Chapter 11
SOFIYA
I feel like I’m choking.
The air in the suite is too rich, too close, filled with Rafaelle Salvatore’s scent and the echo of the words I can’t unhear.
A villa in Lake Como. A racing yacht. My next kill.
I’ll do anything for it.
The force of my desire to scream ‘yes’ rocks me long after I’ve pushed him away and fled to the bathroom.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
Not for status or to leverage a treaty.
But for me.
And it terrifies me more than any sniper’s scope ever has.
Because I know what it means to be offered like a deal. My father and grandfather do it often and blatantly with pride.
I watched Maddie wither and smile stoically through the sting of her body and self-worth being traded like a bag of blood oranges at the Palermo docks.
I listened in silence while they debated what she was worth – and what they stood to gain by tethering her to some crusty old yes-man from the Old Country.
And then I silently condemned her when she didn’t appreciate my efforts in stalling for her. My shock and disappointment when she lit it all on fire and jumped into bed with Cesare Salvatore.
Now I understand the look in her eyes that night in Singapore, when she set the trail of gasoline and threw the match the next morning.
Now I know what it means to want something you’re supposed to hate.
Because when Rafa said those words – my next kill – something cracked open inside me.
Deranged and full-blown psychopathic as he is rumoured to be, the Enforcer’s reputation is second to none. With a record he meticulously, jealously and lethally guards.
So for him to offer that… for me… it was heady in ways very few people on this planet would understand.
And I want it. God help me, I want it.
I stride farther away from him like it’ll stop the spiral, like distance can undo heat, want, madness. But it clings to me anyway, thick and wet between my legs, high in my chest, buzzing under my skin like Salvatore sorcery.
We’re supposed to be enemies. I’m supposed to be loyal.
But my loyalty was forged in violence. In fear. In expectation.
This… whatever this is… feels like something else.
Rafa doesn’t move. He watches me with that dark, consuming stillness I’ve come to dread and crave in equal measure.
And I know, if I stay here one more minute, I might let him touch me.
I might ask him to.
So I flee.
Because if I don’t, I won’t be able to pretend any more.
Won’t be able to deny that the war I’m fighting now isn’t between the Mancinellis and the Salvatores—
It’s inside me.
I toss my phone onto the bed and stand. ‘I’ll go to the track later. I’m going shopping.’
Rafa’s still at the window, shirtless, the kind of shirtless that should be outlawed. He glances at me over his shoulder, slow and amused. ‘Where?’
‘Avenue des Beaux Arts. I need clothes. Unless you want me attending the Grand Prix in filthy boots and a tactical vest, explain to a bunch of Mancinelli capos where I’ve been for the last twenty-four hours?’
He gives a low chuckle and turns towards the armchair where he discarded his shirt. ‘Shopping it is, then.’ He slides his arms into the sleeves like he’s putting on armour. ‘But I’ll be close.’
‘Stalking me again?’
‘Shadowing,’ he corrects. ‘It’s sexier.’
I don’t dignify that with a reply.
The cobbled stretch of Monte Carlo’s elite shopping district gleams in the late morning sun, boutiques lined up like polished jewels. I move from store to store, aware of the eyes on me. The staff’s, the other patrons who assess my net worth and satisfy themselves that I’m good for it.
But most keenly, I feel his.
Because no matter how far ahead I walk, Rafa appears. Leaning against a mirrored column, inspecting a silk belt, watching me from across the boutique with that slow, unrushed predator’s gaze.
In Chanel, he murmurs behind me, ‘Try the black. It’ll hug your ass in ways I won’t be able to ignore.’
In Dior, he holds up a set of strappy heels. ‘You should wear these while straddling me. Nothing else.’
Somehow, when I find myself in Agent Provocateur without meaning to visit a lingerie shop, he prowls even closer, sending lethal glares to husbands and partners who even dare to glance my way.
He doesn’t say anything. Just plucks a blood-red set of lace and silk and holds it out to the saleswoman with a smile. ‘Wrap it.’
‘No. Don’t,’ I counter. ‘It’s not my type.’
‘It’s mine,’ he retorts. Whips out a black card with no visible writing. A card I’ve only heard whispers about.
I want to slap him. I want to kiss him. I want to scream. I want to claw the saleswoman’s eyes out for the flash of unadulterated fuck-me-now look that glazes her eyes.
By the time we’re back at the suite, my skin feels too tight, my pulse a metronome of arousal and disbelief.
‘We leave for the track in twenty minutes,’ he says, already shrugging off his shirt again like the world has given him full permission to drive me insane.
I start unpacking the bags, trying to breathe, trying not to think about how wet I am.
The lingerie bag slides free first.
I stare at the tissue-wrapped bundle of lace and silk like it might detonate. Agent Provocateur – blood-red, barely there. The exact set he chose without hesitation and with implacable certainty. Like he knew what would make me come undone.
And I let him pay for it.
I let him pay for everything.
Designer bags and shoes and lingerie I didn’t even ask for or need when I have my own bank accounts – accounts fatter than some governments’.
I’ve been the Mancinelli’s protector as well as their seven-figure-gun-for-hire for the better part of a decade.
I’ve protected rogue diplomats. Once bribed a Turkish border agent with a Breguet watch I had on loan from an oligarch’s mistress.
I can pay my way around the world a thousand times and not feel a dent in my bitcoin wallet.
But here? With him?
I just… let it happen. Like I’m playing a part. Or worse, falling into one. By the time I tuck the last bag into the closet, I’m flushed and unsettled and bone-deep aware of every inch of my body.
‘You hungry?’ he asks behind me.
I jump a little, whip around to find him lifting the lid off a tray he’s somehow managed to coax from room service. The smell hits me instantly – seared salmon, herbs, warm couscous and citrus, grilled vegetables still steaming.
He pulls out a chair. ‘Eat.’
I narrow my eyes. ‘Is it drugged?’
He quirks a brow like I’ve just accused him of poisoning a kitten. Then he picks up my fork, stabs a piece of salmon, and pops it into his mouth like a man who’s too damn comfortable being accused of anything.
He chews. Swallows. Licks his bottom lip.
‘If it is,’ he says with a grin, ‘I guess we’re going down together.’
I hate the flutter that low, gravel-dark voice stirs in my chest. I should toss the plate but my stomach betrays me with a vicious growl.
He scoops another bite and gestures towards the food. ‘Trust me, bedda. The next time I want you sedated, you’ll want it too.’
My fork pauses halfway to my mouth.
He sees it, of course he does. Like a striptease in reverse, I layer on everything he’s intent on laying bare, but I’m losing.
He leans in, lowering his voice until it’s a breath against my skin. ‘Who knows, you might even ask nicely.’
The temperature between us spikes. My cheeks flush and my stomach twists, but not from fear. I eat while fixing him with a glare sharp enough to slice open bone.
He chuckles, slow and rough, and leans back, watching me eat like it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.
I force another bite down, even as my pulse punches through my veins.
Because I don’t trust him. But worse, I’m starting to trust myself around him even less.
And I have no idea which one of us is the bigger threat.
Rafaelle
The Furia Racing garage smells like sweat, fuel, and adrenaline – the trinity of speed.
Mechanics swarm like hornets around Renzo’s car while Dante, his identical twin, leans against the pit wall with his helmet off, grinning like the cocky bastard he is.
They’re first and second on the timing sheets, eager pit groupies and celebrities hanging on their every word.
They’re in heaven.
I nod to the capos doing their best to blend in and failing. I don’t mind that too much. The show of power will deter any fuckers who think of messing with what Cesare talked us all into building with him four years ago. What’s now becoming a legitimate way to rake in hundreds of billions.
Of course, the other Salvatore organisation will also play their part in keeping us rolling in money.
Everything should feel good.
But it doesn’t. I’m irritated. Restless.
A layer of my sniper-grace precision is missing. And I know why.
It’s her.
Or rather, the absence of her.
I let her go. Reluctantly. Told myself it was the smart move.
She needed to make an appearance at the Mancinelli Racing Team’s garage – keep up appearances, stop the vultures from circling, and most importantly, avoid drawing attention to the fact that the family assassin has been shacked up, albeit unwillingly, with the Salvatore Enforcer for the past twenty-four hours.
I said it was strategy. That I needed space to focus on the mission tonight.
But I’ve checked my phone five times in ten minutes. And yeah, shocker, I gave her my number. Like we were on a fucking date or something.
Now my brain won’t shut the fuck up.
I don’t like not knowing where she is.
I don’t like not seeing her.
And I sure as hell don’t like the idea of her being surrounded by those inept shitheads masquerading as her family security.
It’s barely noon and her fucktard uncle, Stefano, from what I spotted when I not-so-casually spied in, is already pissed.
The idiot waste-of-skin thinks he can hide his drug and booze habit under corporate entertainment.
Maybe I should revert to my original plan – take out a Mancinelli. Specifically Stefano Mancinelli. I’d be doing the whole fucking world a fav—