Page 5 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
An enormous pane of glass swings on a central hinge like a revolving door, welcoming us inside. The second I cross the threshold, I can feel it; the invisible manacles clamp tight around my wrists, chaining me, binding me to this place, to that man.
Another shove from his brutish bodyguard has me walking down a long hallway. Enrique never turns around or acknowledges me. Everything about him screams arrogance from his gait to his blatant dismissal of me as though I’m barely worthy of his gaze. Those shiny shoes click over the white marble floor, mocking me with each step. He finally ducks through a doorway, and I hesitate on the threshold. Inside is a living room, and Enrique cuts across it, again, ignoring me. Still. Glancing over my shoulder, I see that his bodyguard has disappeared. Instinct tells me to run, but instead, I tentatively step inside. An unsettling sensation creeps over my skin the moment I’m alone in a room with Enrique. I can count each hammering beat of my heart as it thrums against my ribs.
Enrique casually slides his suit jacket over his shoulders, and he steps down into a sunken area that houses an enormous leather corner sofa. A huge pillar sits in the center of the room, containing a glass section with flames flickering behind it. Enrique carefully places his jacket over the arm of a sofa, smoothing the material as though he’s scared it may pick up a single crease. With each action, I become more anxious. He turns, eyes meeting mine for the first time since I approached him outside Nero’s house. His gaze slides over me like the serpent he is, probing, assessing his new acquisition to see if it pleases him. That’s where we stay—him staring at me while I stand uncomfortably, wishing more than anything that I could run. Far, far away. But I can’t. I chose this, and now, it’s too late to turn back.
He’s won, and he knows it. I fully expect him to bask in his glory and gloat about his victory; but he doesn’t. Instead, he moves over to the corner of the room and plucks a crystal decanter from a recess in the wall. The amber liquid swills around the bottom before he pours two glasses, the liquid tickling over the crystal. The tension is oppressive, squeezing my lungs and suffocating me. It’s made worse by the words he doesn’t speak. A clock on the far wall ticks incessantly, and with each passing second, my nerves ratchet tighter and tighter. I wonder if he deliberately brought me to this room with that clock. God knows, it feels like a twisted form of torture.
Uncomfortable with his scrutiny, I slide my gaze from his and focus on the rest of the room. The entire back wall is made of glass doors. Beyond them is a patio that gives way to lawns far too green for this time of year. Sprinklers arc high into the air, casting rainbows through the sunlight. It’s beautiful; or at least, it would be in any other situation.
“Drink.”
In an instant, I’m snapped from the fantasy escape beyond these walls.
Enrique holds a glass of liquor out toward me while sipping from his own, and I eye the liquid suspiciously. His lips twitch. “If I wanted you dead, a bullet would have saved me an awful lot of time and money, Miss Ricci.” Miss Ricci. The way he says it, placing implication on my surname, sends chills up my spine. After all, that’s all he wants from me. My name. My family. My bloodline.
My fingers wrap around the glass, but I’m careful not to touch him as I take the drink. My eyes remain fixed on him, like prey keeping a predator in my sights. Everything about him turns my blood cold—his perfectly combed black hair, the expensive suit, that cocky, too-white smile that makes me want to smack it right off his mouth. As I stare into eyes as black as coal, I picture my father’s face, a bullet hole marring his waxy skin. I imagine Enrique smiling that sick, satisfied grin as he pulled the trigger. Bile rises in my throat, and my fingers tighten on the glass in my hand until I’m sure the crystal will shatter in the wake of my anger. I hate him with a venom that threatens to eat me alive. I can feel it, gnawing away at the pit of my gut like a parasite.
He watches me silently, eyes raking my frame, absorbing each tiny movement. “You seem agitated, Adelina.” He purrs my actual name this time.
“I’m fine,” I say through gritted teeth.
That smile deepens, and he takes a step forward. The closer he gets, the more uncomfortable I become. Reaching out, he trails a lone finger over my cheek. A full-body shudder threatens, and I bite the inside of my cheek so hard that the iron-like tang of blood trickles over my tongue. To be touched by the hands of my father’s killer, it’s a truly horrifying sensation. And then the stark realization hits me: if I’m to do what I came here for, I will have to endure a lot more than his touch. The gravity of that monumental task settles over me like a lead weight. I’ve been so consumed with revenge, that while I’ve acknowledged the method, I hadn’t really thought about the finer details.
