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Mrs. Pisano walks down the stone steps ahead of me and toward the silver sedan on the driveway that I assume to be hers. With my height, there is no way I’m going to fit into that fancy shitbox.
“We’re taking my car,” I say.
Mrs. Pisano stops and turns around, watching me. It’s impossible to decipher the look on her face behind those ridiculous glasses. I nod toward my SUV parked further to the left.
Heading over, I open the back door for her and wait. She approaches the car and stares at the seat. With non-stock tires, my vehicle sits significantly higher than standard cars. No use being an asshole just because I’m planning to kill her, so I extend my arm, offering to help her up.
As strange as it may seem, my hatred toward Ravenna Pisano is not personal. She had nothing to do with my wife’s death, but she represents everything that her husband had stolen from me. People say that time heals all wounds, but in my case, it’s been the opposite. With every passing day, my anger and the need for retaliation have only grown stronger. Revenge against Rocco Pisano has become my life’s purpose, the sole reason for my existence, and the driving force behind why I spend every breath seeking to spill his blood. Before, I might have cared about an innocent becoming collateral damage. Not anymore.
Mrs. Pisano tilts down her face, looking, presumably, at my outstretched hand for a couple of seconds. Then, she grabs the back of the seat and hoists herself up, ignoring my offer of assistance completely. I close the door behind her and walk around the car with my jaw tightly clenched. She might not like me, but it doesn’t come even close to what I feel for her or anyone else connected to Rocco Pisano.
My bodyguard doesn’t utter a word during the whole one-hour drive. I wish he would because he has a very nice voice. Deep and hoarse. It suits him. He doesn’t even look at me while we’re headed to our destination, not even a passing glance in the rearview mirror. I, on the other hand, spend the entire time watching him. Good thing I’m wearing sunglasses, or he would probably think I’m some kind of a creep for staring at him nonstop.
I move my eyes to his hand as it rests on the stick shift. He tried to help me, offering me that same hand when I was getting into the car. When Rocco does it, I have to swallow the bile before making myself touch him. Not taking my husband’s hand would be out of the question. He is obsessed with portraying our marriage as perfect and loving, especially when there is someone around. Rocco only shows his true self when we’re alone.
When I saw Alessandro’s outstretched hand, I didn’t dare to touch him. There’s a camera that monitors the driveway, and Rocco checks the recordings often. I don’t want my husband to hurt Alessandro just because I allowed my bodyguard to touch me. I don’t know what the deal is between him and my husband, but Rocco doesn’t seem to be concerned about Alessandro. That’s unusual. With all my previous bodyguards, Rocco would go ballistic when he thought that they looked at me a certain way or, God forbid, touched me.
I wish we were somewhere else when Alessandro held out his hand, anywhere where cameras aren’t present. I wanted to take it, maybe because his animosity toward me isn’t hidden behind a fake smile. I’m so sick of this farce my life has become, that I began to believe there isn’t a single sincere person left around me. My bodyguard doesn’t like me, and he’s not inclined to pretend otherwise. I respect that.
My eyes shift up Alessandro’s thick arm and stop on his profile. He’s very handsome—in a harsh, unconventional way—and he’s definitely bigger and brawnier than any man I’ve met before. Rocco is tall, but he’s rather lanky. Alessandro towers over my husband and outweighs him by more than seventy pounds. He certainly looks like a professional bodyguard, but I have a feeling he’s not just a regular muscle for hire. There was something in his eyes when our gazes met yesterday, something under that deep loathing that I initially thought was directed solely toward me. But he had the same vehemence in his stare when he looked at my husband earlier. It was almost as if he was barely restraining himself from killing Rocco on the spot. I don’t think Rocco even noticed it. Or maybe he just didn’t pay him any attention. My husband rarely looks the staff in the eyes even when he talks to them since he considers laborers beneath him.
Alessandro parks the car in the mall’s underground garage and comes to open the vehicle door for me. He doesn’t offer his hand this time. I exit the car and head toward the elevator, and he follows a few paces behind. When I enter the elevator cab, I hit the button on the control panel for the third floor and plaster my back to the wall, keeping my eyes fixed on the row of numbers over the threshold with the lit one indicating the level we’re on. Alessandro steps inside, his huge frame barring my view. The elevator cabin is not that small, but with him inside, it feels tiny. As the door closes, I squeeze my purse to my chest and swallow.
“Can you please move to the side?” I mumble, hating myself for having to ask. My body is not the only part of me that my husband has battered.
Alessandro takes a half step sideways. I can see the right part of the door, but it’s not enough. The walls of the elevator seem to be closing in on me, threatening to squash me. I need to see that door unobstructed! My eyes flit over the numbers again. Just one more floor. A moment later, there is a ding announcing we’ve reached our destination. I take a deep breath and wait for the door to open. Nothing happens. There is a button on the panel to open the door and I hit it, twice. Another ding sounds, but the door remains shut. A strangled sound leaves my lips. No. No. No. I hit the button again.
“That’s enough.” Alessandro’s fingers wrap around my wrist, pulling my hand away from the controls.
“I need to get out,” I whisper.
“You will.” He presses the emergency button. It didn’t even occur to me to do that.
Another ding. Then, one more. The door stays closed. I look up at my bodyguard, ready to ask him to open the door by force, just as the light inside the elevator flickers out. The words die on my lips. I have my phone in my purse, but I can’t make myself move to take it out and turn on the flashlight. The only thing I can manage is quick, shallow breaths. Alessandro’s palm is still wrapped around my wrist, and I anchor myself to his touch.
A strange clicking sounds a moment later, and orange light spurts to life in front of my eyes. I stare at a small flame coming from the Zippo lighter in Alessandro’s other hand. It flutters lightly from our combined breaths. Slowly, I glance up, and our gazes lock. The reflection of the glow makes his eyes look like they are on fire, as well.
“Let’s count,” his deep voice says.
“What?”
“Odd numbers only. Backward. Start at seventy-one.”
I blink in confusion.
“Sixty-nine,” he says. “You’re next.”
I take a deep breath. “Sixty-seven.”
Alessandro nods and releases my wrist. “Sixty-five.”
No! I reach out and grab the sleeve of his suit jacket and, keeping my sight fixed on his, move my hand down until I can feel his hand in mine again. The skin of his palm is rough as if he’s spent years doing manual work.
I hook my pinkie with his. “Sixty-three.”
He narrows his eyes at me. Is he going to ask why I’m freaking out? Will he laugh at me? Or remove his hand from mine? My breathing escalates.
“Fifty-nine,” his voice fills the space around us.
