Page 51 of Thorns of Love
The world was turning. We tumbled, the car rolling over with a loud thud. Until silence came over us. Until the world settled the wrong way.
I shifted, trying to reach out to Adrian. He wasn’t in the driver seat.
My eyes darted out the window.
Men in suits surrounded him and they all studied Adrian with disdain. A disgusted look on their faces.
“Meet Marchetti, stronzo.” He had to be a bodyguard.
My heart leapt into my throat. Something about the name, Marchetti, sounded ominous. Dangerous. I had heard the name somewhere, but I wasn’t sure where.
I studied him, unable to peel my gaze away from him. He was handsome. Older. Slightly older than the other devil with a deep voice. Marchetti had thick dark hair and piercing eyes. The kind that could shred your soul into pieces. By just snapping his fingers. Silence stretched, ready to snap like a fragile rubber band.
It was Marchetti who broke the silence.
“Adrian Morozov, we finally meet.” His voice was smooth. His words rolled off his tongue with a smooth Italian accent. “Do you know why we’re here?”
My husband nodded once. No words.
“Then you understand there is no escaping this alive,” he said softly. Yet, there was nothing soft about his words nor the look he gave him.
“Where is it?” Marchetti demanded to know.
Adrian’s eyes flickered my way as I watched the whole exchange with wide eyes. I had no idea what they were talking about.
Adrian. My mouth moved, but nothing came out. My throat was too dry.
He turned his gaze away. “It’s no longer here.”
Then as if Marchetti read my mind, he snapped his fingers and one of his men slammed his first into Adrian’s chin. His head snapped back from the force of the impact. I tasted blood in my mouth and realized I bit into my tongue. Another fist came at my husband but he didn’t fight back. It was hardly fair, five against one. But why wasn’t Adrian fighting back?
The man in an expensive Italian suit kept his hands clean, tucked in his pants as he watched dispassionately as one of his men beat Adrian.
My fingers finally found the button and pressed it. The seat belt came undone, hitting the door with a loud bang. It sounded like a gong going off and instantly everyone outside stilled.
A quick burst of shots rang through the air. It felt like they went on for hours, when in fact it was just a few seconds.
Instinctively I ducked down, although I was already crammed down, and I placed both hands over my ears to block out the loud noises. It reminded me of the crescendo of a bad opera piece. The pitch got louder and harsher, piercing my brain.
Then it stopped. A deafening silence. I should be relieved but it felt even more ominous than the sound of gunshots.
My heart squeezed in my throat, the pulse choking me slowly.
More words in a foreign language. The voices were high-pitched, angry, and not holding back.
Russian.
One of those was Russian. More words. It was hard to hear them over the buzzing in my ears, but I recognized it. I was certain it was Italian. Russian and Italian.
“She dies. No loose ends,” one of them replied in English, and instinctively I shrank further back into the car, although it was burning, coming closer to becoming an explosion.
“No.” A cold voice. A hard tone. But it wasn’t Adrian’s. Was he even alive? “She knows nothing.”
“Are you sure?” The deep masculine voice filled the air. A pair of expensive Italian leather shoes filled my vision. “Are you willing to stake your life on it?”
I had to be in utter shock. Because I registered the brand of shoes. Santoni men’s shoes. My husband and I were about to die and all my attention was on the shoes, staring at a pair of five grand Italian shoes.
“The woman doesn’t know anything.” A voice sounded vaguely familiar. I couldn’t place it. “I’ll take full responsibility for her.”
