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“Sure.” I shrugged, rising to my feet. “Is nine going to be too early for the rug rat?” I asked Gideon, stretching my arms over my head.
He shook his head. “You haven’t even called to make the appointment yet.”
Placing a hand on my hip, I struck a pose. “Brother-mine,” I said, sliding into my model persona as easily as other women put on heels. “There is no way in hell anyone is going to tell me no.” I toned down the attitude, serious now. “Besides, I miss our girl-time as much as she does. I figured we would make a day of it if you don’t mind? Mani-pedi, facials, and maybe end with some ice cream and princess movies at my place. I can turn it into a sleepover if you need me to.” I made the offer, even though I knew he wouldn’t take it. As far as I could tell, Gideon had slept with only a handful of women since his wife had died, and none of them more than once. But I wanted him to know I had his back if he wanted to cut loose for the night.
Gideon smiled at me, shaking his head. “A day with her is enough time for one weekend. You’ll probably be counting the last few hours until I pick her up. I love her to death, but she has more energy than that pink bunny on TV.”
He wasn’t wrong about the energy part, but I had a secret weapon in my arsenal. Odds were that she would be asleep before the opening line of the movie ended. “I can handle my niece for a day,” I sniffed, giving all of my brothers a hug goodbye. “Face it, big brother, she might be a handful, but she’s got nothing on me.”
I pulled into my driveway a few minutes later. All of us Accardi siblings lived within ten minutes of each other, and I loved how easily it was to pop in and out. I sighed as I waited for the garage door to close, feeling the comfort of my sanctuary swirl around me like a warm hug. I loved my house. It was a sprawling single-story with vaulted ceilings and large doorways. I was tall for a woman, but I felt small in it. The entire interior was open space decorated in what I called cozy elegance. It was flashy enough to feel like a finished home but comfortable enough that I could put my feet on the furniture without feeling like I had committed a grave sin. The entire house was decorated in gray and white. White cabinetry, baseboards, and framing complemented the white-washed-looking wood floors. I balanced out the white with various shades of warm gray tones on the walls. It gave the home a classic look, and the touches of bright, bold color in the throw pillows and décor made it feel homey.
But just like me, the house had secrets. After disarming my alarm and clearing the rooms, I checked to ensure no one had planted listening devices or surveillance equipment before returning to the car and grabbing my luggage. As much as I would love to fall into my bed, I had a job to finish. I wheeled the suitcase into the mudroom, closing the door and locking it. Pulling out the makeup case, I tossed my personal clothes—because I sure as shit wasn’t owning something that I couldn’t toss into the regular wash unless it was for work—into the washer, starting the load. Once the water started filling the washer, I grabbed the case and turned to the large cabinet that held coats and dresses. Pushing the few garments in there aside, I stepped in. When I got to the back of the closet, I reached up, placing my fingers on the ledge at the top. Feeling the back panel swing open, I stepped down carefully, securing the hidden door behind me before reaching for the light switch.
Lights hummed to life, flooding the narrow stairway. I made my way down, scanning my fingerprints again before punching in a code when I reached the bottom, where another door slid open. As homey as the main floor was, the lower level was the polar opposite—stark and sterile. The harsh lights illuminated a basement that ran the entire length of the house. My office was tucked away in the far corner, a safe the size of a walk-in closet, with my room of weapons next to it. Other than those rooms, the entire thing was one big open space. A kitchenette setup lined one wall, with a comfy couch and living area next to it. I had another couch in my office that I could sleep on if needed, making the entire downstairs one large panic room.
Not in the mood to waste time, I walked to the corner that housed what I needed most at the moment—my incinerator. Built into the wall, it was large enough to burn a body. Not that I had the occasion to need it, but I liked being prepared for various scenarios. Placing my bag on the counter, I zipped it open and removed my body suit, gloves, and scalpel. The material was sticky with blood—the scalpel covered in it—but there was no way I could have disposed of it before now. I certainly wasn’t leaving DNA evidence behind in my suite. The suit and gloves were specially designed for my purposes—they absorbed a lot of blood without dripping and attracted loose or falling fibers, hair, and skin cells. The material also didn’t bleed through to the skin, which was why I could make such a bloody mess and yet scale a building and jump back into my shower with minimal mess and effort.
I fired up the incinerator, waiting for it to heat. While I did, I screwed off the top of a hole in the floor nearby, careful not to touch anything but the lid. Gingerly, I lowered the scalpel into the liquid. Hissing, it started bubbling immediately, and I quickly re-screwed the top back on. The acid would eat away at the metal until nothing remained. I would check tomorrow just to be thorough, of course. The clothing burned up quickly, turning to ash in seconds. I ran the unit a few more minutes, then turned it off. Tomorrow, once everything cooled, I would sweep up the ash and dump it down the drain, running the water to ensure it was just a memory.
With my cleanup complete, I turned on my heel to the office where my secure line was. Picking up the phone, I hit a button on the side. The screen on the base of the phone pulsed red for a few beats before turning green, letting me know the line was secure. I keyed in the number I knew by heart, waiting as it rang twice before someone picked up the phone on the other end.
“Shield,” the gruff voice said, sounding like rocks in a blender. The familiar sound soothed me as few things could.
“Sword,” I replied, both of us letting the other know we were uncompromised and alone. While I talked, I keyed up my computer, going through the footage that the system stored from my home security system while I was out of the country.
“How was your trip?” he asked, and I could hear classical music in the background. Try as he might, I never could tell Mozart, Handel, and all his other favorites apart. Give me country music any day of the week. Classic didn’t necessarily mean good, and in my opinion, some of that music should have been buried with its composers.
“Successful. Other than the fact I might have picked up skin cancer from spending the entire day trying not to fry like eggs in a diner. My bodyguard practically had to peel me out of the shower.” I smiled, thinking about Hammer’s expression when he saw me covered in beauty goop in that tiny towel when I answered the door. I clicked through the video clips. Other than a few birds landing in the yard, it hadn’t noted any movement. Not even my brothers stopped by to snoop while I was gone.
“How was he?”
“Perfect.” He hung up with little fanfare, liking to keep things short and to the point.
I sighed, hating that most of the males in my life seemed to have difficulty ending a phone conversation. My handler was probably the worst offender. In the almost nine years I’d worked for the U.S. government, I couldn’t name a time he’d actually ended a phone call with the word “goodbye.” I seemed to be the only assassin who’d been raised with manners—my daddy would have given me a whooping had I ended a phone call by simply hanging up the phone—but no matter how many times I complained, it never changed. Of course, I’d known my handler for so long, much longer than when he’d recruited me at eighteen, and even in person, he never seemed to know how to “people” well, so maybe it wasn’t manners as much as it was just the way his brain was wired.
Yawning, I powered down the computer. It had been a long few days with little sleep. I couldn’t trust Hammer to have my back—he wasn’t a true professional, after all. The trade-off of my profession—knowing how easily one could get into places they weren’t supposed to—meant I didn’t comfortably sleep without the full security I had at home. Catnaps sufficed to get me through, but I was wiped. And with Oliver escalating, I slept even less than I typically did. He wasn’t to the stage of worry—for me, anyway. But he had me paying more attention, more on edge, than in previous encounters. The trick with the teddy bear in the car last month wasn’t original or difficult since I could tell as soon as the driver was questioned that he’d lied when he denied leaving the car unattended. But the red rose on the table at Arnoldo’s last week was more concerning. I’d made those reservations less than an hour before, and the rose was placed there sometime between the busboy setting the table and the maître d’ leading me to it—a timetable of fewer than twenty minutes. He was lucky the cameras were down, but I’d stopped using Valencia’s complementary service to make restaurant and event reservations and purchases. I was sure he’d somehow charmed someone into giving him my schedule. I hadn’t even realized we’d been in the same country, let alone the same city. Mentally, I shrugged. If his parents didn’t get him under control, I’d have to come up with a plan of action. Until then, I was heading up to my bed for a much-needed night of dreamless sleep.
Chapter 5
Alessia
Despitejetlagandmylate night, I was up before sunrise. I tidied up the basement, finishing the laundry I had started last night. Changing into a sports bra and workout shorts, I made my way to the guesthouse. I had transformed it into a top-of-the-line workout room before I’d even moved into the house years ago, enabling me to get a ten-mile run on a treadmill before Matteo arrived without leaving my property.
Chipper as always, even though most barely considered it morning, he handed me a black coffee that was strong enough to stick a spoon in it straight up and kissed my cheek as he passed.
“How’s my Belle?” he asked with the slightest hint of a French accent, smiling innocently as I grumbled into my coffee. He knew I hated when he called me that. “So,” he said when I didn’t answer him, instead scarring my vocal cords by downing half the cup of piping-hot nirvana in one swallow. “What’s the plan today? You want to spar or just get a workout in?”
I considered my options. My hands hurt some from my free climb, mainly my fingers, but the idea of a worthy opponent in the ring was too much to pass up. I couldn’t do it nearly as often as I liked, and I was afraid of losing my edge. We couldn’t let ourselves go as much if I had a modeling gig—bruises that I couldn’t easily cover or explain when I was on a modeling job were problematic. “Spar,” I said, happy the next shoot required me in gowns that would cover me enough to hide most of the evidence of our bout, then sent him a wicked grin. “Then we’ll have to have you prep for a little one-on-one if you have the time.”
He groaned. “I already trained one generation. Do I have to help the next one, too?” Matteo wasn’t that much older than I was, but the ten-year age gap was enough for him to act like he was an old man compared to me. Granted, he’d helped me develop, but he was around to help keep both of our skills sharp more than bring my skills along.
Rolling my eyes, I reached for the tape. Matteo was fine with just gloves and head protection, but I had to do everything I could to keep the damage to a minimum. “Come on, Matt,” I taunted, knowing he hated when I called him that. “You know you love my niece. And more importantly, you want to claim responsibility for her abilities when she shows the world how kick-ass she is.”
He shook his head, but I knew him too well to take anything he said seriously. Matteo loved Gia, and Gia loved having one other person besides me who was in her circle of secrets. We both focused on each other as we stepped into the middle of the room. Matteo didn’t take the time to stretch; he just pulled off his shirt, telling me he had anticipated my choice and had done a quick warm-up before coming over. His dark brown hair was long, thick, and sticking out in every direction. His brown eyes were several shades warmer than his hair, but they were as sharp and serious as always as he looked me over, dropping into a ready position. Muscles rippled under his skin, which was decorated with tattoos. Army to his core, his service was clear to anyone who looked closely.
“I’m not going to take it easy on you, Belle,” he warned, and I grinned, joy coursing through me at the thought of not having to hold back, to pretend I wasn’t as capable as I was.
“Bring it,” I taunted. “I need it.” And I did, on so many levels. I needed the mindlessness of running on pure instinct, not worrying about revealing just how skilled I was or having to pretend to be an ice-bitch model or a beauty-queen sister. I could just be me, the deadly weapon that was honed and forged over years of blood and sweat and secrets. Sometimes I thought they might swallow me whole. Not wanting to waste a single moment of my time, I took the first swing.
