Page 30 of City Of Thieves
Breathe, Tatiana. Breathe.
“This is stupid—”
He shifts position. “I’ll ask you one last time... Did I just drop two million on a sure bet or a rogue outsider?”
“Two million, plus a very valuable portrait painting,” I correct, my heart beating like a drum. “Are we really going to sit here glaring at each other or leave this gas station before the police arrive? Your car has bullet holes all over it, and the motorway behind us is three lanes of carnage. Plus, I hear British jails are pretty cold this time of the year.”
“You should fit right in, then.”
“I’m not the one with the record longer than the Atlantic.”
“I’m not so worried about the cops, as the woman who sold me out,” he snaps back, switching his finger from the grip to the trigger.
My next breath gets stuck in my throat. “You reallydohave serious trust issues, Mr. Marchesi.”
“No shit, sweetheart.” He leans in closer, hitting me hard with his masculinity. He still has his shirt off, and his chest and abdomen are a thick, tan web of muscle. His cologne is nothing like Richard Thackery’s. It’s more sinister.
Powerful.
Alluring…
Suddenly, the car doesn’t seem to be big enough for his stubbornness and my mysteries.
His gaze drops to my mouth. “Time for some devil’s advocate.”
“Yay, my favorite,” I say, notching up my indifference, despite the fact he’s still holding a gun to my head. “Yours, too, I can imagine, considering youarethe devil.”
“If you’re not connected to the welcome wagon, who is?”
“Why do you want this painting so much?” I say, flipping it back on him.
His expression darkens. “I’m the one with the gun, Tatiana, so only I get to ask the questions.”
“Not when you’re throwing out false accusations like confetti.”
“Listen,dolcezza…” he trails off as something behind us catches his attention. “Shit.”
“What is it?”
“I was hoping to change vehicles before the flashing lights arrived.”
That’s when I hear the faint sound of sirens in the distance.
Dropping the gun from my forehead, he drags his T-shirt back over his head and slides into his seat. Slamming the car into first, he hits the gas. “This isn’t over, Tatiana,” he warns, as we screech out of the parking lot.
It never is.
Once we rejoin the motorway, we’re breaking the speed limit, kicking up dust and unanswered questions all over the M1 until we reach Central London. His silence is just as fortified as mine, and it’s getting harder and harder to breathe with all the toxic uncertainty in the air.
My phone beeps again as we turn into Oxford Street.
London,kiska? Call me.
It’s a four-word reprimand that fires an arrow straight through my soul.
“Who’s messaging you, now?” Marchesi’s sharp demand cuts through my mounting panic.
“Would you like my bra size, too?” I chuck my phone back into my purse before he has a chance to snatch it from me.
