Chapter 14
OLIVIA
I squinted against the vanishing sunlight reflecting off the fuel truck that was finishing its pump.
In a few minutes, it would be done, and I’d have to get back on board to start checks for the final leg of the trip.
It was nice to be up on my feet and outside, so I rounded the plane, habitually checking the landing gear and flaps for any signs of distress, even though the plane was sound.
My body felt like it had been stretched just past the point of comfort.
I’d slept with a murderer. No, maybe not a murderer.
Ethan hadn’t offered any details about what happened between him and Constantine, but he’d confessed he was a killer.
It wasn’t new information, as I’d already witnessed that firsthand with the poacher.
And still, I wanted him.
It would be dark soon, and it was quiet except for the fuel truck driver unhooking the nozzle on the other side of the plane. The dusky Senegal air around me shifted, and I wasn’t alone anymore. The shadow on the pavement was impossibly long, signaling it could be no one else.
“Everything all right?” I asked, not bothering to turn. I wasn’t sure which version of him I was going to get.
“It’s fine.” The shadow reached into its pocket and then lingered, forcing me to look at him. Ethan’s brown eyes were vacant as he held out a slip of paper. It was a receipt with the name Shawn and a phone number scribbled on the back. I didn’t recognize the dialing code.
“What’s this?”
“Do you speak German?” he asked. I shook my head as I took the slip. “Doesn’t really matter. He speaks English. He can help you find a seat in a cockpit.”
My heart squeezed at the gesture. “Thank you. Does this Shawn have a last name?”
An odd look flashed across his face and disappeared. “Yeah. It’s Dunn.”
Shawn Dunn. Why did that name sound familiar?
Before I could ask, he turned and left me standing there.
I jammed the paper into the pocket of my uniform slacks and straightened the scarf around my neck that always came loose.
The fuel truck sputtered away, and when Rory finished the last of the paperwork exchange and the official zipped away on a cart, I gave a nod to my co-pilot that we should prepare for departure.
Angry Italian words punctuated the thick, muggy air. Renzo and Gio were arguing at the base of the jet stairs, and Renzo’s face was an ugly shade of red.
Ethan stood back a few feet, watching the exchange, but when he abruptly straightened to his full height and clenched his fists, it sent a chill through me.
Like the quiet moment right before Gio had reached for the rifle in the Land Cruiser, Ethan’s body language projected that something was wrong.
The pitch and volume rose between the arguing men as Gio got in Renzo’s face, but the balding Italian refused to back down.
“No, sta ‘zitto,” Ethan said, holding up a hand to encourage them to calm down.
It was wasted effort.
The moment Renzo had pushed too far was made clear when a small, silver handgun appeared in Gio’s outstretched hand. He must have had it on him, but it seemingly came from nowhere.
The crack of this gunshot was so different from Ethan’s, or the rifle. Not as focused and less of an echo, but still a jarring retort, making me flinch. Renzo’s knees gave out and he crumpled to the sunbaked pavement, dead before his bloody head slammed into it.
I couldn’t comprehend what had just happened, but my body understood. Icy waves flooded across my skin and made me shake uncontrollably. I couldn’t breathe. All I could do was stare at the rapidly spreading puddle of blood Renzo was lying in.
Gio’s head tilted to the side, studying what he’d just done, as if surprised by the outcome. Then his gaze lolled toward Ethan, and the gun at his bodyguard’s side that was out, ready.
Oh, shit. Oh, fuck, my brain babbled over and over again.
The gunshot must have drawn Stuart’s attention.
The young cabin attendant appeared at the mouth of the plane and unleashed a horrified scream when he discovered the body at the foot of the stairs.
He clung to the railing as he stumbled down the steps and hurried toward the heap that had once been Renzo. “Is he all right?”
“Stop,” Ethan ordered. His voice was so sharp, so scary, the young man jerked to a halt.
Someone coughed and retched beside me. Rory. He’d sunk to his knees and proceeded to throw up on the pavement. I’d almost had the same reaction the first time I’d seen someone die, but my stomach then, like the rest of me now, had been too paralyzed to move.
What was Vitale going to do when he discovered his son had killed his right-hand man?
The exchange between Gio and Ethan was tense, the words harsh and angry and spat at each other. Then an order came from his boss that had Ethan tightening his grip on his gun, and a look of dread glanced through his eyes.
“All of you,” he said, unease coating his voice, “together.”
The breath I’d been holding left me in a sharp, painful burst.
Vitale would never know what happened, because there’d be no witnesses. We were going to die right now, right here. My eyes went wide and unblinking. Was Ethan really going to let this happen?
Oh, my God.
Was he going to be the one to do it?
My knees trembled, but my body locked up with anger and disbelief.
I’d watched him take a life and heard him confess to killing another, and there was a ruthless edge to him.
How could I be so dumb and ignore the clear signs smacking me in the face?
I’d flirted with fire, yet was still shocked that he was about to burn me.
Maybe I deserved to die for being so goddamn stupid.
His gun was drawn but down, and he spoke in hurried tones to Gio.
Stuart cried quietly as he stood beside me, short, choked gasps that made his shoulders lurch.
His arms banded around him, trying to hold it back and failing.
Rory mumbled something like a plea, but his words were too crowded with emotion to understand.
Not me. Hot, thick rage bubbled up inside, making me disregard the gun Gio had turned toward my crew. It was so fucking unfair. We shouldn’t have to pay for his horrible choice.
“How is he planning to get back if he kills us?” I demanded.
“I’m trying to convince him to let you and the attendant go,” Ethan said.
“Will he do that?”
“I can be persuasive.” He sounded confident.
I had enough survivor guilt to live with. “I’m the captain. Let my crew go. I’ll fly him back to Rome.”
Ethan’s expression was dark and terrifying, like he was furious at the idea. “Not an option.”
“Look at me,” I commanded. It didn’t matter what my crew thought about it, there wasn’t time to be polite. “I’m the only one holding it together.”
“Be quiet!” he snapped. His head appeared so heavy with thoughts, it sagged under the weight.
It wasn’t as if I had a death wish, but my concern for the men on either side of me was greater. And I hoped deep down that Ethan wouldn’t let Gio harm me, so I had to remove the rest of my crew from the equation.
My words came out steady, even while I began to fracture inside. “Signore,” I said, pointing to Gio and then myself. “Roma.”
“No,” Ethan gasped. “Wait—”
But Gio nodded with pleased agreement, and shockingly, lowered his gun.
Every muscle in Ethan’s body appeared to be clenched, and his intense eyes clouded with distrust. I hadn’t expected it to be that easy either. Letting my crew go was a huge risk. There was discussion between the armed men, but Ethan didn’t relax his alert posture.
“Okay,” I whispered hurriedly to my crew, “nothing happened here, but don’t go back to Italy.”
“Ever,” Ethan added.
Both men nodded quickly.
Ethan’s focus turned to the murderer, and he asked something pointed, making Gio glance at Renzo’s body. The conversation was brief, and probably about what to do with it.
Ethan moved to holster his gun, bent down, and grasped one of the dead man’s wrists. His expression was fixed as he yanked the body along, dragging it toward the cargo hold, smearing blood on the ground as it went. I watched with disbelief and—
A gunshot cracked.
It was so abrupt and unexpected, I was still flinching from the first when the second rang out, almost on top of the other. Stuart collapsed backward, and Rory folded sideways, falling into me and knocking me down. He was wet with blood.
I opened my mouth to scream but nothing came out. When we hit the pavement, the heavy body rolled off me, and I scrambled backward on my knees, my mind blank with hysteria.
“No, fuck!” Ethan yelled, and in the chaos, he was all I could make out.
He’d dropped his grip on Renzo, leveled his gun at Gio, and used his other hand to brace the weapon. His bicep and forearm flexed and strained, like it was taking every ounce of strength in him not to pull the trigger.
Why didn’t he? He’d confessed he’d already killed one Abramo.
But the gun in Gio’s hand, the one he’d just used to murder my crew, was now pointed at me. My heart jerked to a stop, turning me into a statue.
Ethan’s Italian was urgent and commanding. No, wait. Not commanding, it was . . . was it pleading?
“Roma,” Gio ordered, flicking the barrel of his gun toward the plane and then back to me.
My gaze shifted to Ethan. For what? To save me? He’d been so sure he could convince Gio, but my crew was dead. Dead.
It didn’t seem possible, but everything inside me was colder. Emptier.
“He was going to let them go,” Ethan said in sheer disbelief. The words came out like they were unfamiliar and choked in his throat. “I . . . believed him.”
I didn’t know what to do with that information. Something was wet on my face, and I wiped it away. Tears?
No, the coppery-red liquid on my fingertips had come from Rory. The sweet, almost fatherly man who had no problem reporting to a younger, female captain, when so many others did. I used the cuff of my sleeve to wipe away the blood.
How was I still alive?
How the fuck was I supposed to live with this?