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I’ve heard the rumors, the stories about the DiAngelo brothers and how together they’re known as the twin Grim Reapers, with Michael being the more deadly of the two. I’m certain now that my buyer didn’t die in the car accident. There’s no way Michael would have left him alive for long after what he did to me.
How could I have fallen for the one man in all the world I should have stayed clear from?
How could I have been so stupid?
My entire world has flipped on its axis, and all I can think about is getting out of here because I’m scared of what Dante might do if he discovers who I am. He has an alliance with my father. Even if he doesn’t want to hand me over, he could be forced to. And then there’s Liam to consider. They could take him from me, use him as a bribe or as a way to control me.
All I can think about is running. So I do just that. I turn and run.
“Rose?”
I tense at the sound of Michael’s voice.
“Rose? Are you okay?”
When he sits beside me, it takes everything to keep my eyes focused on the setting sun. I forgot the DiAngelo estate sits on an island. It’s the worst place to be when all you want to do is run. I’m literally surrounded by water.
Michael reaches out a hand to brush my hair back, and I flinch. It’s not intentional or because of who he really is, but it's more about taking my shot nerves by surprise.
“Rose, please.” The plea is evident in his tone, which only makes this next part harder. “Tell me what’s wrong. You promised me you wouldn’t run again, and you did just that.”
I take a deep, shaky breath and finally look at him. The sunlight catches on the gold flakes in his bright eyes, making him appear angelic when he’s anything but that.
“I’m so sorry, Michael. I had no idea who you were,” I whisper.
“What do you mean?”
It’s now or never. “My name isn't Rose Bennett. It’s Rosaleen O’Leary. My father is Patrick O’Leary, the Irish mob boss of Miami.”
Michael’s eyes fix on me, but it’s as if he’s looking right through me, lost in his own thoughts. My chest tightens with uncertainty. Did he hear me correctly? Do I need to repeat it? Or maybe I should say something else? Do something? Maybe he needs some space. Maybe we both do.
I shift backward, planning on at least climbing to my feet, when Michael reaches out and takes hold of my left hand with an ironclad grip that’s borderline painful. Raising my eyes to his face, I find his has drastically changed. Despite the sun’s setting rays, his eyes are in shadows, staring at me with no hint of recognition or compassion. It’s like he’s shut down. And I know now that I’m no longer looking at my Michael, but the man he portrays to the world.
The Grim Reaper.
Cold. Cruel. Ruthless. Unforgiving.
“Are you a spy?” He pronounces each word slowly like he needs to make sure I hear him clearly.
“No. Not at all.”
“Did you know who I was when we met at the club?”
“No. The night we met was my first night back in Miami after ten years away.”
“And when I rescued you? Did you know who I was then?”
“No.”
“Then how long have you known who I am?”
This feels an awful lot like an interrogation, and I almost wish he would just yell at me. Any kind of emotional reaction will be better than this robot-like attitude.
“Tonight. I swear.” There. A small flicker of emotion crosses his face, like my answer surprises him. “When we walked into the dining room, and I saw your father. I recognized him as my godfather, but I don’t think he remembers me.” It has been over ten years since he last saw me, and back then, I was a gangly preteen with braces and wild red hair.
“Why did you run then? How long were you planning to keep this quiet?”
I don’t like how he’s looking at me now. I want the other Michael back, not this dark mirror image. When I try to free my hand, he tightens his hold. If he doesn’t let go soon, he’s going to break something.
