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Watching me, was he? His obedient little prisoner, free to wander the grounds so long as he can monitor her movements. Control freak—that at least rings familiar.
I glare at the empty window before circling around to the backyard.
The guards stationed on the property pretend not to see me, like they’ve been doing for the past few hours while I’ve explored the grounds. Aside from Sandro, the only familiar face is the bartender mafioso’s. Except Tommaso’s nowhere to be found.
I cross the Olympic-sized pool deck to the balcony overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea. Sandro’s white-washed villa is located on Sardinia, off Italy’s western coast. It's perched high on a cliff and offers views from every angle. It’s easily the most beautiful place I’ve visited. An island paradise.
Does a canary sing so prettily once she recognizes she’s caged?
I stare out at the sea. By now, word about Ciro’s death and my disappearance must have reached my grandparents. My poor grandparents, surprised by tragedy yet again.
“Tommaso,” someone calls out, drawing my attention to the man exiting the villa.
Finally.
He crosses the pool deck toward the large cabana on the south end and takes a beer from the fully stocked bar I explored earlier.
I square my shoulders and cross the distance to him. Maybe he can contact my grandparents? Get word to them that I’m alive. Offer them a lie, that I’m on a romantic getaway with the man of my dreams.
Nightmares would be more accurate.
The men around him stiffen at my approach. Tommaso spins around, and his eyebrow rises at the sight of me.
“Can I speak to you alone?” I softly ask.
“Alone? Hell no,” Tommaso mutters. Yet he waves the men away and then steps around behind the bar, giving us privacy while placing the beautifully tiled obstruction between us. He pops off the cap off a beer and drinks deeply, without offering me a beverage.
“Are you really a bartender?”
He pauses. “Yeah. Among other things.”
“I’ll have a gin and tonic, then.”
His brow wrinkles. But to my surprise, he makes me a drink, then pushes the glass across the bar at me.
I take a sip, then ask, “Is he going to kill me?”
Tommaso chokes on his beer. But he doesn’t answer, which, I suppose, is answer enough.
“I never lied to him. If Sandro and I had a traditional relationship, built on trust and communication, he’d have known I worked for Ciro. He was too busy bossing me around, too preoccupied with controlling me to ask who I worked for. I never hid the information.” I pause to take another refreshing sip, then use a napkin to dab at the sweat on my neck and upper chest, my skin damp with perspiration beneath this stupid uniform. Tommaso is careful to keep his gaze on my face.
“Did you know my apartment building exploded?”
After a long pause, he nods.
I frown. If Tommaso had seen the news, then Sandro knew. And made no effort to contact me or check to see if I was okay.
“My best friend is Ciro’s girlfriend. I moved in with them afterward. Ciro was there for me.”
Tommaso’s listening intently, so I push on. “I never suspected he was mafioso. And, as for unknowingly inviting Alessandro Beneventi, a notorious mafioso, into my bed …”
Into my body.
I flush.
Tommaso looks away and takes a long drag on his beer, emptying it before setting the bottle on the bar. He’s a good listener, making me believe he bartended for quite a while. How long has he worked for Sandro? Is he close enough to him to help me?
“Will you ask him if I can contact my grandparents? I’ll lie and say whatever he wants. I can’t bear the thought of them being sick with worry.”
