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But when I step off the shuttle and start toward the main terminal, Nico’s unexpected grip on my arm redirects my steps, his touch igniting an involuntary shiver that courses through me,
Ugh, get a grip, Soph.
“This way,” Nico nods in the opposite direction. “There’s a plane waiting for us,” he explains like it’s no big deal.
I can’t mask my surprise. His ability to circumvent the hassles of conventional travel logistics borders on the absurd. “You booked a private jet in the space of what, twenty minutes? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He shrugs. “Would you prefer to stand in line at security for the next hour?”
“No.” But I would also prefer not to be traveling with an armed psychotic hottie, so it seems my preferences aren’t ranking high on anyone’s list.
I sigh. “All right, let’s do this.” In for a penny, in for a pound.
And really, if Nico had wanted me dead, he could have accomplished that back at my house with no one but George as a witness. ‘A Mid-flight Murder’ just sounds like the title of a bad mystery novel.
So, I let him lead me across the lot to a private terminal and a sleek jet waiting beyond it.
There’s no general security line to go through, nothing but a handful of people who I’m fairly certain specialized in ‘kissing Nico Vitelli’s ass’ back in college.
“Buongiorno, Signor Vitelli,” each of them greets him with an overbright smile as we ascend the steps and board the plane.
“Is there anything I can get for you, Signore?”
“We’ll be in the air in just a few minutes, Signore.”
“A car will be waiting for you when we land, Signore.”
I’m acknowledged too, with nodding heads and a slew of “Buongiorno, Signorina.”
It’s like an onslaught of over-the-top kindness, and it leaves me reeling a little, glad to nod and hurry past them, taking a seat on the plush sofa that faces a polished wood table halfway down the plane.
Nico lingers at the front of the plane, conversing with the crew in fluent Italian, and the realization hits me—this is his crew, his jet, his rules. Suddenly, I find myself ensnared in Nico Vitelli's orbit, amidst his loyal entourage. I stare out the window and force down the rising panic.
As the plane starts to take off, Nico settles into the seat opposite mine.
“So, who is this man you’re going home to bury?” His question cuts through the silence.
I shake my head, determined to maintain a professional wall. “That’s not how this works, Mr. Vitelli. You do the talking, and I do the listening.” I return to staring out of the window, but I feel the weight of his stare like a physical touch.
It takes a while before I dare to meet his eyes. “If you’re trying to communicate telepathically, I’m afraid I left my sixth sense at the airport.”
His lips twitch with a smile he can’t quite seem to suppress. “You’re either very brave or foolish, fiammetta,” he muses aloud.
“Current circumstances point to the latter,” I mutter under my breath, thoughts of big cats and hunting games swirling in my head.
I just need to get home. Nico can’t do shit to me there. He might not even come back. I get a perverse sense of joy imagining the predator becoming the prey in a few short hours.
I’m surprised when Nico starts to talk to me.
“Maria met Leo when they were in high school. Did you know that?” Nico asks as he signals for a round of drinks.
I look at him, pointedly silent. If this is a way to find out what I know, then his plan is dead on arrival.
He pauses while a beautiful brunette delivers two glasses and an open bottle of grappa. I pretend not to notice the loaded look that passes between her and Nico as she fills his glass. She doesn’t spare me a glance before she spins on her heels and leaves us alone.
My gut twists unexpectedly as I feel my nostrils flare in irritation.
Why the fuck that look should bother the hell out of me is a mystery I don’t care to look into. For all I know, Nico might be giving her instructions to take me out since he’s currently doing a very sloppy job of it.
