Page 63 of Twisted Fate

Sabina whirls and stares at me, her pale blue eyes locked on mine.

“You have no proof,” Damian says.

“That was the point of my conversation with her,” Leo says. “Getting proof. Or a confession.”

“It wasn’t a fucking conversation,” Damian counters. “You were strangling her.”

“What the hell is wrong with you, Damiano?” Leo asks. “Our techniques might differ, but you’ve used a similar approach many a time in the past.”

“I—”

Damian’s answer is cut short, his gaze locking on something behind me, his expression one of horror for a spare instant before it locks down.

I turn. Luca stands just behind me, knuckles white where he clutches the handrail. For an instant, I don’t understand what I’m seeing, and then I do. Blood drips down the side of his face and onto the collar and shoulder of his pale blue polo shirt, staining it red. Then his lids flicker closed and he keels forward, dropping like a felled tree.

“Luca!” Instinct makes me reach for him, as if I can somehow catch his massive frame or stop his fall. All I succeed in doing is getting myself taken down by his weight, pinned beneath him to the deck as rapid footsteps pound up the stairs then storm past me.

Men. Six of them. And they all have guns.

24

Alina

Damian starts toward me where I lie trapped beneath Luca’s weight.

“Don’t move,” one of the gunmen says, his weapon trained on Damian, who catches my eye and offers a tiny shake of his head.

It doesn’t take a genius to realize he wants me to stay still, stay quiet. Play dead. I’m now covered in Luca’s blood, so I could probably pass for dead at a quick glance. Another gunman has his weapon aimed at Leo, who has pulled Sabina to stand behind him.

Frantic, I look around for any of the men I’ve seen standing in the shadows since I first arrived on the yacht, unobtrusive. Where the fuck are the guards?

The gunmen don’t even glance my way.

I try to listen for Luca’s breathing, for his heartbeat, but I’m at the wrong angle to hear anything.

He’s been my guard, my jailor, and I know he is definitely not a good guy. But he’s been kind to me. Bought me ice cream. Made me laugh. Talked to me. I don’t want him to be dead.

Moving slowly so as not to attract attention, I slide my hand up his neck and almost cry when I find a pulse. He’s alive.

“What the fuck is this?” Leo snarls.

The first gunman, a blond, motions with his gun. “Down the stairs.” He has an accent. Russian?

“Fuck you.”

The man grabs Sabina and yanks her in front of him, the muzzle of his weapon pressed to her temple. My heart lurches.

“Down the stairs, all of you,” he says, and juts his chin toward one of the staircases that lead down to the swim deck. “I am not here to kill her, but I will if you force my hand.”

Sabina’s expression is cool and composed, as if having a gun at her temple is an everyday occurrence.

“Mikhail sent you,” Damian says. “He plans to start a war?”

My gut tells that while he actually does care about who sent these men, he’s talking mostly to buy time, trying to come up with a solution.

“Don’t know any Mikhail,” the gunman says. “Now, walk.”

I hold my breath and stay perfectly still as they descend the stairs, the blond holding Sabina, his gun pressed to her temple. He’s followed by Damian, who is followed by a second gunman who holds his weapon to the base of Damian’s skull. A third gunman holds his weapon to the base of Leo’s skull. The other men bring up the rear.

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