An Italian on the run from the Mafia. A reporter seeking the truth. Will they reveal their feelings before danger strikes?
*****
Reclusive writer Luca Ross...
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"Do you have to put your hand on that gun like we're in the Wild West?" I hissed at Luca as we climbed out of his Mercedes and walked up the stairs of my condo.
"Stay close to me. I don't feel safe anywhere."
As I scanned the corridor of my sleepy, retiree-laden condo, I didn't know what to think. Was Luca overreacting? Was I under-reacting? It seemed my whole life had suddenly taken a turn for the surreal, between the revelation of who Luca really was, the mind-blowing sex, and seeing my first murder victim, who'd turned out to be a Mafia hitman.
Who was probably on the island to kill my boyfriend.
Wait. Was Luca my boyfriend?
I opened my mouth to ask, then closed it when I saw his eyes flit around in fear. No, this definitely wasn't the time for that question. I suspected the answer anyway. I was just being needy because I was so tense.
We reached the door. "Give me the keys," he said.
I did, and he unlocked the top and bottom lock.
"I'm going inside first."
"Oh, please. Come on." I brushed past him, impatient to just grab some things and get back to his house so he'd stop making me nervous, stop being so paranoid, stop making me afraid.
He reached out to take hold of my arm, but I powered past. "Let me just grab my pills and a few things and we'll be good."
I heard him lock the door as I hustled into the bathroom for my birth control. I rested my purse on the counter, then flicked on the light.
I screamed.
It was a woman. Holding a knife.
I backed up, but the woman was too fast, like a little lethal hummingbird. She grabbed my arm and—holy shit.
It was the woman from the café. The woman I'd spilled coffee on.
I writhed and twisted, not wanting to get cut by the crazy woman's knife, which looked sharp and steely.
"Amore mio, wha—?" Luca came to the doorway and stopped. His expression morphed from one of concern to a look of pure confusion. He lifted his gun and pointed it.
The three of us stared at each other. I looked at Luca, who looked at the intruder. The woman, who had huge, tawny eyes, gazed at Luca. I'd never seen a woman look so intently at another person. Almost worshipful.
What the fuck?
The woman's nails dug into my upper arm and yanked me closer, and I let out a whimper. With a slow rhythm, she feathered the blade down my upper arm as if she were sharpening it on my skin, not quite cutting me.
"Annalisa," Luca said softly, lowering his gun.
"What?" I yelped. "Do you know her?"
The woman said something in Italian. I noticed she smelled good, almost too good, like an expensive department store. Her blade was practically exfoliating my arm now, making a soft scraping noise. My eyes flashed down in horror.
