33. Tasha

33

We're heading back to land, the water spraying in my face. My wrists bleed where the cable tie has cut into the skin, salt water stinging the wounds. I gasp in relief when the boat finally slows as we head close to shore. There's no harbor or town in sight. We're basically in the middle of nowhere. Our captain switches the engine off and is on his phone, speaking in Italian. The words are indistinguishable except for Scalera, which comes up several times.

I drop my head as the man who hit me comes to stand next to me. "Randazzo wants to see you." He cups my cheek where the painful sting of his palm feels swollen. He lifts my face up, forcing me to look at him. "Lucky girl."

His spit has mingled with salt water on my face. The least I can do is return the favor. I spit at him, but my aim sucks and it hits him in the chest.

He laughs. "You are going to have the time of your life, mia cara."

The boat's engine starts again and I jerk away, but he gets in a last brutal squeeze of my chin.

We head even closer to shore, the crystal blue water an idyllic daydream to my nightmare. The shore is thickly lined with palm trees, promising a lush oasis behind them. The pebble beach is narrow, but it's there. As the boat gets as close as it can to the shore, I blink in the stark sunlight. Men are coming through the palm trees, holding guns.

When the captain hands the spitter a knife from a small cubbyhole, I strangle a scream, but he only comes closer to cut my cable ties.

"You should scream," he says, conspiratorially. "Randazzo likes that."

I shake my hands as the cable tie finally shoots loose and bring my legs together as soon as one leg is free. The urge to kick him in the face is there, but I suspect it's only going to give him more fodder. The last person I want to see again is this man in front of me. He is pure, undiluted evil.

As one of the men comes out onto the beach and wades into the water, I know it's futile. I'm hauled to my feet by my hair and made to stand. The exchange is clumsy, but soon I'm tossed over this massive guy's shoulder, and he hikes me to shore. I'm not sure why he's bothering, as my dress is wet and ruined.

He doesn't put me down and I hang limp, fighting the nausea of the boat ride and my new situation as we enter the shade. The pressure on my stomach isn't helping. I can't spare him. I puke, my eyes tearing. The man curses as my breakfast stains his black trousers like a waterfall.

He drops me and I stumble, but already another gun is in my face. "Walk," the command comes, and I hobble forward as I remember for the first time that I left my ballet flats under the breakfast table.

The path leads up at a steeper incline than I expected and soon opens to a breathtakingly beautiful villa. There's a massive swimming pool to the side, but we're heading in the direction of the veranda. A man is sitting there, working on his laptop, breakfast still laid out on the table. A ginger cat is baking in a stretch of sun, and it lifts its head with a lazy blink as we pass.

We're almost at the table when the man closes his laptop and looks up at me. "Tasha Scalera. Matteo Scalera's wife. This is unexpected." He waves at me to join him at the table, and I'm pushed into a seat at gunpoint.

He studies me and I glare back. An old man, brushing seventy, possibly older if it weren't for money used to hide his age. Watery brown eyes and a diamond earring that looks out of place. A cut in his ear as he turns his head to ask someone something in Italian.

"He's not my husband," I say as the gunman taps my elbow. I put my hands on the table where everybody can see them.

My hosts blinks at me and his gaze drops to my hands where I'm wringing them together.

"Yet you're wearing Bianca Randazzo's engagement and wedding rings." He smiles at me. "I should know; I was best man at the wedding and the ring bearer."

Crap. I've jumped from one Mafia stronghold into another. Ever since Matteo walked into my life, I can't catch a break. Someone holds a silver platter out to me with a wet facecloth and a green shot of something. I take it gingerly, sniffing the wet cloth surreptitiously before I wipe my face. I've taken too many drugs involuntarily lately and eye the green cup with unease.

"Mouthwash."

I don't relax under this pretended kindness, but I rinse and spit into the cup provided. It's as if I'm at the freaking dentist. "I'm not Matteo Scalera's wife," I repeat. "I'm just someone he brought with him to Sicily. I'm innocent." In more than one way.

He studies me for a few seconds, then takes up his coffee cup and empties it. He puts it back in its saucer with care. "Here's the thing. Whether or not you're married to Matteo isn't key. What is his, is mine. You're his, in some way or another, which means, you're now mine."

I sink into my seat, wanting to drain out to the ocean. That must be Mafia math. And equals I'm done for.

"If you're his wife, he will come for you. If you're his whore—" He raises his hands in a very Italian way. "—well, then you've come to the right place." He lifts a finger, and another goon stands closer. "Tell Mara to come over immediately. Mark her as one of mine. Put her to work."

A gun muzzle pushes into my back, and I'm forced to stand. My legs are so shaky, I barely manage.

There's no need to read between the lines here.

Everything is crystal clear.