2. Flashes of Color

Chapter 2

Flashes of Color

I like to think that I've lived a hundred lives.

I've been a young waitress in France with the goal of bringing joy to people's lives. I've been an heiress chased by a reporter through the vibrant streets of Rome. I've been a cancer-stricken father struggling to raise his children while dealing with an alcoholic spouse.

But now I don't think watching foreign films, for days on end, counts as living.

The reality of my life can be summed up in one word: mundane.

I've done nothing. I've seen nothing. Not in real life. Not in the flesh.

Not really.

They say your life is supposed to flash before your eyes when you die. I see nothing.

A blank canvas that has yet to be painted. A starless night. A black vortex.

A void.

"Are you going to kill me?" I whisper as Mr. Smith guides me down the scarcely lit sidewalk .

The sharp November air prickles at my skin and sends a shiver down my spine. A couple passes us on the street, neither of them paying attention to me, neither of them noticing the terror on my face. So oblivious. So fucking useless.

Do I scream? Do I yell for help?

The bank had cameras. He didn't care. He'll shoot me. On the spot. And then he'd shoot whoever would try to help me. I know he would. I don't know how I know that. But I do.

"Keep walking." He presses the pistol harder into my back as he pulls out his cellphone and types a message; the brief clicking of the keyboard indicates that it's a short text. I would think you would need more than three words to explain this situation to someone.

"Who are you?" I ask with a shaky breath, my eyes dry, surprisingly tearless. Mr. Smith ignores me. "Just let me go. I won't say anything, I promise."

"You are walking too fast. You need to relax and slow down. We don't need to draw unwanted attention."

Is he being serious right now? We? That's exactly what I want to do. Bring on the attention. All the attention. If I had a horn, I'd blow it.

Or...

Or maybe I wouldn't.

Everyone knows about fight or flight, a person's instinctive response to stress or trauma. But there's also freeze. And fawn.

I think I'm freezing.

But I refuse to fawn.

"It's kind of hard to relax when you have a gun pointed at your L2 vertebrae," I murmur as we turn into a dark alley .

I've seen enough movies to know that an alley means death.

"Turn around."

I close my eyes, turning toward him, my breathing ragged, uneven.

This is so fucking stupid. I did this asshole a favor. I helped him! And now he's going to kill me? In an alley? Not even a glamorous death.

How upsetting. How infuriating. How unfair .

Opening my eyes, I find myself teetering away from fear and edging closer to frustration, anger.

"I saved your goddamn life!" I clench my fists and stare into the barrel of his gun. "Is this how you repay kindness? By killing innocent women?"

"Unfortunately, you are incorrect, Kiara," he says, a melancholy smile on his face. "As you so astutely pointed out, this bomb is not real, thus I was never in any real danger."

I glare at him. "A technicality."

Mr. Smith lets out a low chuckle. "A grave one." He takes a step closer to me, adjusting his grip on the gun. "It is a shame though—" His pitch-black eyes skim my face. "To rid the world of such beauty."

"If that's the case, you can always let me go." I ignore the rising of my traitorous chest. "Preserve the beauty...so to speak."

"I do not make messes, I cannot clean up," he says, almost apologetically. "And you are, regretfully, a mess."

"I—"

My response is interrupted by his cellphone ringing. He's not seriously going to answer his phone, is he?

" Pronto ," he says, lowering the gun as he props the phone against his ear .

Oh. He's answering. Not like he's in the middle of attempted murder or anything. He begins pacing, turning away from me. I look around. Of course, nowhere to run. I guess I'll just stand here and wait for my untimely demise.

What an anticlimactic end to my anticlimactic life.

Several seconds pass by, Mr. Smith's back still turned to me. His attention focused on whoever he's barking orders to on the phone. My gaze snaps to the pistol, hanging so precariously off his index finger. He really is quite cocky, isn't he?

Maybe I could?—

Manifesting the energy of a prima ballerina, I gracefully glide toward Mr. Smith, ensuring that my feet make no noise, that I don't breathe, that silence surrounds us. When I'm mere inches away, I suck in a sharp breath and latch onto the gun. His head whips toward me as I snatch the pistol from his fingers, but he's too late.

Holy crap, this thing is heavy. Using both hands, I extend my arms and point the gun at Mr. Smith, a sense of murky pride spreading through my body.

I flex my muscles so that my arms don't shake. "Let me go."

I'm in charge now. I have the power.

Mr. Smith sighs. " I will see you in five minutes, Marchello ," he says in Italian. " I need to solve a little problem first ." He hangs up, tilting his head to the side as he stalks toward me. What is he doing? Is he crazy? "Kiara put down the Beretta. It doesn't suit you."

I re-grip the pistol. "Seeing as I'm the one with the gun, I'll be making the demands." I take a step back as he continues walking toward me. "How do you plan on solving this little problem without the upper hand?"

"Hmm." He takes three large strides in my direction, forcing me to retreat back further. My back hits the brick wall. "You know Italian?"

"I know a lot of things," I whisper as his chest meets the tip of the pistol.

Oh God, he's a lunatic. Does he think I won't shoot?! I will. I fucking will.

"Is that so?" Mr. Smith chuckles, clicking his tongue. "Do you know what a safety is?"

What?

In the millisecond it takes for my gaze to lower down to the weapon, he's already snatching the pistol out of my hands. He snakes his fingers around my neck, knocking my head back into the wall, his grip restricting airflow, making me choke.

"Such a silly girl." His calloused thumb grazes along my quivering bottom lip, his sweet breath blowing into my mouth. "You never take your eyes off your target."

"I don't want to die." His fingers loosen around my throat but he doesn't let go. "Please."

"You will either die by my hand." He caresses my jawline, his body flush against mine. The jagged blocks of the fake bomb press into my chest. "Or by the Russians." He pauses, his charcoal eyes meeting mine. "It is better this way, bella . At least I will not torture you first."

"Please..." I fight back tears, defeat washing over me like a tidal wave. My hand grips his, attempting to drag it down. " Per favore. Ti prego. Non farò niente ."

"It does not bring me joy to end such a young and beautiful life." He sighs as he drops his hand and takes a solemn breath. "But begging will not help, even if it's in Italian."

I clench my teeth together. This is it. There's nothing else I can do. I'm out of options. Maybe I'm ready. Yes. I'm ready .

I'm ready.

"Just do i?—"

Police sirens blare in the distance and my head snaps toward the wonderful sound.

Oh my God. Yes.

Mr. Smith reaches for his cellphone, a frown marring his brows as he reads a message.

" Cazzo !" He runs a frustrated hand through his dark thick hair. "It would seem that destiny has other plans for you, Kiara ." He grabs my arm, leading me out of the alley and toward a parked black SUV with tinted windows. The door swings open, revealing two older men in the front seats, both dark-haired and frightening. "Get inside the car."

"No!" I attempt to jerk away from him, the sirens getting louder by the second. They're almost here.

"Get in the fucking car." He pushes me inside and hops in, slamming the door shut. "Do not scream or I will cut your tongue out before I kill you."

Waiting for death is exhausting.

"How very Russian of you," I sneer, eliciting a grin from Mr. Smith. Psycho . "I thought you don't torture people."

"I adjust very quickly." He turns his attention to the man in the passenger's seat as the driver pulls out onto the street. " Did you clean up, Marchello ?" Mr. Smith asks in Italian.

" Yes, the manager will erase the tapes and our men will discard the bodies ," he replies, briefly glancing at me. " I am sorry this happened, Milo. We should've known what they were doing. I'm so sorry. If you want to kill me, I will accept that fate."

Milo? What the fuck...

"I do not wish to spill more blood tonight." Mr. Whoever-the-fuck-he-is removes the trench coat, exposing the bomb wrapped around his chest. " We will deal with the Russians later. I would like to take this off now. "

" It looks so real ." Marchello examines the various crossed red and blue wires. " How did you know ? — "

"He didn't," I snap. They're talking like I'm not even here! "I told him." I face Mr. Smith, whose eyes are glinting with subtle amusement. "And who are you exactly?"

"How did you know?" Marchello asks me warily as I keep my attention on my annoyingly handsome captor. I have serious issues if I'm fantasizing about a man who's going to kill me. This can't be healthy. "How did you know that it was fake?"

I sigh, trying to read Mr. Smith's blank expression as he unclips the explosive vest off his body. I really hope it is fake. "I speak Russian," I murmur, wincing as Mr. Smith detaches the last wire and flings the vest to the floor. Oh, thank God. Still alive.

For now.

"You do?" Marchello purses his impressed lips. "And Italian as well?"

"And French and Spanish and German and Arabic," I mutter absentmindedly. Mr. Smith's groomed brow quirks up as I list off the languages I've learned over the years. "Plus, a little Korean. Not a lot though."

"Who are you?" Marchello asks.

Me?

"You first." I cross my arms, my gaze dancing between the two Italians. "Who are you, Mr. Smith? I think I deserve to know the name of the man who will eventually put a bullet in my brain, don't you think? It's not like the dead can talk. Might as well concede to this tiny request."

Leaning back into his seat, he studies me intently like he's plotting something. My death, no doubt. With a quick glance at his associate, he reveals in a smooth tone, "Emilio Di Vaio." He pauses, conjuring up a coy smirk. "But those close to me, call me Milo."

I blanch, his last name ringing in my head.

"D—Di Vaio?" I stammer. "As in..."

He smiles, evidently proud of his mafia ties. "Yes, as in Santi Oscuri ."

I nod slowly, realization dawning on me. "And the Russians at the bank...they were...?"

"Bratva," Milo confirms casually with a shrug. "A particular faction of the brotherhood that is causing quite a headache as you might have noticed."

"Uh-huh." So, he wasn't lying when he said the Russians would kill me. They would probably dismember me if they found out I foiled one of their grand plans. "Well thanks for telling me. At least I'll die with all the facts."

Milo glides his fingertips along his lips, cocking his head to the side. "Perhaps there is an alternative solution." His amber eyes soften, just a bit. "Instead of death, I am now willing to offer you protection."

"What?" I frown at his sudden change in plans. Marchello looks equally confused but he doesn't question his apparent boss. "Why would you do that?"

"It would be highly beneficial to have someone under my employ with your particular skill set," he explains. "It is not every day one meets a polyglot."

I blink. "So, you want to use me as your own personal Google translator?"

He smirks. "I want to use you for a lot of things, Kiara, but yes, translating is one of them."