Chapter 1
ONE
Over the past three years I've pictured the moment when I got caught a thousand times.
In my head it was always dramatic. A van would screech to a halt next to me and I'd be bundled into the back by armed thugs. I'd wake in the middle of the night with a stranger's hand over my mouth and a gun to my head as he told me not to scream.
Or, one day I'd be walking down the street and I'd drop dead without ever realizing I'd been shot.
In the six weeks I've been in Edinburgh my dread has intensified. It's the atmosphere here, I guess. The old buildings and cobbled streets in the Grassmarket where I work in a coffee shop feed my apprehension. Something about the city made it feel like the final stop.
Never did I imagine it would be something as simple as a man walking into the coffee shop. He certainly wouldn't have paused to hold the door for a young woman with a toddler.
Nor would he have smiled at her with genuine warmth and ruffled the child's hair. But that's exactly what happens when my pursuer catches up with me. It's strangely anti-climactic and I'm glad of that.
Though I've never met this man before, I know immediately he's a Volante. He's not just a member of the organization, but family. It's not his impressive physique clad in impeccably tailored black suit and crisp white shirt that gives him away.
Nor is it the dark brown hair, cobalt eyes and aquiline nose. It's the way he carries himself as if he's the most important man in the room. Even the way he taps his forefinger as he holds the door open reminds me of Gabriele.
He isn't one of Gabriele's brothers, though. I never met them during our brief relationship, but I saw photos. No, this man is likely a cousin.
He laughs at something the young mother says, closes the door behind her and turns.
As his eyes find mine, I squeeze my fingers around the cloth I just wiped the counter with.
My heart rate spikes. I thought I'd made peace with this moment but something throws me off balance.
I imagined death's stare many times but it was never this intense.
He saunters toward me like he hasn't a care in the world. Men like him rarely do. They have responsibilities, for sure, but they're so used to things going their way they don't need to worry about fulfilling them.
"Double espresso, please." His manners are as flawless as his English. "I'll try the special blend."
"Special blend?" I frown. Is that code for something?
Seeing my confusion, he nods toward the chalkboard behind me. "The Highland roast."
"Oh, yes of course." Heat rises to my cheeks. I've been recommending that coffee to people all week but it went completely out of my mind to offer it to him.
Breathing in deeply, I turn to scoop some ground coffee from the bag into the portafilter.
My movements are mechanical as I make the drink. I've done this thousands of times in the past few years as I've worked in coffee shops around the world.
There was a time when I looked down on people who served drinks for a living but now I know there's an art to it. I've learned to take pride in making the perfect coffee.
The machine has been temperamental today and it hisses at me. But the espresso is perfect and I dare him to tell me otherwise. I bring the espresso over to him and set it on the counter, amazed my hand doesn't shake.
"Aren't you going to ask if I want anything else?" he says as I turn to walk away.
I pause. "Do you?"
"Yes, cara, many things." His eyes bore a hole through my outer defences and his lips quirk as I shudder. "But for now I'll take a cinnamon bun."
"A cinnamon bun?"
It seems an unlikely thing for him to eat. I mean, I don't know this man at all, but I've served a lot of customers over the past few years and I would have sworn he was the granola bar type.
Buns tend to be the go-to for affectionate, kind men, the sort you want to cuddle with on the sofa after a hard day at work.
This man doesn't fit the bill. But, of course, profiling by pastry isn't an exact science.
"If it's not too much trouble,” he says.
"Of course."
I sidestep to the cabinet where all of our baked goods are on display and grab the tongs. I glance over at the stranger who's now looking at his phone.
His posture is relaxed, and he grins at something he reads on screen. I'm starting to think I made a mistake. He isn't acting like a man who was sent here to kill me.
Perhaps it's a coincidence he has the bearing of an Italian mobster. That thought is banished a moment later.
"I missed you in Sydney," he says without looking up. "And London."
The tongs slip from my hand. They clatter on the tiled floor, drawing attention from several customers. I bend to pick them up, then place them in the sink behind me.
Sydney. He got close in Sydney. I suspected someone was watching me for weeks. It seems that wasn't paranoia.
As I grab onto the edge of the countertop to steady myself, my co-worker Jodie appears at my side and rubs my arm. Like me, she's just in Edinburgh temporarily.
But where I've needed to keep moving to avoid retribution from the mafia, she's traveling the world before she starts college next year.
"Are you okay?" Jodie asks.
"Yes," I assure her. "Just a little clumsy today."
The vivacious redhead grins at me. "No wonder. That guy is gorgeous."
I snort derisively. "He's not my type."
"If you say so," Jodie teases. She fetches the cinnamon bun from the cabinet, puts it on a plate and hands it to me. I take it to my darkly handsome customer.
"I'd have thought I was exactly your type," he says as I place his plate down in front of him. "Being a Volante and all."
My entire body tenses. I was right. He is a Volante. He offers me his hand to shake, a move I wasn't expecting. "Adriano Volante," he says.
Confused, I take his hand. It's warm and his skin is a little rough. I wish I didn't like how that feels. His fingers wrap around mine, just tightly enough that I realize how easily he could hurt me. He shakes my hand and smiles placidly.
There's a hint of menace beneath the civility and I find myself wishing he was more openly hostile. Then I'd know where I stand.
"Eleanor Marconi,” I reply.
He barks out a laugh. "We both know that's not true. Shall we try again?"
My shoulders sag. "Eliza Moretti."
"That's better." He releases my hand and picks up his coffee cup. He sips the drink and tilts his head to one side appreciatively. "Perfetto. What do I owe you?"
I try to total it in my head. One espresso and one cinnamon bun. Mental arithmetic is something I'm good at but suddenly the ability to perform a simple addition eludes me.
"It's on me," I tell him. Since it seems unlikely I'll be picking up my paycheck this weekend, my boss, Sonia, can take it out of my wages.
"How generous." The hint of a smile plays at the corner of his lips again. I get the feeling Adriano likes to mess with his prey before devouring it. Adriano. The name fits him well.
"Now, tell me, what time do you finish work?"
"Three o'clock."
He glances at the watch on his wrist, a Hublot if I'm not mistaken. "Ah, only thirty-three minutes to go. I timed this well."
He makes it sound like a happy accident but I doubt anything this man does is mere coincidence.
"What will happen when I finish?"
"You'll say goodbye to your colleagues, grab your things from the staffroom and come with me." He pulls his jacket back just enough for me to glimpse the handle of a gun tucked into his belt. "You won't try anything."
"No, Signore Volante. I won't try anything."
I mean it. The time for running has come to an end. I'm exhausted from constantly being on the alert for danger. If I'm honest, I'm glad it's the Italians who caught up to me and not the Hungarians my brother brought into my life three years ago.
My countrymen have more honor in their dealings with women. If Adriano intends to kill me, I'm sure he'll do it quickly. Marton Vida's men would take their time, making me suffer. What they did to Gabriele, what I helped them do, was brutal.
"Good girl," he says. "Now, I think the old lady by the window is trying to get your attention."
Adriano picks up his coffee cup and plate and heads for a table by the door.
I close my eyes and take a minute to compose myself before going to see what Mrs. Gillespie wants.
I already know, of course, that she'll ask me for a box to take what's left of her scone home.
She comes in every afternoon and orders tea and a scone with cream and jam which she eats precisely half of.
"Mrs. Gillespie." I greet her warmly although she's not a particularly pleasant woman. "What can I do for you?"
"Fetch me a box. I want to take this home." She purses her lips. "I don't know why you have to make them so big."
"Some people like them."
"Greed. That's what it is. Pure greed."
"Yes, Mrs. Gillespie." I am not wasting what may be my last few moments on earth arguing with this old bat. "Let me get a box for you."
"Be quick about it. I don't have all day."
As I turn, Adriano gives me an exaggerated look of sympathy. Asshole. As if he cares about me having to deal with a difficult customer.
I go and find a box and take it back to the table. Mrs. Gillespie swats my hand away as I try to put her leftovers in it.
"I'll do it," she grumbles. "You always break it."
Holding up my hands in surrender, I back away from the table. I almost laugh. There's an actual mobster sitting four feet away and right now I'm more wary of a feisty octogenarian.
For the next twenty minutes I carry on as normal.
I smile at customers, make drinks and wipe down tables.
My mind races the entire time. What happens when Adriano and I leave?
Will they find my body at the base of Arthur's Seat in the morning?
Or does he have something other than death planned for me?