Chapter 103

ROSALIND

Vehicles advance toward the marina in a long procession. If I had to guess, Tommaso has tracked the location of his brother's limousine and wants to mount a rescue.

The yacht bobs, and the sea breeze blows through my sweat-dampened hair. I plant my feet on the gangway and force my stomach not to lurch.

Benito points his gun between my eyes. "Explain to me why I shouldn't fill you with bullets," he says in a voice so cold that my skin breaks out in goosebumps. "Because the Galliano brothers still haven't called off their hit."

I grind my teeth and inwardly kick myself for assuming Benito would be reasonable. While Cesare's anger burns hot, this bastard's fury is cold.

"Three reasons," I say. "Because Cesare won't be pleased to find you've hurt me. Because you're going to need a trained assassin to help you fight off those Galliano thugs. And I can disarm you and your doppelg?ngers, leaving you without a way to fight in the upcoming battle."

A bullet flies overhead, making all four of the men surrounding me turn their attention back to the cars. Men in black pile out of their vehicles, lighting up the marina with gunfire.

"Move." I shove Benito's clone aside with my Uzi and fire at Galliano's goons.

"Cover her," Benito yells over the sound of gunfire.

I hold back the I-told-you-so to focus on the immediate threat. Two of Benito's men step in front of me and flinch with the impact of bullets hitting what I assume to be kevlar vests.

Bullets scatter from the tip of my rifle. I sweep from left to right, sending Galliano's men scattering. Some fall to the ground, others dive behind vehicles for cover.

The air is thick with the sounds of screams and gunfire, but it's all muffled by the roar of blood between my ears. This is a waste of time. Cesare is out there alone, facing an unknown number of opponents, and Miranda is in peril.

I need to end this gunfight.

Now.

More members of Benito's crew join from different directions of the marina, and what's left of our enemies retreat to their parked cars.

A distant chop of helicopter blades echoes through the air, gradually getting louder. I stare up at the white aircraft, a knot forming in my gut as it approaches the marina.

"Is that the police?" I ask.

One of the men who gave me cover pulls out a pair of binoculars and peers up into the sky. "It's unmarked."

I turn to Benito. "One of yours?"

His jaw clenches. "No."

My heart races, my palms moisten, and I resist the primal urge to scream. "There was a long-range weapon in your armory. If that chopper heads out to sea…"

"Carver," Benito barks. "Go."

Carver sprints up the gangplank, leaving three of us staring at the approaching helicopter. Behind us, speedboats race out to sea in search of Cesare. My heart pounds so hard that its vibrations reach my fingertips.

If this is another Galliano attack, then Cesare and Miranda are in trouble.

"Cesare Montesano," a familiar voice says over a megaphone. "Release Matteo or I will nuke your yacht."

Two of the men snicker, but I feel sick. Not because I believe Tommaso has that kind of weaponry, but because he sounds high on drugs. That man is capable of any level of destruction.

We stand in silence, watching him approach.

One of Benito's men grabs at the Uzi. "I can take out its fuel tank."

"And earn us all a fiery death?" I shoulder him aside.

The helicopter flies over where we're standing and advances over the sea, gaining on the speedboats. Moments later, heavy footsteps hurry down the gangplank. It's a young man holding a missile launcher.

"Someone, give her a jacket," Benito says.

The four men all gape, their gazes raking over my skimpy halter neck, miniskirt, and heels.

"Now!"

Seconds later, I'm wearing a jacket and balancing the missile launcher over my shoulder, aiming its tube at the disappearing helicopter.

"This had better have heat-seeking capabilities or we're screwed," I mutter.

Benito stares down his nose at me like I've delivered the worst kind of insult. "The Stinger has a radar-guided seeker capable of tracking and intercepting airborne targets."

I pull the trigger before he completes the sentence, and the missile surges out of the launcher, trailing white smoke as it speeds toward the helicopter.

"Come on," I whisper under my breath. "Come on."

The helicopter veers to the right, but the missile slams into its tail, sending out a shower of debris and sparks. Thick smoke billows out from the helicopter before it also falls into the sea.

Exhilaration surges through my veins, flooding me with a rush of euphoria that makes my knees buckle. The relief is short-lived, replaced by a creeping dread that wraps around my chest like a noose. We might have defeated the Galliano henchmen, but I still need to overcome my phobia.

Benito turns to me, his brow raised. "So... You and my brother."

My nostrils flare. Is this an extension of his hostility from that awful family dinner? "What are you saying? That I'm good enough?"

His gaze sweeps down my hooker outfit and suppresses a grimace. "You're his perfect match. Just keep him out of trouble."

"Jet skis, sir," yells a voice.

I turn to the empty space beside the yacht, finding a pair of vessels barely larger than motorbikes bobbing on the water. Nausea hits me in the gut, and I sway on my feet. I hand the missile launcher back to one of his men and grimace.

"Problem?" Benito asks.

"Water and me don't mix," I mutter.

"That's why Cesare left behind a highly trained assassin," he says, his brows raised.

I stride toward the jet skis, terror mounting with each step, until my lungs can't take in any air. This isn't the time to freeze. If Gunther is out there with allies, then Cesare will need our help.

We reach the jet skis, where one of his men hands us both life jackets. Benito mounts one and holds out his hand. "You're with me."

"Thanks, but I can handle myself."

I slip the life jacket over my head. If I can overcome this fear, then telling Miranda the truth about our past will be easy. I might even stop denying my feelings for Cesare because what we have is more than just a truce. And he's more than just a spoiled mafia prince.

Benito revs his jet ski and speeds off without a second glance. I throw a leg over the second vehicle, my fingers gripping the handlebar for dear life.

Gazing out across the choppy, black waters, I force my breaths to slow. This is for Miranda. Cesare. For our little family. With a silent prayer, I punch the ignition, and the engine roars to life.

Blank terror clouds my vision as the jet ski lurches forward, and a cold spray rushes up to meet my face, stinging my eyes and nose. I blink away the seawater and focus on Benito's disappearing silhouette.

If I can get through this in one piece, I'll stop fussing over Miranda's grades and worrying about what she eats. I'll stop pushing Cesare away.

Shifting my weight forward, I squeeze the throttle, making the jet ski accelerate. It bucks beneath my feet, surging forward like a wild horse. Wave after wave slams into the small vessel, but I hold steady. Within moments, I catch up with Benito and let the roar of the engine drown out my thoughts.

Up ahead, a procession of speedboats race toward a large motorboat, where a gray-haired figure stands on a swimming platform. His back is turned to us, but from the way he angles his arm, it looks like he's holding a gun.

"Is that your boss?" Benito yells over the engine's roar.

It takes a few seconds to work out that the man isn't Gunther, and my stomach plummets to the sea. "It's Matteo Galliano."

"I thought he was dead."

My jaw clenches. "So did I."