he has finally got rid of me as his problem.
Must be a rival attack.
Federico?
Marco grabs my arm. “Kick off those shoes. We need to run.”
I obey, leaving my flip flops on the deck. If nothing else, I need Marco to keep me alive right now . . . though I will still be looking for a way to escape.
He begins tugging me to my feet, but shots are still whizzing all around us. “Wait!” I shout, not moving. “Is it safe to be running around right now?”
“There’s a panic room in the master suite. I will take you there.”
Oh, no way. No way in hell. That will send my claustrophobia into overdrive. And what if he locks me in? He might die and I will have no way to escape. “I can’t go into a panic room.”
“Dai, woman. I have no time for this.” Carrying a gun in one hand, he jerks me up roughly with the other, not even caring when I stumble. Instead, his hand pushes my head down and forces me into a half-crouch position, then he towers me inside.
The rooms are eerily empty. I suppose all of Marco’s soldiers are fighting the gunmen outside. Enzo curses and shoves me toward the stairs. “Get moving.”
“Let me just hide in a closet,” I beg. “I won’t move, I swear.” I mean, I will run as soon as his back is turned, but Marco doesn’t need to know that.
“No, I need to keep you safe. You’re half of my plan to destroy Marcello.”
“Marcello doesn’t care about me!” Christo, doesn’t he get it by now?
“Look around you. He cares very much. Now, get your ass upstairs.”
As he tugs me up the steps, I look around wildly for a way to avoid the nightmare of a panic room. Anything I can use to distract him or hit him with. There has to be a way out. No one is coming to save me-I have to save myself.
We arrive at the top of the stairs and I pretend to trip. When I slip out of his grasp, I roll to my back then used my legs to kick at the side of his right knee with all my might. The joint gives a sickening pop and he howls in agony, leaning over to grasp the iron railing for support.
I don’t wait. I shoot to my feet and fly down the stairs as fast as I can, hurrying toward the front door. Marco shouts at me to stop, but I kept going, praying his injured knee hinders him long enough for me to get outside.
There is no one guarding the front. Jerking open the door, I see a Range Rover waiting in the drive and I sprint toward it. Suddenly, I am lifted off my feet. “Let me go!” I try to wrestle free, kicking and wriggling, as someone drag me back toward the house. “Stop. Let me go, you asshole.”
It could be one of Marco’s soldiers or one of his attackers. I don’t want to be a victim of another Mafia’s war. I have reaped enough pain from the previous one.
“Fucking let me go you piece of shit!” I cry out kicking and fighting. He doesn’t burge at all. This only makes me feel even weaker. I stop fighting when I realize I am just wasting my energy.
Whoever he is, he is too strong, and I find myself once more in the foyer of the beach house. Marco waits inside, his furious eyes focused directly at me, the promise of retribution burning in the dark depths. “You fucking whore. I should snap your neck for that. Take her to the panic room,” he tells the guard. “I’ll deal with her later.”
The guard starts marching me toward the stairs-then I hear a pop just before he falls forward, and I have to rip my arm out of his grasp to avoid collapsing to the floor. The back of the guard’s head is now missing, blood pooling onto the tile, and I bite back a scream.
I hate guns! I hate this! Papà!
I spin toward the door to see who is attacking-and find Marcello there.
Oh. My. God.
His white t-shirt and black pants are covered in blood, a huge knife strapped to his thigh. Flat, cold eyes sweep over me for the briefest of seconds, almost dismissing me, before he takes one step inside, his gun trains on Marco. This the capo of the Sicilian Mafia, the angel of death. A man who thrives on killing. A shiver goes through me and I forget how to breathe.
Marcello has come for me. How? Why?
While I am frozen there like an idiot, an arm wraps around my throat and jerks me into a hard chest. Cool metal meets my temple. I try not to move, certain that I will die. Even if Marcello manages to shoot Marco there is every chance that Marco’s gun will fire and pierce my skull.
Marcos rasp sounds in my ear. “Did you like the photos I sent, Don Marcello Viscuso?”
Marcello answers, his voice cool and detached. “Let her go. You’ve lost, Marco Rossi.”