Page 84 of Koroleva

The phantom driver knew what they were doing, they had everything perfectly calculated and studied.

Even though only a fraction of a second was visible, it was apparent that they were wearing a balaclava, gloves, and sunglasses. Quite an achievement considering today's twenty-eight degrees Celsius.

We watched as the car passed by the entrance gate of the residential complex, an hour and a half before I left the house, so it was ruled out that Romeo was the driver, regardless of the fact that my husband was seen leaving on a motorcycle with Adriano ten minutes after me.

The car hid, lurking somewhere beyond the reach of the cameras, and reappeared on the footage seconds after the Bugatti left with me at the wheel.

It was a BMW 3 series, a powerful model but within reach of many. There were thousands of cars like that roaming around. I noted down the license plate number and wasted no time calling one of my police contacts.

As expected, that license plate didn't match the model; it was forged. We also used the same system for our dealers.

Romeo was with me in bed at that moment, so it couldn't have been someone called by him. At that moment, he didn't know if I would leave alone or if I was going somewhere. It didn't make sense. My head was pounding from thinking so much.

Was it my father-in-law? Irene? An infiltrator? What if my husband was right, and they were after him instead of me?

"I don't want you to leave the house alone again," he commented, interrupting my musings. Romeo was sitting, leaning forward with his legs out of the hammock. I held his phone; I was lying down and couldn't stop watching the footage over and over.

"At least not until we know who's behind the shooting and who they were targeting."

"Meaning you won't go out alone either."

It wasn't a question, but a statement. I didn't like being told what to do. It's not like I intended to go out again without one of my men; I wasn't stupid. But I also didn't like the idea that if I couldn't go, he would.

"Why not? If someone kills me before you, it would make your job easier," he explained. His dark eyes watched my face attentively. I glared at him.

"I don't want corpses that don't deserve to be buried."

"Then... do you doubt?"

"I like being a woman of my word, that's all," he offered a mischievous smile.

"Well, to be a woman of your word, you should have put on sunscreen; you're going to burn," he warned, gently caressing

my calf again. My whole body tensed.

Romeo pulled the bottle from under the hammock, which he had bought at the store, to apply it to his hands.

I remained silent. Was he going to apply it to me and massage me like he did with the oil the night before?

My nipples hardened at the thought, and a slight dampness crept between my thighs. I parted my lips to take a breath. I imagined those strong hands kneading my quadriceps, teasing me until I parted my legs to brush against the inner thigh and then subtly slip a finger inside.

I squeezed my legs together and focused my gaze when I heard his next question.

"Shall I get you something to drink? You seem overheated..."

He didn't move his hand above me; the one that was already covered in cream was his, and I was rather frustrated.

"Pass me the sunscreen," I grumbled, reaching out my hand. He brought it close to my fingers, and just as I was about to grab it, he took it away.

"Please..." he reproached softly.

"Spasiba," I retorted with sarcasm, thanking him. I wasn't going to play cat and mouse. I stretched out my hand in a swift motion to snatch it stoically.

He offered a playful chuckle.

"The idea that Russians are helpful and kind is an urban legend, isn't it?"

"Just like the idea that Italians are romantic and never take off their sunglasses, even when it rains, are science fiction stereotypes."

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