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And then it seemed to happen simultaneously all at once, and also in slow motion, as if I were floating above the scene watching from a third person perspective. But I wasn’t…I was right in the thick of it.
A black Ducati screamed towards us, the rider’s identity obscured by a helmet with a black visor. Sebastian’s grip on my hand became painful. He jerked and pushed me into a store, turning so his back was to the street. He was shielding me while exposing himself. I didn’t scream. I didn’t have time to.
Pop–pop–pop. It sounded innocuous, like balloons popping. Or fireworks on Bastille Day. Not the sound of death. Not the sound of vengeance. Next came the sound of glass shattering. It was loud. Female screams right on the heels of it. The air was crushed from my lungs as Sebastian fell on top of me. I gasped and grappled for breath, but two hundred and twenty pounds of bone and muscle made it impossible. I didn’t have the strength to push him off, nor the air to speak. He didn’t make a sound and he didn’t move. Up until then, I was operating on adrenaline, numb from it. Now, for the first time that afternoon, I knew true fear.
“Fuck.”
His voice was music to my ears. That word was suddenly the best ever to be invented in the English language. When he managed to push himself up on his elbows, I took a long, deep breath that hurt my lungs. A violent coughing fit ensued.
“You okay?” he asked. A nod was the best I could do. I grabbed his face and inspected him closely. Even with broken glass all over his hair and shirt, he seemed uninjured.
Gideon stormed into the store. “Everybody okay?”
We both nodded. Once Sebastian was standing, they hoisted me up. Sebastian immediately went to work brushing the broken glass from the store window off my yellow sundress.
“Did you get him?”
Police sirens approached. All heads swiveled in that direction.
“Too many people in the line of fire.”
“Damn it.”
“Venice is no longer safe,” Gideon deadpanned. He wiped his sweaty brow with the sleeve of his linen shirt. At the sight of my scraped and bloodied hands and knees, his eyes grew soft and concerned.
“Time to go home.” Sebastian’s countenance and tone could’ve frozen hell. The honeymoon was officially over.
Chapter Seventeen
I could not have dreamed of a worse way to end what should have been the best few weeks of my life. Anxiety, escalating to monumental proportions, had me living on the edge of a razorblade. Every night since the attack in Venice, I had woken up in a pool of sweat. And every time Sebastian asked what the nightmare was about, I dissembled. I couldn’t very well explain that I found new and more grisly ways for him to die in my arms each night.
Upon our return, we holed up on the estate. Interpol and the FBI were contacted as soon as the attempt on Sebastian’s life took place. The day we arrived agent Vasquez and Lewis were there to meet us for a debriefing. Mr. Bernard was at the bar, pouring himself a drink, when we entered the living room.
“They’re getting desperate. They know that any day now the so called audit for tax evasion will start,” said agent Lewis. She pushed off the door frame she was leaning on and joined the rest of us that were seated.
Across from us on the couch, agent Vasquez bent forward and placed her elbows on her knees. Clasping her hands into a single fist, she asked, “Whose next in line to be CEO in the event of your death?”
“David has specific instructions. If I don’t have an heir, the bank would go directly into escrow to be prepared for sale. In the meantime there would be an interim board elected. With Charles being the largest account holder, he would automatically qualify to be a member. Day to day operations would be handled by Shay Savitch, my executive vice president.”
“What about a wife? Any provisions for a wife?” Lewis inquired casually.
“I don’t have a prenup––now that I’m married, my wife inherits everything.”
My gaze cautiously met David’s, whose dark blue eyes stared back at me in collusion over the rim of the cut crystal glass he sipped.
“So we can assume your wife’s a target as well now,” Vasquez added.
Sebastian’s burdened eyes flitted to mine. He squeezed my hand and replied, “Unfortunately, yes.”
Vasquez and Lewis exchanged an understanding. “It’s time to move on Mr. Redman. Tomorrow. At the office. Mrs. Horn, it’s best you be there too. Venice indicates there may be a leak at Interpol––you could be in danger.”
Mrs. Horn…the first time anyone had ever used my married name.
“She’ll be there,” Sebastian assured them.
“We’ll be in touch with the details.”
I turned to study Sebastian’s reaction and found none. His complete attention remained on the two agents seated before us. Composure was written all over the perfect angles of his face, his expression as placid as a frozen lake. He knew. The knowledge came to me suddenly. He’d known all along that Marcus was involved.
