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What the fuck?
I turn my back to her abruptly and jam my fist in my pocket. Already, the bells in my head are pealing again, telling me it’s time to leave. Time to abort yet another failed mission. Time to accept defeat and call Fredo Batti, who will end this complication in a heartbeat.
“You remind me of the man we’re going home to bury, Mr. Vitelli.” She adds gently as if she senses my inner turmoil. Then I hear her soft footsteps recede as she leaves me to go and change.
Chapter Six
Sophie
What the hell am I doing ? I wonder not for the first time as I drop George off at Ms. Willoughby’s, my neighbor, and stalk to my Camaro.
Nico’s black van is parked beside it, and he leans against the driver’s side door, a phone pressed to his ear, barking orders in rapid-fire Italian and looking like all things sexy and sinful.
And let’s not forget, sinister.
I’ve just invited a stranger who wants to kill me along on a trip home. I bet he had a body bag in the trunk of his Lambo two days ago. And do I even want to know what he planned with that sleek black van today?
Why am I not crippled with fear for this man? Screaming and clawing to get away from him?
Maybe the same reason he needs to, but can’t seem to hurt me.
I sneak another look at Nico. Clad in all black, his suit jacket discarded, he wears a tailored shirt that clings to him, accentuating his physique in a way that leaves little to the imagination. The first few buttons are undone, revealing just a hint of black Gothic lettering beneath the fabric. I had somehow expected him to be covered in tattoos, much like Cade, but he’s not.
His thick, wavy hair is sexily mussed, and not from running his fingers through it—something tells me he’s not given to nervous gestures like that. He looks deceptively casual, leaning against the van, yet there’s a certain tension in the set of his shoulders and the way he scans the area. He looks like a sleek black jaguar poised to pounce.
You’re doing the right thing, Soph, Rafe’s voice whispers inside my head.
I choke out a laugh in response. You know how cats love to play with their food? Try telling me that when I’m lying in this big cat’s belly, or more aptly, at the belly of Lake Michigan.
Tearing my gaze from him, I open my car door, only to be caught off guard as Nico finishes his phone call, straightens from the side of the van, and comes to me.
“What, your duck isn't keen on flying?” he teases, a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. His dark mood from earlier appears to have lifted.
“George doesn’t mind flying, but I doubt the airline would welcome him on board. And frankly, he’s not too terribly fond of being eaten.”
Nico’s brow furrows, clearly not following.
“Where we’re going, they’d throw him on the grill,” I add, half-joking.
It’s not one of their finer qualities. But then again, they’d be just as happy to throw Nico on the barbecue if they knew that he’d stalked me and then tried to kill me, so they aren’t entirely beyond redemption.
“I’ll see you at the airport,” I say, then close my car door and rev the engine. Or maybe I won’t. A very large part of me is hoping he’ll abandon this game he’s playing with me. I ignore the small part of me that hopes he won’t.
Unfortunately, he remains in my rearview mirror, a constant presence trailing all the way to the airport, and slides right into the parking spot next to mine in the long-term lot.
I get out of my car and circle to the trunk without sparing him a glance. Once there, I open the trunk and unzip my suitcase. I’d removed the knife holster around my thigh while waiting at a stop light, but now, I hesitate.
It’s not the first time I’ve flown back home, but it’s the first time a dangerous criminal is tagging along for the ride. Having no means with which to defend myself in case he decides he’s bored of playing, leaves me feeling naked and far too exposed.
I sigh, squeeze the dagger hilt one last time, then tuck it into my suitcase.
“You’re going to need to take out your weapons here too, Mr. Vitelli,” I say without looking at him. “I don’t think security will let you past the gates with them.”
“Don’t worry about me,” he replies as I lift my suitcase out of the trunk and drop it down on its wheels.
I’m not about to press the issue. If he wants to get his ass arrested, then so be it. Actually, that sounds pretty ideal.
The shuttle to the airport arrives within a minute, and the short trip there passes in silence.
