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I’m surprised, and she says sadly. “That man was responsible for the death of my mother, and he killed my family. Not literally, but it was destroyed the same night my mom died. I wish I could be there to watch the life drain from his body the way he watched hers.”
For a moment, I hold her tightly in the realization we have so much in common. Unlike her sister, this woman is grieving for the same thing as I am and if anything, it hardens my resolve.
“You’re already doing your bit.” I remind her and she nods, the worry etching her smile.
* * *
We reach the town,and the car stops in front of the pharmacy, allowing us to step out and head inside, our usual protection shadowing our moves. As we browse the shelves, my heart is banging as I pick up objects that have no relevance to my real mission today. Flora does the same, and as we pay, I hope the next part of our plan will work as smoothly.
The next stop is the salon where we have booked an appointment and as we step inside, the soldiers scan for any threats. Once they are certain the place is clean, they retreat to the car and wait outside for the two hours we told them we needed.
The stylist helps me secure the wig in place and as I hug Flora, I whisper, “I’ll be back before they know I’ve gone.”
She looks so wretched it makes me feel sorry that I’ve put her in this position, but I needed her as an alibi and her knowledge of the Matasso home was pure gold as she filled me in on the way over.
I quickly take the steps down and head out of the service entrance and hail a passing cab, my nerves threatening to ruin my usual calm façade when I prepare for a job.
This time it’s personal though, and that brings with it stronger nerves and I try so hard to wrestle my fear under control as I remove sentiment from my mind.
CHAPTER40
CHASTITY
Twenty minutes later, the cab pulls up at the Matasso mansion and, handing the driver two hundred-dollar bills, I say quickly, “Wait for me. It won’t take longer than an hour, thirty minutes, probably.”
He nods, throwing me a dismissive look that tells me he knows exactly why I’m here, and I don’t blame him because the woman who steps out of his cab looks like a whore.
The wig is the perfect disguise, and the ruby red lips are pouting with suggestion and it’s obvious I am wearing nothing underneath the trench coat I clasp tightly around me. My killer heels provide a useful weapon as I march up to the security gate and say casually, “Mrs. Matasso requested my company.”
The guard appears bored and slides his gaze the length of me before reaching for his phone.
After a short wait, he says, “You have a visitor, ma’am. She says you’re expecting her.”
It’s a gamble I really hope pays off as he hands me the phone. “She wants a word.”
My fingers shake a little as I grasp the phone and whisper, “Mrs. Matasso, I believe you are expecting me.”
Giselle Matasso stares back at me from the videophone and I watch as she peers closer and then recognition lights her eyes. “You’re late.” She snaps, assuring me she’s understood perfectly and is playing her part and as I hand the phone back to the soldier, I hear her say irritably, “Send her around the back. I’ll meet her there.”
He opens the gate and as I walk through, he points to the winding path and says roughly, “Follow that path and it leads to the back door. Mrs. Matasso will meet you there.”
I nod, appearing disinterested, but inside I am shaking like a leaf in a stiff breeze. I am taking such a gamble with this, but I can’t let this opportunity pass me by. If I wait for Leo, something could happen, and everyone would lose. If I’m unsuccessful, I know I died trying to revenge my parent’s murder and as a result, I would die happier knowing I tried at least.
When Giselle spoke to me, I knew she would help. She wants this even more than me, it seems, and is the perfect person to offer assistance. This obviously comes with risks attached, and I hope it wasn’t just another Matasso trap. If it is, I’ll be hitting on two people inside this mansion, because she will add herself to my target list.
I must wait for ten minutes, each one more agonizing than the next before the door opens, and she stands there, staring at me with a slight smile. “Good. I’ve been expecting you.”
She holds the door open and ushers me inside and, turning to me, whispers, “Good girl.”
This woman makes me nervous because she’s a snake in human form, but I must trust my own instincts and hope we have the same aim in mind.
“He’s expecting you.” She says as we begin walking and I say with an edge of surprise, “He is?”
“Yes. He has an important meeting this afternoon and usually likes to relax beforehand. Your timing is impeccable.”
She lowers her voice. “I canceled the one I had booked already. You’re welcome.”
I say nothing as I follow her up a grand staircase, every step taking me closer to my biggest success or death. We pass gaudy objects and dusty paintings, and I wonder why men like Giovanni Ortega and Carlos Matasso live in the past this way. Modern living is far more desirable, and I’ll never understand why people insist on holding onto the relics of the past.
