Page 54 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
I shrug one shoulder. “It doesn’t have to. All you need to know is that he has a reason for it, and that, in itself, probably means it isn’t a good thing.”
She pauses and stares at me with features so similar to Adelina’s: the set of their lips, the cheekbones, the angle of their eyes. Though Gabriella is a darker version, her skin more deeply tanned, with jet black hair that matches her eyes. Her face is still a mottled patchwork of bruises that even her makeup can’t hide, and they only serve to remind me of Adelina’s equally bruised face and body. Anger rears its ugly head, and I quash it immediately.
“You need to go to her, Sasha,” Gabriella pleads.
I tilt my head back on a sigh. “I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just broke through their security and took a prisoner. The security will be tight, particularly around Adelina.”
She paces again, dragging her hands through her hair. The stress is getting to Gabriella. Since Bianchi took her, she’s seemed fragile and unstable. Gabriella may be the natural heir to the Ricci empire, but Adelina is the tougher of the two.
“You have to trust that she knows what she’s doing.”
“Do you?” She snorts and turns on me. “You act so calm and collected, but I know this must bother you. I know you felt something for her.”
“Perhaps once.”
She shakes her head. “And now, what? She’s just old news?”
“No, now she made a choice that we all have to accept, even if it is not favorable.”
She snorts. “Not favorable? She’s going to die!” she shouts, her voice wavering. “Either before she even manages to try to kill him, or certainly after. By Enrique himself, or in some warped version where she actually succeeds, then by his men.”
She thinks I don’t know this. I spent weeks rolling the exact same thoughts around my head over and over, like a scratched record. I won’t do it anymore. “I can’t control her actions, Gabriella, and neither can you.”
She closes the distance between us and slams her palm against my chest. “You can! She’s being stupid. Just go and get her!” She goes to hit me again, and I grab her wrist, squeezing the delicate bones.
“No.” I release her and walk away because she’s pushing me.
Only when I’m outside on the terrace, do I realize that I’m still clutching Gabriella’s wedding invitation. One week. One week until Adelina gets married, and she’ll be forced to leave Enrique’s home. The cogs of my mind start turning, though I know it’s pointless. A spark of hope comes to life, fuelled by Gabriella’s desperation. I try to quench it, to put a stop to it, but I can’t.
One last try. One last chance to see her. I lied to Gabriella. I haven’t accepted it, and I’m not sure I ever truly will.
One week later
The church is quiet when I walk inside. The smell of incense wraps around me as my steps echo over the stone floors and drift into the rafters of the colossal building. Of course, Bianchi would pick an enormous church. Sunlight pours through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful light over an effigy of the virgin that sits at the end of the aisle. Her head is bent reverently over the child in her arms. A few people move around, placing flower arrangements and lighting candles. The wedding isn’t for hours, but only last night, Gabriella heard that Adelina would be here early. The church has designated a room here where she’ll be getting ready.
I soon find it, with a sign on the door that reads “bridal dressing room.” Inside, it’s dated, with a huge window framed by ancient floral curtains, the pattern barely visible after years of sun bleaching. The smell of dust and wood polish lingers in here over the potpourri that sits in a crystal bowl on a small table. At the back are a series of huge wardrobes. I check them and find that most are empty, barring a few priest robes.
Getting in here once Bianchi’s men are around is going to be difficult, at least, not without killing a few and drawing attention. I need to stay here, but they also might search the room before allowing her in. My eyes dart around the space before landing on an inconspicuous little square in the ceiling. It lacks the high, roof-reaching rafters of the main church; instead, there is a flat ceiling, and that subtle, almost invisible loft hatch, undoubtedly for storage. I use a chair to remove the square of wood, but I can’t leave it there, or it’ll act as a beacon pointing to my location. Moving it again, I eye the hole high above me. With a leap, I catch the edge with my fingers and manage to haul myself up into the space.
