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“Hello again,” he says with a gleam in his eyes.
I’m certain that if anyone noticed my sly move to get into the club, he did. My heart beats in my chest. I’m worried that he might question me, and if he does and finds this gun on me, my cover is blown.
Instead of returning his greeting, I ask, “What’re you having?” as I eye the clear liquid in his glass.
“Bianchi Pura,” he says. “Come with me,” he demands, reaching for my hand.
Nervous about where he’s taking me, I let him grab my hand in his, and I slide off the barstool.
His hand is warm, massive, and swallowing mine up. My first thought is that I wouldn’t want to be choked by those hands, but now is not the time to back out on my plan.
I follow as he leads me up the spiral stairs to the club's second floor, and before long, we’re making our way to the locked terrace.
I can tell this is a VIP area. I’ve only seen a few people here at a time, and a special card provides access. I haven’t figured out how to get access to that card.
It doesn’t matter now because the owner himself gives me what I seek. For a moment, I’m lost on my mission because my mind is blown by the breathtaking view of the city and the sea beyond. The beautiful lights throughout the city remind me of the jewels in a crown.
“It’s stunning,” I say, looking out over the city in awe.
“It’s funny. I used to think that we owned all of this. My family has a powerful presence here in Cagliari, and my father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, and my great-great-grandfather were all its unofficial rulers. Now, my father is grooming me to become the same.”
“You don’t want that?” I ask.
“It’s not that I don’t want it, but I’ve realized it’s impossible. Owning property, businesses, riches, and all the material wealth our world brings does not equate to owning this. This city, the heart of it, and its people cannot be owned. People have free will to live their lives as they see fit. You can demand respect, impose restrictions, enforce rules, but you can never dominate anyone’s spirit no matter how much you take from them or torture them; you cannot contain a man’s true spirit.”
“Is that what you want? To contain people’s spirits?” I ask, turning around to face him.
He’s standing much closer than I anticipated, and I feel the warmth emanating from his presence.
Alessandro looks at me, and I see a sadness that surprises me. There is no room in my life to pity Alessandro DeLuca. The man is a cold-blooded murderer who just confessed to torturing people and seems to enjoy it.
“Never. I have no desire to contain anyone’s spirit, but I also have no desire to have mine contained either.”
“What makes a man like you tick, Mr. DeLuca?”
“Alessandro, please.”
“Okay, Alessandro. What inspires you? How are you wired?” I ask, narrowing my eyes as I take a sip from the wine he’s providing me tonight.
I must admit that he’s given me nothing but the best in wines. If our vineyard had produced a third of what he’s given me, we never would have struggled. The thought of that saddens me once more.
Our vineyard was purchased not long after our deaths were announced. I did not learn about it until a few months ago. For two years, I fought for my life, battling depression while trying to heal. All that time, I’ve wondered about the men who devastated my life and if I would ever get that information so I could exact revenge on my enemy.
Now, I stand before a man who might know everything that I need to know. I won’t let thoughts of sorrow stop me now. I must be the willing, seductive vixen I have to be to get information from him.
“Do you know who I am, Miss Campbell?” he asks, surveying me carefully.
Honesty is my best option.
“I’ve heard some rumors, but I’m not sure how true they are. I have discerned that you’re a powerful and influential man. A wealthy man who likes control, and you seem to be a successful business owner if your club is an indicator,” I say, holding the glass out towards the doors we exited. “After all, I heard this is the hottest club in the city, and no restaurant, bar, or club compares to it.”
He smiles and lowers his head slightly, looking deeper into my eyes. I take a step back, bumping into the rail behind me. I measure my breaths, trying to remain in control of myself, not wanting him to know that he’s scaring me.
If I’m to pull this farce off, I can never show my fear of him. I can’t afford to be afraid.
Placing both hands on the railing on either side of me, he asks, “What kind of things have you heard?”
Chewing on my bottom lip, I look down at the black stilettos on my feet.
