Page 43 of Ruthless Vow

I am no different than I was. I am still me.

So why am I trying so hard to convince myself of that, to convince myself that everything I knew and believed is still true, that my loyalty must remain with my aunt, with my heritage? Why do I feel like I no longer want to be someone else’s pawn?

I’m tired and thirsty by the time I reach the street that the storage facility is on. I’ve been careful, watching my back to make certain I haven’t been followed, taking side streets and cutting through parks whenever possible. Almost there now. Assoon as I retrieve the bag, I’ll buy a burner phone and a huge bottle of water and chug back the whole thing. Then I’ll find a place to hole up for the night.

I approach the storage facility, a terra-cotta colored building with a rusting fence out front. On the opposite side of the street, a chain link fence separates me from a barren stretch of sand and dry grass. I walk past the facility and take up surveillance beside a red pickup that’s parked at the side of the road.

I wait for fifteen minutes or so. No one goes in or comes out.

I cross the road, and head inside. Minutes later, I’m walking out with my backpack slung over my shoulder.

I’m barely ten steps from the door when a black limo pulls up in front of me. The back door opens.

“Sofia misses you,” says a deep male voice with a hint of a Russian accent. I know that voice.

“She misses cotton candy,” I say, my heart pounding.

“She does not like frogs,” the man replies, completing the code that confirms he is my aunt’s emissary. Of course. They must have been watching for me. Or the guy behind the counter at the storage place alerted them to my arrival.

I hesitate by the open door of the limo. What if this man is the bomber? I don’t know which of my aunt’s people I can trust.

I consider my options. He knew the code, which means my aunt gave it to him. She’ll be expecting me. If he is the bomber, I doubt he wants to reveal his hand. Besides, he’s not about to blow up the limo with him in it.

I get inside, finding myself alone with a man with gray hair and gray eyes. I recognize him. His name is Danila, and he was one of the mercenaries on the yacht.

He nods a curt greeting but says nothing more.

I nod back. There’s no reason for conversation between us, not that I have anything to say to him anyway. He’s the courierand I’m the package. The important thing is, he got to me before Leo did.

Even as I think it, something inside of me wonders if I’m wrong, if I should have stayed in Leo’s warehouse cell and waited for him to find my sister and bring her to me.

I almost laugh out loud at how idiotic that sounds. I am not the type to sit back and wait for someone else to get my work done for me. And trusting Leo is something only a fool would do. I shake my head.

Fucked senseless, that’s what I am.

If I let him, he’ll make me lose all sense of who I am, what I stand for, and what I’m fighting for. Just because Leo Russo gave me the best sex of my life does not mean I should trust him. Just because he told me he would find my sister does not mean I should trust him. In fact, my inclination to trust him probably means I shouldn’t be trustingmyselfright now.

Leo made me come, and suddenly he’s a good guy?

I’m so fucking weak.

My sister’s safety depends on me. Me, alone. I need to remember that.

Danila doesn’t offer one to me, but I grab a waiting bottle of Perrier. I’m parched, so I drink it down in one long gulp. Then I settle back into my seat and try to gather myself together, to remind myself that I need to be strong.

15

Leo

I sitat the desk in my home office, staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a view of the pool and hot tub and, in the distance, the mountains. On the far side of the pool is the pool house, a two thousand square foot, two-bedroom, two-bathroom home that Sabina has claimed as her own. It offers her both privacy and safety. She has a place of her own while still being protected by guards and gates and the confines of the electric fence. I know there are times it grates on her, the need for protection, but it is our life.

A glass of whiskey sits untouched at my elbow. I poured it only because it makes me think of Nicole, a reminder of the night she poured one for me and sat with me while I mourned my father.

My index finger taps the polished surface of my desk, each tap in time with the pulse of the blinking dot on the tablet in front of me. I’ve been watching it for almost three hours, watching it move slowly across the map, weaving its way through the city, heading toward downtown.

I considered having her followed from the warehouse, mypiccolo lupetta. Then decided against it. Too risky. If my menare spotted, either by her or someone she meets with, then this opportunity will be lost.

The tracker will have to suffice. It was easy enough to install when she let me take her locket so Luca could scan the picture of her sister.

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