Chapter 1 #6
Panic wraps its claws around my throat. Any moment now, there will be two dead bodies in this room.
I’m certain of it. My only chance for salvation is in the fact that I work for Don Spada, and no one would dare kill one of his people without his permission.
Right? Right? Jesus Christ, I hope that’s how things actually work.
Something tells me, though, that this Adriano Ruffo doesn’t care one bit about protocol.
“Are you sure about that, Little Iris?”
His baritone is like an unexpected roll of thunder on a summer night.
Jarring. Turbulent. Threatening. So surprisingly deep.
The sound rumbles through me, and every cell in my body tenses.
I never would have expected such a sophisticated man to possess such a voice.
A predator’s voice. And I’m the obvious prey.
A shiver rushes down my spine. I’ve been around dangerous guys all my life.
But even in my time around Don Spada, the most volatile man I know, somehow I’ve never been this scared.
Somehow, I’ve always known what those types of men were capable of.
What to expect. They didn’t frighten me, even after I’d seen some of their atrocities firsthand.
But of this Adriano Ruffo—I’m terrified out of my mind, without him even making a single clear threat.
I haven’t a clue what he may decide to do to me.
Kill me? Not? I simply can’t picture him doing it.
But also, seeing him now, I can’t imagine he won’t.
As if my body isn’t my own, before I can even comprehend what I’m doing, I snatch the gun off the table. One second, I’m sitting next to a man I’ve kinda been crushing on; the next, I’m standing before him with a weapon pointed at his head.
An absolute hush falls over the room. Everything stills. My breath. My heart. The air. And then, as if slowly rising from the abyss, the ticking of a grandfather clock penetrates the dead calm.
“Three times in one night.” A subtle note of amusement tints Mr. Ruffo’s quietly spoken words as he refills his tumbler. “Well, that is certainly a record.”
I draw in a deep but shaky breath, gripping the gun harder. If my fate wasn’t sealed before, it definitely is now. Adriano Ruffo is going to kill me. Unless I kill him first.
My palm sweats as I tighten my hold on the grip and let my forefinger slide to the trigger. But I can’t make myself pull it. I just can’t.
My lower lip quivers. I inhale again, hoping it will somehow infuse some courage in me. It doesn’t work.
I can’t become a killer.
Can’t trade his life for mine.
Even if I could, I wouldn’t be able to live with it.
Slowly, I lower the gun. I do it with my gaze locked on those icy blues. While they watch me without an ounce of fear.
My legs start to shake, so I drop back onto my seat and lay the gun on the table, right next to the glass of scotch he poured.
Snatching it up, I throw about half of the contents down my throat.
It burns as it slides down my esophagus, and I double over, coughing and trying to suck in a breath.
That only sets my lungs on fire. Tears well in my eyes as I struggle to regain my composure.
“Fascinating. This evening has been full of surprises,” Mr. Ruffo says, still casually leaning back in his chair. “Why did you not pull the trigger?”
“Because I’m not a murderer,” I rasp.
Silence descends between us again. It’s heavy and loaded. Suffocating. Mr. Ruffo leans over and, bracing his elbow on the armrest, props his chin on his hand. His frigid eyes bore into me.
“The safety was on.” His voice rumbles, punching through the strained lull.
I blink a thousand times like an idiot. “I…I hadn’t noticed.”
“I know.” There’s a strange glint in his eyes now. Nothing I’ve ever seen there before. Probably just a trick of the light. Reflection off his lenses.
God, he’s even hotter up close. Distinguished, yet also…
raw? There’s something wild about him. The creases around his eyes and the silver streaks in his hair hint at the passage of years, but the rest could place him anywhere between mid-thirties and late forties.
Who could tell? Nature itself seems to be keeping Adriano Ruffo’s secrets.
Who is this man? Besides a billionaire? Besides a killer, if that’s what he is? The evidence at my feet appears irrefutable. But had I been asked yesterday, nothing on this earth would have convinced me that he was capable of such an act. Will my ignorance, my infatuation, be my doom now?
A knock reverberates through the room. I shift my gaze toward the open doorway, where two men in black suits fill the threshold.
Their jackets are open, revealing holsters with guns.
I thought weapons were not allowed at tonight’s affair?
Both men are wearing an earpiece in their left ear.
Are they the don’s security guys? Their gazes are trained on Mr. Ruffo before silently shifting to me.
Then, as if I’m simply nothing, they look at Mr. Ruffo again.
Without a word, Adriano Ruffo tilts his head. A silent command. In the next second, the men are gone, closing the door behind them. Shutting me in the room where I’m going to die. At the hand of the man I’ve been obsessing about.
I swallow. Hard. Waiting for the bullet to strike.
Will I even hear the shot before it’s over?
When my eyes collide with Mr. Ruffo’s, he’s leaning back in his chair again, sipping his scotch like nothing’s out of the ordinary.
“You should go now.”
I gape. Stunned. He’s letting me go?
“Unless you would rather stay and help with the disposal of the body?”
I shake my head, fiercely enough that it feels like it could come loose. Rising from the seat, I pick up the linens off the floor, then turn to leave as swiftly as possible.
“Porca puttana.” The muttered curse stops me dead in my tracks when I’m three steps from the door.
I glance over my shoulder. Mr. Ruffo is slumped forward with his elbows braced on his knees. His glasses are dangling in his left hand, while he presses the heel of his other hand to his temple.
“Not you. This fucking migraine,” he growls without looking at me. “Go now, Little Iris.”
Instead of turning back toward the door, I remain still, transfixed by the sight of him. His brows are furrowed into a deep vee, the crow’s-feet around his shut eyes more pronounced. He’s suffering. In pain. I can practically feel it.
Shifting the load in my hands, I reach into my pocket and pull out a half-squished rainbow cookie that I hastily wrapped up in some leftover cellophane before heading to work. I never had the time tonight to eat my homemade snack.
Retracing my steps, quietly as if even the slightest noise could disturb him, I place the cookie on the side table next to the gun. “Sweets can help ease the pain. Sometimes,” I whisper and dash toward the door.
God, I’m so stupid. The man is a killer, and I offered him a cookie? What the heck is wrong with me? Dumb. But I couldn’t just leave him in pain. I’ve seen too much suffering over the years. Seen what pain can do to a person. Watched it wear on my mom. Maybe that’s what made me do it?
For a brief moment, suspended somewhere in time, Adriano Ruffo no longer seemed so scary. And the doubt that he killed that woman slipped in. Maybe he stumbled into this room erroneously, like me? Yes, that must be it. He probably doesn’t even know her.
I’m almost through the door when I lose my battle, glancing behind me at the dead body on the floor. My eyes catch sight of the woman’s face. Her vacant stare.
It sends icy chills up my spine.
And so does the recognition.
It’s Mr. Ruffo’s wife.