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Because I’m alive and I shouldn’t be.
Noah is kneeling in front of me, touching my chest, the scent of something sickly sweet reaching my nostrils. “She’s dead.”
“I want to see,” Sylvia says.
“Don’t touch her. I don’t want you to leave anything that can incriminate you.”
There’s a small gasp as the sound of her heels stop maybe a few feet from me. “You did it. There’s not as much blood as I expected.”
“There will be as she bleeds out. Which is why I need to clean this fucking mess before it stains my floors.” He walks away momentarily, then returns. Something heavy is draped over me. A blanket. Though I open my eyes, desperate to see even the slightest hint of light, I remain limp as I’m rolled in it like a body in a rug. “Get the elevator for me.”
“Where are you taking her?”
I’m hefted onto his shoulder, and it takes a lot of effort not to grunt. “Where she won’t be found.” The elevator door dings and I sense we’ve walked into it.
“Okay,” she agrees almost giddily.
As we descend, I imagine her gaze is on me. I hold my breath for so long, it’s possible I may actually die. Then a cool gust as the doors open and we’re out into the garage. At least, I think it is if the echoes of it are anything to go by.
Distant voices reach my ears. The guards. But if they see a body draped over Noah’s shoulder, they don’t seem bothered by it. Makes sense, I suppose. If they work for the mafia, they’re probably accustomed to this sort of thing.
Noah stops and turns. “Go home and stay there. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
“You did the right thing, Noah. I’m proud.” She kisses him, then walks away, heels clacking against the concrete floor.
There’s the sound of a car door opening. When I’m rolled in and darkness surrounds me, I realize I’m being put in the trunk. I’ve never been claustrophobic, but right now, I want to throw myself out and take in deep gulps of air.
“Shh.” I hear a second before the door is shut.
I remain immobile, sucking in shallow breaths, my chest tight with fear. It’s not until I feel the car turn on and begin to move that I wriggle, and the blanket falls from my face and I can finally breathe.
Where the hell is he taking me? Will it be to a junkyard or a field far away, where he can off me? No. If he was going to kill me, he would have done so when Sylvia demanded it.
Whydidn’the kill me? If his rules dictate he take out anyone who kills a Gianni and he believes I murdered his father, he should have done it. Instead, he risked his position. Why?
The car stops but doesn’t shut off. A few moments later, the trunk is opened. Noah peers in, his expression completely guarded and unreadable. Eyes a dark golden brown.
He reaches in and pulls me out, turning me to work on unbinding my wrists.
I wince when I’m able to move my arms again and rub at the skin the rope rubbed raw. “Where are we?”
“Just outside Jersey City.” He returns to the driver’s side door. “Get in.”
I don’t argue and do as he says. The last thing I want is for him to shove me back into the trunk. “Where are we going?”
He begins to drive again, leaving my question unanswered. I stare at him, wondering if he doesn’t want to tell me or he can’t speak with how hard his jaw is clenched.
So we drive in silence through the city. He in his world, and me in mine. I peer out the window, replaying all of the events that have happened since the day I met him at the gallery almost four months ago now.
I had no idea then that he’d been in my life much longer than that. That he’d been planning the perfect revenge against my father, only to discover that Dad wasn’t involved in Leonardo’s death. At least, that’s what I gathered from the few words he said to me over the past couple of days.
Sighing, I press my fingers into my chest, desperately trying to divest some of the tightness brought on by the pain of his betrayal. I make contact with something wet and look down to find I’m covered in blood.
Noah mistakes the action for something else. “It’s a military-grade bulletproof plate. Stops a bullet but still hurts like hell.”
I blink, confused. Then I remember the thing he shoved into my shirt. But the blood?
When I glance back at him, I notice the gash on his left wrist. Blood still trickles from it, dripping down to his pants.
