6. Chapter Six

What the hell am I doing ? I wonder not for the first time as I drop George off at Ms. Willoughby’s, my neighbor, and stalk to my Camaro.

Nico’s black van is parked beside it, and he leans against the driver’s side door, a phone pressed to his ear, barking orders in rapid-fire Italian and looking like all things sexy and sinful.

And let’s not forget, sinister.

I’ve just invited a stranger who wants to kill me along on a trip home. I bet he had a body bag in the trunk of his Lambo two days ago. And do I even want to know what he planned with that sleek black van today?

Why am I not crippled with fear for this man? Screaming and clawing to get away from him?

Maybe the same reason he needs to, but can’t seemto hurt me.

I sneak another look at Nico. Clad in all black, his suit jacket discarded, he wears a tailored shirt that clings to him, accentuating his physique in a way that leaves little to the imagination. The first few buttons are undone, revealing just a hint of black Gothic lettering beneath the fabric. I had somehow expected him to be covered in tattoos, much like Cade, but he’s not.

His thick, wavy hair is sexily mussed, and not from running his fingers through it—something tells me he’s not given to nervous gestures like that. He looks deceptively casual, leaning against the van, yet there’s a certain tension in the set of his shoulders and the way he scans the area. He looks like a sleek black jaguar poised to pounce.

You’re doing the right thing, Soph, Rafe’s voice whispers inside my head.

I choke out a laugh in response. You know how cats love to play with their food? Try telling me that when I’m lying in this big cat’s belly, or more aptly, at the belly of Lake Michigan.

Tearing my gaze from him, I open my car door, only to be caught off guard as Nico finishes his phone call, straightens from the side of the van, and comes to me.

“What, your duck isnt keen on flying?” he teases, a smirk lifting the corners of his mouth. His dark mood from earlier appears to have lifted.

“George doesn’t mind flying, but I doubt the airline would welcome him on board. And frankly, he’s not too terribly fond of being eaten.”

Nico’s brow furrows, clearly not following.

“Where we’re going, they’d throw him on the grill,” I add, half-joking.

It’s not one of their finer qualities. But then again, they’d be just as happy to throw Nico on the barbecue if they knew that he’d stalked me and then tried to kill me, so they aren’t entirely beyond redemption.

“I’ll see you at the airport,” I say, then close my car door and rev the engine. Or maybe I won’t. A very large part of me is hoping he’ll abandon this game he’s playing with me. I ignore the small part of me that hopes he won’t.

Unfortunately, he remains in my rearview mirror, a constant presence trailing all the way to the airport, and slides right into the parking spot next to mine in the long-term lot.

I get out of my car and circle to the trunk without sparing him a glance. Once there, I open the trunk and unzip my suitcase. I’d removed the knife holster around my thigh while waiting at a stop light, but now, I hesitate.

It’s not the first time I’ve flown back home, but it’s the first time a dangerous criminal is tagging along for the ride. Having no means with which to defend myself in case he decides he’s bored of playing, leaves me feeling naked and far too exposed.

I sigh, squeeze the dagger hilt one last time, then tuck it into my suitcase.

“You’re going to need to take out your weapons here too, Mr. Vitelli,” I say without looking at him. “I don’t think security will let you past the gates with them.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he replies as I lift my suitcase out of the trunk and drop it down on its wheels.

I’m not about to press the issue. If he wants to get his ass arrested, then so be it. Actually, that sounds pretty ideal.

The shuttle to the airport arrives within a minute, and the short trip there passes in silence.

But when I step off the shuttle and start toward the main terminal, Nico’s unexpected grip on my arm redirects my steps, his touch igniting an involuntary shiver that courses through me,

Ugh, get a grip, Soph.

“This way,” Nico nods in the opposite direction. “There’s a plane waiting for us,” he explains like it’s no big deal.

I can’t mask my surprise. His ability to circumvent the hassles of conventional travel logistics borders on the absurd. “You booked a private jet in the space of what, twenty minutes? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He shrugs. “Would you prefer to stand in line at security for the next hour?”

“No.” But I would also prefer not to be traveling with an armed psychotic hottie, so it seems my preferences aren’t ranking high on anyone’s list.

I sigh. “All right, let’s do this.” In for a penny, in for a pound.

And really, if Nico had wanted me dead, he could have accomplished that back at my house with no one but George as a witness. ‘A Mid-flight Murder’ just sounds like the title of a bad mystery novel.

So, I let him lead me across the lot to a private terminal and a sleek jet waiting beyond it.

There’s no general security line to go through, nothing but a handful of people who I’m fairly certain specialized in ‘kissing Nico Vitelli’s ass’ back in college.

“Buongiorno, Signor Vitelli,” each of them greets him with an overbright smile as we ascend the steps and board the plane.

“Is there anything I can get for you, Signore?”

“We’ll be in the air in just a few minutes, Signore.”

“A car will be waiting for you when we land, Signore.”

I’m acknowledged too, with nodding heads and a slew of “Buongiorno, Signorina.”

It’s like an onslaught of over-the-top kindness, and it leaves me reeling a little, glad to nod and hurry past them, taking a seat on the plush sofa that faces a polished wood table halfway down the plane.

Nico lingers at the front of the plane, conversing with the crew in fluent Italian, and the realization hits me—this is his crew, his jet, his rules. Suddenly, I find myself ensnared in Nico Vitellis orbit, amidst his loyal entourage. I stare out the window and force down the rising panic.

As the plane starts to take off, Nico settles into the seat opposite mine.

“So, who is this man you’re going home to bury?” His question cuts through the silence.

I shake my head, determined to maintain a professional wall. “That’s not how this works, Mr. Vitelli. You do the talking, and I do the listening.” I return to staring out of the window, but I feel the weight of his stare like a physical touch.

It takes a while before I dare to meet his eyes. “If you’re trying to communicate telepathically, I’m afraid I left my sixth sense at the airport.”

His lips twitch with a smile he can’t quite seem to suppress. “You’re either very brave or foolish, fiammetta,” he muses aloud.

“Current circumstances point to the latter,” I mutter under my breath, thoughts of big cats and hunting games swirling in my head.

I just need to get home. Nico can’t do shit to me there. He might not even come back.I get a perverse sense of joy imagining the predator becoming the prey in a few short hours.

I’m surprised when Nico starts to talk to me.

“Maria met Leo when they were in high school. Did you know that?” Nico asks as he signals for a round of drinks.

I look at him, pointedly silent. If this is a way to find out what I know, then his plan is dead on arrival.

He pauses while a beautiful brunette delivers two glasses and an open bottle of grappa. I pretend not to notice the loaded look that passes between her and Nico as she fills his glass. She doesn’t spare me a glance before she spins on her heels and leaves us alone.

My gut twists unexpectedly as I feel my nostrils flare in irritation.

Why the fuck that look should bother the hell out of me is a mystery I don’t care to look into. For all I know, Nico might be giving her instructions to take me out since he’s currently doing a very sloppy job of it.

He continues, oblivious to my seething. “It wasn’t love at first sight for them. It was more like love, then hate, then love.” He pauses to take a sip of his drink, then sets the glass down on the table. “Leo didn’t mind. The make-up sex made it worth it.”

Yes, Maria mentioned the rollercoaster of a sex life between her and her husband; nothing for weeks after a fight, then a sudden explosive re-coupling that ended in hours of lovemaking.

“I told Leo he needed to hurry up and put a ring on Maria’s finger because no other woman was going to put up with his bullshit.”

“It sounds like you cared a great deal about your friend.”

Nico arches an eyebrow, a gesture I’m coming to recognize as his go-to. “Because I goaded him into strapping a ball and chain around his ankle?”

I pause, considering my response while trying to ignore the flutter of excitement low in my belly at the prospect of navigating the layers of Nico’s psyche. I tell myself it’s professional curiosity.

“It’s not so much what you said, Mr. Vitelli, as how you said it and the subtle changes in your body language when you did.”

He sits up straighter, his brows furrowing. I don’t think he likes me being able to read him.

Still, I continue, “Do you feel responsible for Maria because you pushed Leo into marrying her or because you feel guilty about his death?”

A shadow of annoyance flickers across his face, and then something shifts in his gaze, turning it scorching hot as he slowly sweeps over me. From the tips of my black pumps, along the curve of my pencil skirt, to the delicate folds of my white silk shirt. Finally, his gaze lands on my face, and I’m willing with every last ounce of energy not to blush.

He murmurs, “Feeling responsible for Maria led me here, as a plus one, to the funeral of a man I don’t know, with a gorgeous woman who has a fuck-off sign all over her. A sign that I’d very much like to tear off.”

He continues to stare at me even after I lose the battle and my face flushes. It’s not what he said so much as the way he said it. It sounded way, way dirtier, conjuring images of ripped clothing and sweaty skin and tangled limbs. I look away and take a deep breath as my brain scrambles and a throbbing begins in my core. I grit my teeth, willing it to stop.

We both know what he just did there. I hit a nerve, one that’s raw and deep. He shut down, deflected and effectively turned the game on me, playing me like a fiddle with his words.

When he gets bored of watching me squirm, he takes his drink and leaves, moving to the opposite side. If I had any doubts about Nico’s aversion to opening up, what happened just now laid them to rest.

Sufficiently chastised, I release the breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The last thing the man wants is therapy. And he is right about one thing. One of us is wearing a giant fuck-off sign. But it’s not me, it’s Nico Vitelli.