Page 63 of Promise Maker

Washing up in the bathroom, I forgo my thong, slipback into my bra and dress, fluff my curls, and return to the deck with him.

I’m a little shy to meet the gazes of his securityguards.

The chef brings red wine when we relax on theseat. He doesn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable, though I’m sure he heard oursexual shouts.

When he walks away, Domenico raises his wine glassto indicate a toast. “To mytesoro.”

“Hm.” I knock my glass with his and hold hisintense gaze while I drink.

We spend the rest of the afternoon at sea, havinglunch and learning more about each other, returning to the dock at sunset.

As we’re treading to the car with his securityclustered around us, an older man turns into the pier. He seems outraged,glaring at Domenico.

He stalls when we’re about to pass him andsputters with conviction, “Portatoredimorte.”

My eyes expand when he follows up with spitting onthe boardwalk before continuing on his way.

The fuck.

Rodrigo touches the gun at his waist.

“No,” Domenicotellshim. “Lascialo stare.”

We pile into the car, and the driver takes off.

“What was that about?” I ask Domenico. “Do youknow that man? What does porta…mortemean?”

“Portatoredimorte,” he enunciates and turns to me. “It’s what theycall me. It means bringer of death.”

“Wow,” I gasp.

“That man,” he adds, staring out the window. “Ikilled his brother a year ago.”

“What did he do?” I ask.

Domenico snaps back to me. “Would knowing what hedid make it less horrible? Would it change the fact that I took his life?”

I lower my head and murmur, “I guess not.”

Rodrigo receives a phone call as we’re approachingthe gates of the Martelli residence. It’s all Italian and too fast, so I don’tunderstand a word. But I notice the tick in Domenico’s jaw.

Turning into the courtyard, the driver stops butdoesn’t shut off the engine.

Domenico and I are about to get out when Rodrigosays, “Il Signor Martellichiedelatuapresenza, Nico.” I only pickup on Mr. Martelli and something about his son’s presence.

Domenico offers me a smile and says, “I’ll see youlater.” He kisses the back of my hand. “I enjoyed today. Did you?”

Butterflies swarm my tummy when I recall everymoment on the yacht, including what happened below deck. “Yes. I had fun.”

“Buona.”

“See you later,” I say and exit the car.

While watching them leave, I feel a prick in mystomach at the memory of the man at the pier. He called Domenico the bringer ofdeath. How chilling.

It’s hard not to wonder if that’s what he’s on hisway to do right now—bring death to someone.

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