16. Ariana
16
ARIANA
It’s quiet. Eerily quiet now I’m alone in this clinic. Every now and then, the bodyguard shifts in his seat, and it creaks. It’s hardly noticeable, but I’m on high alert, and every sound is amplified. When the man stands, stretches, and peers into my room, I’m feigning sleep again.
His footsteps fall softly on the floor. Eight. Eight footfalls. Hushed clanging sounds come from the kitchen, a packet ripping. I clamber out of bed, rush to reach the fire extinguisher, carefully peek out into the corridor, and take in the layout of the house in one glance. A small foyer, several doors leading to more rooms. The sounds are definitely coming from the door in the middle: the kitchen.
My lucky break.
He’ll walk out of there and won’t see I’m not in bed, and with the layout as it is, I can hide in the one door and whack him as he exits the kitchen.
In seconds, I have stolen over to my hiding place, so quiet, the only way he’d know I was there would be in the movement of air. I haven’t been trained for nothing, and I’m barefoot. Adrenaline rushes through my veins. I’m pumped.
I wait, my heart in my throat, for him to finish making his coffee. Soon the earthy smell reaches me, and I swallow down my thirst.
What an idiot. If this whack over the head doesn’t kill him, he might be dead for letting me escape. It’s not a done deal yet, but failing isn’t an option. This is my first step back towards my team and the job I set out to do and plan to finish. Fuck Franco being dead, and fuck Randazzo being dead. When it comes to slime, the world keeps on producing. Someone else will step into those men’s shoes, and my team is waiting. We will get it done.
With this pep talk running on repeat in my head, I get in position, raising my hands, clutching the fire extinguisher.
I home in on his footsteps as he walks past, stirring his coffee, a cookie shoved in his mouth.
Sorry, my friend, it’s you or me.
With my whole measly weight and all my muscle power, I bring the extinguisher down on his head. But here’s the problem. It’s more to the back of his skull because this guy is motherfucker tall and moved around like a freaking fairy.
“Good God,” I huff as he sinks to one knee in surprise, the mug slipping from his hand and crashing to the floor, splattering creamy coffee far and wide. He isn’t out yet.
I up my swing again, knowing I’m not getting a third chance as he is already reaching for his gun. But this time, he is at a better whack-level, and I don’t hold back. I bring down the extinguisher full on his head with a satisfying crack that makes him crumble to the floor like the cookie he spluttered from his mouth.
For a split second, I stare at him, horrified at my own brutality but also knowing I had no choice. I can’t tell if he’s dead, and I’m not going to wait to find out. If I really cracked his skull, the nurse will know what to do with him. He’s already at their clinic, so in a way, I’ve done him a favor.
I curse. He’s fallen onto his side, right on top of his gun. There’s no chance I can get it out now. I’d rather use what strength I have to get out of here. For a second, I consider his phone. It will come with a tracking device, and the last thing I want is someone finding me. I need to go. Already, my body reprimands me, whispering how this whole maneuver wasn’t the best idea. It has stretched the stitches to my wound that hasn’t healed yet.
Now I rush, going around the place, frantically looking for something to wear that isn’t a hospital gown with my naked butt for all to see. I don’t need anybody to conclude with one look that I’ve just escaped an asylum.
But there’s nothing—not even an extra nurse’s uniform. I don’t have time to waste.
I’ll need to steal some clothes. From next door. From the neighbor with the pretty vegetable garden. I head back to the kitchen. Its windows look out over the street and not the way to go if I want to be surreptitious. I hasten to the garage which I open with a remote by the door. Really? These people need to up their in-house security. Naturally, this clinic is only for their own people, who have no motive to run, but this… this is too easy.
With a huff and a deep breath, I peer out into the street. The service road is empty. Farther along, there are some cars parked, but no humans, no rodents, and no Mafia in sight.
I walk, demurely, like I do this every day, to the next house’s picket fence that has a nice gate for me to go through. I open it and walk into the yard as if I own it, clenching my hospital gown all the way to keep myself decent.
There are only three steps onto the porch and then I’m at the back door, feeling the doorknob. I softly turn it, and the latch slips as the door opens. Then I’m inside, close the door, and for a moment lean against it to catch my breath with my eyes closed.
Two soft bangs and the almost eerie brush of air by my legs arrest me. And then, I’m almost electrocuted in shock as the silencer’s tell-tale muffled ‘pip’ sound registers in my mind. My eyes fly open.
Fuck. Someone just shot at me. I blink into the ill-lit foyer, frozen.
“Just warning shots, cara . Don’t move,” a female voice delivers, calm but clear. “And please don’t test me. I’d hate to really immobilize you.”
I exhale a shattered breath as I look down to where two bullets have pierced holes in the wooden floor, mere inches from my feet.
Holy fucking shit .
I glance up. Two meters from me, in the dark shadows of the corridor, stands an older woman with an apron on, her thick, curly hair streaked with grey. She smiles. I don’t know what she sees, but I bet it’s disbelief and horror on my face.
“What? If Christian Grey’s housekeeper can wash butt plugs, you better believe that a Mafia Don’s housekeeper knows how to shoot a gun.”
I swallow, no clue what she’s referring to, but I’ve lost. Again. A whiff of gunpowder and hot metal swirls up to me as I take in her stance. This one shoots and asks questions later. She won’t hesitate. She won’t miss. She’d take out my kneecap without flinching. Now, she has her phone to her ear, her gun never shifting from its target, her eyes never leaving my face as she watches me.
“Nicky,” she says as the other person answers. “She’s here now. I’m holding her. Be quick. She didn’t hold back, and poor Marco looks dead from what I can see on the cameras.”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck .
I didn’t notice a single camera in that whole clinic, and it wasn’t as if I wasn’t looking for them.
Hidden cameras, with her keeping watch. Right next door.
“Come now, cara . You can’t run around in that. It’s a dead giveaway that you’re in Il Consiglio’s clinic, if you were wondering.”
I look down at my gown, which has a pretty pattern of light blue flowers printed on the white fabric. It looks custom-made. I thought nothing of it, but this woman?—
“Who are you?” I ask, out of breath with shock.
“I’m Portia. Come with me, and we’ll see what I have that fits you. Dominic will be here soon. He was heading this way in any case.” She doesn’t lower the gun but takes two steps back and nods in the direction of a bedroom.
I have no choice but to follow her instructions, my eye warily on the gun with its silencer. It must have at least ten more rounds, and with defeat, I walk through the door. I take in the homey bedroom, which is clearly for guests, and sink onto the neatly made bed as exhaustion floods over me.
Portia is the real deal, and I’d be dead before I know it.
As if any of that is even news.