“Ciao,” she says.

  “I have a room reservation. Mr. Wilmsford.”

  She taps away on her keyboard before looking at me once more. “I just need your identification and credit card,” she says with her heavy accent.

  I hand her fake copies of both, and a few minutes later, she hands me a room key.

  “Enjoy your stay."

  On a nod, I make my way to the lift, rolling the small suitcase behind me.

  On the thirty-second floor, I exit the elevator and make my way to one of only two doors on this level. Inside is one of the smaller suites. An entire wall is made up of windows, casting a panoramic view of the Mediterranean ocean. The sun has almost set, painting the water's surface in orange and pink.

  The interior is as luxurious as expected, but I barely even acknowledge it. Tossing the suitcase on the bed, I unzip it, revealing the contents: one set of clothes, three knives, two handguns, and several clips. It’s all I need. I check my watch. Five o’clock. After a few days of surveillance, I know that Sergio goes for dinner in the restaurant at six and handles business meetings. He’s then usually back in his suite by nine. I’m relying on today being just like any other day.

  I tuck one gun into the waistband of my pants and leave the room. The elevator takes me to the first floor. All the cameras in the building are in the security room on this floor. I make my way along the corridor, glancing over the glass railing and into the entrance lobby below. Passing the door to the security room, I glance at the camera above it before moving along to the bar. Glasses tinkle and the low hum of conversation rises like a swarm of bees. The bar juts out on a mezzanine floor that reaches to the front of the building, a wall of glass divides it from the void of space that lingers above the lobby. There’s one table in the corner, up against the glass, with a direct line of sight to the security room. I’ve been sitting here for several hours each afternoon, watching the shift changes.

  I order a drink and sit, waiting until I see the guard approach the door for his shift. He clutches a coffee cup in one hand as he fumbles for a key card. Rising to my feet, I take my phone from my pocket. I stare at the screen and stride down the corridor, walking right into the new security guard. His coffee spills over both of us, and he leaps away from me.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I say quickly.

  The middle-aged man looks angry but quickly wipes it from his face and replaces it with a polite smile. “It’s okay.”

  “Look, here’s some money for a new coffee. Sorry about your shirt.” I hand him a ten euro note, gesturing toward the grey uniformed shirt that now has a huge brown wet patch on the front.

  “It’s fine.” He waves me off. “I’m more concerned about your suit.”

  “I insist. You can’t work with no caffeine.” I thrust the money at him, and he hesitantly takes it.

  “Thank you.”

  “No, no. My fault. It’s the least I can do.”

  With a nod, he wanders off. I wait until he’s rounded the corner and approach the security room, presenting the card that I swiped from his pocket. The little light on the handle turns green, and the door clicks open.

  “I’m so glad you’re here. I have an evening of beer and TV planned.” The guy sitting in front of the bank of monitors stretches and pushes to his feet, but he doesn’t make it as far as turning to face me.

  Closing the distance, I wrap an arm around his throat and wrench him back against my chest. He struggles, legs flailing as he claws at the material of my suit jacket. Finally, he goes limp, falling unconscious. I drop him to the ground and drag him to a desk at the back of the room, tucking him beneath it. I have small windows of time and too many people around to do a better job of this.

  I remove the USB drive from my pocket and slide it into the port of the main computer. I then delete the recordings from the cameras both in here and outside in the corridor. I scan the monitors until I find several showing the emergency exit stairwell. There’s one elevator that goes to the penthouse, and it’s operated via private key card. However, the emergency stairwell runs from the ground floor to the penthouse. It’s alarmed with movement sensors and cameras, but not for long.

  At the bottom of the screen are numbers, presumably relevant to floors. I find number 30-33 and locate the camera in the computer system. The file from the drive uploads, and there’s a tiny flicker on the screen as the program takes the last twenty minutes of footage and loops it. Next, I find the alarm systems and disable them for the stairwell.

  Snatching the USB drive, I get up and leave the room, dropping the stolen card right outside, where I ran into the guard. I pass him coming back with his fresh coffee. He smiles at me as I pass.

  “Sorry again.”

  I have a small window. The other guard will wake up within the next half an hour, maybe more. Then the alarm will be raised. I take the elevator back up to my room and change quickly, holstering a handgun to one leg and a knife to the other. I palm my other gun and exit the room, glancing up and down the corridor. The emergency door is illuminated at the end of the short hall, a bright green exit sign above it. On a deep breath, I grab the handle and twist, shoving it open. My lungs freeze, and my heart beats a little harder as I wait anxiously for an alarm to start blaring. It doesn’t. Without emergency lighting, the stairwell is dark and dingy. Icy air drifts up thirty-three floors of concrete steps. I climb up one level and pause outside the door that leads to the penthouse. In theory, these doors should open from this side, in case a fire crew ever need to get in. However, with high-risk individuals, security often dictates that they are locked. I test the handle, hoping there’s no-one on the other side. I can be as precise as possible, but there’s always an element to this job that is unpredictable. I can’t guarantee anything, and risks are inevitable. The handle doesn’t give, so I take a small device from my pocket. It’s an electromagnet that will slide the locking mechanism back. Again, anyone standing on the other side of that door is going to see the latch jolt out of place.

  Pressing my back to the wall beside the door, I palm my gun in one hand. With the other, I tentatively push the handle down and snatch back my hand. Long-unused hinges let out an ominous squeal as the door drifts open. Holding my breath, I listen for a sound, the slight shifting of a floorboard underfoot, an inhaled breath, the clicking of the safety on a gun…nothing. I round the corner, ready to shoot. There’s no one there, and the muscles in my shoulders slowly relax. As I make my way through the penthouse, moonlight pours through the window, casting a silvery glow over the dark rooms. I cross through a kitchen diner and into a corridor. The low hum of a television can be heard, and it puts me on high alert once more. At the end of the corridor is a huge living room, the windows stretching over two floors. In the center is a leather couch, and a single guy sits on it. He throws his head back, laughing at something on the screen.

  My footsteps are silent, like a cat stalking prey. The man tips a bottle of beer up before laughing once more. As I get closer, I see his weapon discarded on the table and almost pity him. He’s so incompetent it’s pathetic. These are the men Fonzo has protecting him? There was a time when taking out a mafia boss was a challenge. Taking out a Russian one certainly is. Others call The Elite an extreme measure while placing their lives in the hands of men like this. Ridiculous.

  I strike like a snake, slamming my arm around his throat and wrenching his head to the side with my free hand. The distinctive crunch of his spine splitting echoes through my mind. A clean kill is always satisfying. His body sags, twitching as he slumps over to the side. I check my watch. Eight forty-seven. Fonzo should be here any minute. I do a quick scout of the remaining rooms in the penthouse, finding no one else here. Then I pull the guy off the sofa and drag him across the room, his arms trailing out behind his hefty mass. By the time I get him to the cupboard in the corner of the room, I’m out of breath. I need to work out more. I’m still not fully fit from getting shot back in Russia.

  Now it’s just a waiting game. Which will happen first: Fonzo coming back, or the guard I stashed under that desk in the security room waking up? Of course, I could have killed him, but I’ve always had a morality issue with killing innocent people. Those who work for and associate themselves with this sordid underworld we live in, well, they signed up for this life. The average guy working his job, he didn’t. If I have to kill them, I will, but I avoid it. As each second ticks by, I start to feel the foolishness of that decision in the pit of my stomach.

  I take a seat in one of the chairs in the living room, facing the door. I screw the silencer to the end of my pistol and wait there in the darkness. My breaths even out, and my heartbeat slows. Anticipation usually spikes a man's pulse, flooding his veins with adrenaline. I’ve always found the anticipation before a kill to be very calming, a strange void of icy focus where nothing but my prey and me exist. His body and my bullet. Nothing more. It’s almost peaceful.

  I wait for over ten minutes before I hear the quiet beep of the access card being swiped across the door. Several voices reach me from the hallway, and I get up. I place my back to the wall beside the door and wait, listening, assessing. Three, no four men. They drift away from me, toward the kitchen, and once I’m sure they’re gone, I move. Raising my gun, I glance around the corner and see a single guy standing there, his brows pulled together in concentration as he stares at the screen of his phone. He doesn’t notice my presence, so I palm the handle of the knife and throw it. The blade embeds straight in his throat, and I rush forward to catch the body before he hits the ground. Choked gasps slip past his lips, possibly even louder than the subtle pop of the silencer would have been. I pull the blade out and embed it in the base of his skull, severing the spinal cord. Air hisses past his lips, and he dies almost immediately. Blood spreads over the pristine white tile, and I step back before it reaches me.

  I creep toward the kitchen, using the darkness like a cloak. Closing my eyes, I listen to the sound of their voices, each footstep over the tile floor. In my mind, I build a picture of where each of them is standing in the room, their proximity to each other and me. Then, palming my gun, I round the narrow strip of wall. They don’t even notice me for a good two seconds. The first man has hit the ground, and the second’s head snaps back from the force of the bullet before Fonzo even sees me.

  He reaches for his gun but pauses when he realizes that my gun is already trained on him.

  “Sasha Ivanov,” he says, holding his hands in the air. His eyes narrow, and a map of scars pull at the skin on his face. “You’re fast.”

  I say nothing.

  “Whatever you are being paid, I will double it.”

  “You know it doesn’t work like that.” I tilt my head to the side. “Adelina Ricci-Bianchi sends her regards.” I could have told him the truth, that Nero sent me, but I want him to know that Adelina is not the wilting flower they think she is before he dies.

  I pull the trigger and the bullet tears through his skull. Wide eyes stare right at me as the life in them diminishes. The body hits the floor. It’s messy, and I have no means of clean up, but it’s unlikely the police will ever see this. The mob tries to handle their own affairs. Fonzo may be dead, but I fear that the bounty on Adelina’s head will only get bigger and bigger.

  I force the thoughts from my mind. It’s not my problem. I did a job I was paid for. This will all be over soon, and I can go back to New York.

  9

  Adelina

  It’s pitch black, and something is pressing down on me, pinning me to the ground. I fight against it, panic consuming me.

  “Keep fighting, principessa.”

  I freeze, and a horrible cackle echoes around me. The sound of my clothes shredding has my heart leaping into a sprint as adrenaline floods my veins. No, no, no. My legs are wrenched apart, and vomit rises in my throat. “I like it when you fight. Scream for me a little.”

  He slams into me, and what feels like a soul-deep pain consumes me. “Scream. Scream!”

  And I do.

  I wake, my throat raw and my body slick with sweat. A dream. Just a dream. Sitting up, I check the time. It’s nearly midnight. Sasha should be back by now. Climbing out of bed, I walk down the dark hallway until I reach his bedroom door. Light spills beneath it, signaling that he has indeed returned, and is still awake.

  Steeling myself, I step forward and rap my knuckles over the wood. The door is yanked open, and Sasha stands there, all six foot plus of a honed killer. Shirtless, honed killer. My eyes rake over every chiseled muscle of his torso, pausing on each and every scar that mars his skin. Several gunshots, stab wounds, cuts. Some older and fading to silver while others look relatively new.

  My mouth opens and closes before I force myself to look at his face. His unyielding gaze awaits me.

  “Adelina.” He leaves the door open and turns away.

  I follow him into the room, studying his back. Two guns are laid out on the desk in the corner, stripped down and laid out systematically.

  “Is Sergio dead?”

  “Of course.” He spares me only a brief glance as he picks up the barrel of a weapon and cleans it.

  I fidget, and he continues what he’s doing. “You’re sweating.”

  “I uh, had a bad dream.”

  He stills and places the heavy metal back down. “You’re scared,” he says.

  I can barely look at him, and it annoys me. I gnaw on my bottom lip, trying to get a grip on myself. “I’d be foolish not to be. With Sergio dead, they’re definitely coming for me.” And by they, I mean Enrique.

  It’s only a matter of time before he crawls out of the woodwork, and I need Sasha beside me when it happens. I need his affection, at the very least, that engrained drive to protect. I need Sasha to kill Enrique for me. Then, when he’s slain my enemies, I’ll end him.

  I sense Sasha move closer. The heat of his body reaches me, though he’s nearly a foot away. He looms over me like a shadow, blocking out everything that isn’t him.

  “War is never safe, or easy, Adelina.”

  I slowly lift my head, meeting those eyes that are so beautiful, yet so cold. Like the frost that clings to a meadow on a winters day. I remember what it felt like to look into those eyes and get lost, to feel so warm and safe in that endless fortress of ice. “I never wanted a war.”

  “And yet here you are, the poster child for Nero’s fight.”

  I grit my teeth. “I asked Nero for help.”

  “Why?”

  I sigh. “I had enough of losing, of always being the victim. And…” I decide to show him a slither of honesty. “It was the only way I could be with you,” I whisper, allowing past and present to mix and blur until I feel a twinge of that affection I felt for him so deeply.

  “Adelina—”

  “You were supposed to be my future.” I truly believed that at one point, and the entire time, everything we had was built on the most heinous betrayal.

  “We’ve already spoken about this.”

  “I need you, Sasha.” I step forward and place my palms on the warm skin of his chest. “I’m sorry I hurt you.” I don’t know how many times I have to do this with him, but I’ll do it a hundred more if needed.

  Without thought, I push up on tiptoes and slam my lips over his. For one timeless heartbeat, I feel as though he could save me from everything, even myself. He freezes, muscles tensing, and I expect him to pull away. My fingers wind around the back of his neck, and my nails rake over his skin. Like a man coming up for air, he seems to come alive. Hands glide around my waist, fingers clinging to the material of my dress. My heart leaps into a sprint, and instincts override rationale. As he tugs me against him, I feel so small and vulnerable, yet utterly safe, invincible. The kiss goes from tentative to hard and desperate. His grip on me becomes painful, but I don’t care, because he’s slipping, losing that tight rein he keeps on his control. I almost feel the moment he cracks, and I didn’t realize how much I needed him to. It’s both a blessing and a curse because he ignites something in me that I thought long gone from the second I knew what he did. I’m reminded of how alive he makes me feel, how much I crave this.

  As quickly as it began, it stops. Sasha yanks away from me, stumbling back a step and snatching his hands away as if I’d burned him.

  “You’re going to marry Matteo. I have a life. I can’t do this with you again.”

  “I didn’t agree to marry Matteo. I turned him down,” I say.

  His brows pinch together. “You shouldn’t have. You’ll need his help.”

  I hold up my hand. “I don’t want his help, not at that cost. I don’t need anyone, except you and Gabi. I’m fed up with being a pawn.”

  He pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. “It’s not that simple, Adelina. Power comes at a price. Did you think this would be easy? Without sacrifice? You’re in it now. Fonzo is dead, and you’re right; they will be coming for you. The only way out now is to win.”

  “So you think I should just agree to another marriage? Secure the win?”

  Something volatile and untamed flashes through his irises and his fists clench. “This is the path you chose.”

  Very real emotions fight their way to the surface, bringing a wall of pain that steals my breath. “I forked off the path! You were supposed to be waiting for me when I came back.” I suck in a sharp breath. “And now you tell me to get into another man's bed.”

  A snarl pulls at his lips as he almost lunges at me. “What do you want me to say, Adelina? You made it clear time and time again that your end goal was all that mattered. First, it was killing Enrique, now it’s taking his place. I know how this ends, so don’t expect me to care.” He grits his teeth and balls his fists. His eyes close on an exhaled breath. “Don’t make me care for you. Please.”

  “I loved you,” I choke. Once again, the lines are blurring between past and present, lies and truth.

  He snaps back instantly, that feral wildness in his eyes scaring me. “And I loved you and you left!”