“Then you also know I don’t need your help to get what I want from your father.” The way he says it, sends a ripple of unease through me.
“And if you don’t shut that mouth,” he continues, voice dropping a fraction, “I’m going to be forced to knock you out.”
I hold his gaze. “You need me alive.”
A flicker of something passes through his eyes. Interest? Amusement?
He leans in until his face is inches from mine. His voice drops, velvet over steel.
“I can always go for another one of your sisters after I kill you. Camilla looked easy enough to grab. Or maybe the little one, Daniela. Eleonora perhaps. Plenty of Caruso daughters to choose from.”
A cold shiver slides down my spine before I can stop it. My skin prickles, my breath catching. He’s not bluffing. Men like him never do.
I open my mouth to speak but I’m cut off as a shot cracks through the air like the sky splitting open.
CHAPTER THREE
Eleonora
For half a second I think I imagined the gunshot. Then another one follows. Soon gunfire erupts around us in staccato pops. My ears ring instantly, the sound punching through the tinted glass like someone fired inside my skull.
The driver swears under his breath. Tires screech. The car jerks sideways so hard my shoulder slams into the door.
“Daddy dearest has finally decided to show. Took him long enough.”
Nico wipes the gun free from his jacket, already checking the chamber as he leans forward, the window slides down just enough for him to angle the weapon out, firing back.
“Stay down!” He barks at me.
I twist to look before I can stop myself, behind us, maybe three blocks back, two black SUVs barrel forward. Papa’s men. They’ve figured out the bride is missing.
More shots crackle, closer this time. Bullets ping off the armored side panels with dull thuds. The smell of burnt gunpowder seeps in through the vents, acrid and hot, mixing with the leather of the seats.
More shots crack. Glass spiders but doesn’t shatter. Nico fires once more, then pulls the gun back inside, already reloading with practiced ease.
“Clear right,” he says calmly to the driver.
“Down. Now!”
Before I can react, Nico’s arm hooks around my shoulders and yanks me low. His body covers mine like a shield, one forearm braced across my back, the other firing shots. His weight pins me, even as the car jerks and weaves.
He angles himself deliberately between me and the window line. A strange, disorienting thought flickers through my head. Didn’t he just threaten to kill me?
The car lurches right. Horns blare outside. The driver yells in Italian from the front seat. More shots. A distant crash, metal on metal, then the wet crunch of impact. One of the pursuing SUVs spins out; I catch a glimpse through the narrow gap Nico’s armallows: black smoke curling from a tire, the vehicle fishtailing into a guardrail.
The air inside the SUV feels thinner. My heart pounds so hard I can taste copper at the back of my tongue. Sweat prickles along my spine beneath layers of silk and lace.
Gradually, the gunfire grows distant. Only then does he ease up, sitting back slowly, checking the rear again. The pursuing vehicles are gone.
“We lost them,” the driver says.
“Yeah,” Nico responds, almost bored.
He surprises me again by helping me back into the seat. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I don’t bother responding, I scoot far from him as much as the car allows. We drive for what feels like forever but is probably an hour. And then the car slows. Gates open with a low hydraulic whine. Gravel crunches as we roll up a long, winding drive.
Trees close in overhead, blocking the sky. Iron fences topped with razor wire flash past. Guards, black-clad, rifles slung, nod from posts as we pass. The estate looms ahead, stone walls, tall windows with manicured lawns.
