Page 4 of Leave Me (Touch of Death 2)
“How many were there?” I ask Una.
“I’m not sure. Twenty. Maybe more. Most are dead. The rest left with Bianchi.”
It doesn’t make sense. Enrique brought enough Elite to give us a fight but not enough to tip the odds in his favor. Given that we received warning, Nero had most of his men here. Though the house would appear as a rich man’s holiday home, it is, in fact, more akin to a fortress. Bianchi would have known this is the Italian mafia’s New York seat and that it would be well defended. He was never going to win. So, why?
I refuse to believe that he knows Adelina that well. He can’t possibly have known she would give herself up, or that she would be able to get away from us even if she chose to. I think he was testing us, seeing how far we would go to protect her. And truthfully, if she had let me, I never would have stopped. I would have stood between her and him until the very end. I was willing to sacrifice all…for a girl who repaid me with nothing more than a bullet.
I picture her on a plane, flying to her homeland. I imagine him watching her, touching her, claiming her. My fists tighten, and my knuckles crack violently. The urge to end him is visceral, a beast on my shoulder, sinking its claws deep into my flesh. It whispers of heinous acts and violence with an absolute lack of restraint or mercy. I’ve never felt so close to the edge of control, and I’ve never wanted to kill a man for any other reason than the simple fact I was ordered to do so. Until now. I criticize the Elite for no longer being impartial, and yet, I’m drifting into the same territory.
“What now?” I ask Una, trying to focus on the situation in front of me.
That violent lust in her eyes is all too familiar, and like a predator with the metallic twang of blood on her tongue, she will now pursue them relentlessly. “You know what.”
I do know.
The Elite.
Enrique Bianchi.
This was a very personal affront, and Una is no longer the cold soldier she was trained to be. Her emotions are like an exposed nerve, and none more so than her rage, especially when someone attacks a house with her child in residence. “The question is, what are you going to do?” she asks.
“I don’t know yet.”
She tilts her head to the side, seeing more than I’d like. “Yes, you do.” She’s right, I do.
Despite my rage and confusion—and the bullet she left in my leg—I can’t just let Adelina hand herself over like some sacrificial lamb. She thinks she’s doing the right thing, that she knows what she’s getting herself into, but she doesn’t. I’ve worked with men like Bianchi my whole life, and I know he’ll break her. That selfless innocence will be crushed until she’s cracked and scarred just like the rest of us. The thought of it has my blood pounding in my ears and my fists balling once more. Not her. She’s the first truly good person I’ve ever met, and I can’t stand to see that purity snuffed out. Despite her upbringing, Adelina is naïve to the darkness in this world, and I need her to remain that way. She’s a refuge from the ugly violence that taints me so absolutely.
I should think about my next move, plan it to perfection the same way I always do, but it seems the little mafia princess pushes me to rash actions more than I would like to admit to anyone but myself. My entire body is restless, aching to do something and act. I feel like a slave to my emotions. I’m out of my depth. Give me an enemy, and I’ll fight them, but how do I fight myself? I can’t.
“I’m going after her.”
Enrique Bianchi will not have Adelina. I will protect her, even if it’s from herself.
2
Adelina
The familiar scent of home is bittersweet. I both love and resent the sunshine that now bathes my face, seeping through my eyelids until I’m surrounded by a haze of red.
“Move.”
I’m roughly shoved from behind, and I stagger forward, trailing Enrique up to the front of the villa. Though truthfully, villa isn’t really the word. I expected a house similar to my father’s with terracotta tiles and ivy climbing up the sides of tall windows. Instead, I find a tasteless, modern mansion, consisting of strange angles and glass walls. It reminds me of Nero’s apartment, but this isn’t New York; this is Sicily. The building is an ugly stain on the unchanging hills of my homeland. The entire thing reminds me of a fish tank. Like the one I used to have in my bedroom when I was a little girl. Daddy got it for me because I was scared of the dark, but I didn’t want a nightlight like a baby. My heart squeezes, and I force the memory away.
