Loathe Me

by LP Lovell

  “They came to New York for her. They threatened Nero’s family. It’s a declaration of war. This has gone beyond your negotiations, Miss Ricci.”

  “You agreed to protect her.”

  “And I will, but the best defense is always a proactive attack.”

  “I can’t risk going on the offensive now. The situation is tenuous. I’m going to make them another offer.”

  “You’re going to offer yourself instead of Adelina.” I know the mafia, the way they work. They’re all about bloodlines, breeding, and power exchanges. If they want a Ricci bride, then they won’t settle for less, but Adelina isn’t the only Ricci available to wed. She’s just the one the old man was more willing to barter.

  There’s a long pause. “Just…keep my sister out of their hands until I contact you.”

  I hang up.

  Ah, poor Gabriella. Backed into a corner with nowhere to go. She’s playing games she can’t hope to win, attempting to act in her father’s stead. I admire her spirit, but she’s hopelessly outmatched, and I don’t have time to wait around for her to attempt to fix this.

  Una needs me. Adelina needs me. There’s only one way to fulfill both obligations.

  Kill Enrique Bianchi. As long as they know it was me, there will be no political fallout for the Ricci’s. I’ll do what Gabriella Ricci is too scared to order.

  7

  Adelina

  You’re going to offer yourself instead of Adelina.

  The words sink into the pit of my stomach like lead. I hear the creak of Sasha’s weight lifting from the bed, and I carefully step back from the door, trying to move away quickly and silently.

  When Sasha comes out and rounds the corner, I’m sitting on the sofa, a book in hand. The words blur in front of me, indistinguishable over the thoughts circling around my head. Offer yourself.

  She can’t. I imagine my sister married to that awful man, smiling in her broken servitude, adhering to his rule. No, she can’t. I won’t let her. A burning resentment against my father singes the deepest parts of me. I don’t understand how he could do this to us and then simply go into hiding. He should fix this, not allow Gabi to sacrifice herself.

  It takes me a few seconds to realise that Sasha is staring at me. His gaze threatens to burn a hole in the side of my face, but I dare not look up.

  “I know you heard that,” he says.

  “Heard what?”

  “You walk like an elephant.”

  My gaze snaps to his, and I glare. “You’re just going to let Gabi offer herself up?”

  His broad chest rises and falls on a deep breath. “Your sister isn’t my problem. She contracted me to protect you, not her.”

  I frown. “Wait. My father didn’t hire you?” Whatever slight imitation of an expression was on his face vanishes. “I want to speak to him.”

  “If you wish to speak to Gabriella, that can be arranged.”

  “What? Fine. Let me speak to her.” I hold my hand out for the phone, and he straightens away from the wall, walking straight past me to the kitchen.

  “I’ll arrange it.”

  “You literally just spoke to her!”

  “Yes.”

  “So call her back,” I shout after him.

  He ignores me and starts banging around, pulling out various pots and pans from the kitchen cabinets.

  “Sasha.” Still nothing. I get up and go into the kitchen where his back is to me as he turns on the stove. “Sasha.”

  Still, he ignores me, and my temper spikes. Anger and frustration at his blatant inability—or refusal—to give a shit bubble over into a red-hot torrent. Stepping forward, I grab his arm with the intention of forcing his attention. The second I do, my back hits the wall, and his hand grips my neck with unimaginable force. Those unsettling eyes are completely void. Blank. His grip is like a vice around my windpipe, and I start to panic. He’s going to kill me. My nails rake over his forearm, digging into the skin as my legs scramble for purchase.

  “Sasha,” I manage to choke.

  He blinks, and a confused frown blankets his features, as he slowly focuses on me. His grip loosens enough for me to suck in a deep breath, but he doesn’t release me. Instead, the tiny space between us closes, until his chest is plastered to mine, crushing my body. Warm breath fans over my face and I twist my head to the side, avoiding his glacial gaze.

  “I cannot decide whether you are ignorant or simply stupid,” he says.

  I try to buck away from the wall, and he shoves me back so hard that my skull thuds against it. “Let go of me.”

  His free hand grips my jaw in a bruising hold, forcing me to look at him. “I told you not to touch me, and yet here we are, malyshka.”

  “I want to talk to my sister.”

  Those cold eyes sweep over me, and a sickening shiver travels down my spine. I imagine he’s picturing all the ways he could end me.

  “What you want is of little consequence.” He takes a very deliberate step back, releasing me. “You are insolent. Your childishness will be your downfall.” The words cut far deeper than they should.

  “Take me to Enrique Bianchi,” I demand.

  “No.”

  “I will not let my sister marry him. I no longer want your protection.”

  “It’s not your decision.” His face is a hard mask.

  “She’s my sister.”

  He says nothing, and I know he doesn’t care. This is just a job to him, a paycheck. Getting any kind of emotion from him is like drawing blood from a stone and I’m wasting my breath trying.

  I turn and walk away without a word, rubbing over my aching throat. I can’t stay here. I have to get to my sister before she does something stupid. It’s a lot easier said than done, though. He’s made it clear where he stands on the issue. I’m a mouse trying to wriggle out from under the paw of a lion. The odds are not in my favor.

  I wait until the apartment is dark and silent before I check the clock on the bedside table. The glowing red numbers read two in the morning. The second I toss back the covers, my heart starts to thrum in nervous anticipation, or maybe that’s anxiety. My foot touches the floor, and I slowly shift my weight onto it. I need absolute silence. My breaths are harsh, and my pulse is thrumming against my eardrums so loudly, I’m sure Sasha can hear it from the next room. The door handle lets out a quiet click before opening. I tiptoe around the edge of the living room until I reach the kitchen. The front door is within reach. I can’t see it in the darkness, but I know it’s just a couple of meters to the end of the hall.

  “What are you doing?”

  A squeak slips past my lips, and I almost jump out of my skin. “Shit.” My heart pounds against my ribs so hard I can barely breathe. “Do you have to be so creepy?” I ask into the darkness.

  “What are you doing?” he repeats.

  I stumble over words for a moment. “I’m getting a glass of water.” I walk into the kitchen and get a glass, filling it before traipsing back to the bedroom. I know he can’t see me, but I glare in his general direction. It’s like he never sleeps. I swear, the man isn’t human—I’m becoming more and more convinced of it.

  8

  Adelina

  A week in this apartment—alone with Sasha—and I’m halfway to madness. Meanwhile, he seems to thrive in the solitude of his self-imposed bubble.

  He still hasn’t let me call Gabi, but I need to talk to her. I’ve pleaded my case, tried to explain it in clear terms that even a psychopath can understand. But of course, he can never empathize; he doesn’t understand love. He can’t comprehend the loyalty of true family, but I have to get out of here. If I can get to Gabi, I can talk her out of this stupid plan. And if I can’t…then, I can just go to the Bianchi’s. They’ll have what they want. Gabi and Daddy will be safe. I just have to get out of here.

  My test run has proven that there’s no way I’ll get past my guard dog. The only other option is the window, but we’re four stories up, and the exterior wall is smooth. No balconies and the ne
xt window is a good two and a half meters below. I can’t reach it. There’s no way to scale it without a rope, and I don’t happen to have ten meters of the stuff just hanging around.

  Sasha sits on the sofa, his spine rigid as always with a book in his hand. I catch a glimpse of the cover and do a double take. The Art of Happiness by The Dalai Lama. A tiny crease line sinks between his brows as he concentrates on the words. Maybe he’s not as bad as I think. I mean, he’s reading The Dalai Lama. That’s very non-sociopathic behavior, right?

  “The Art of Happiness?” I say, trying to start a conversation.

  He lifts his gaze to me briefly before dropping it again. Silence sits awkwardly between us.

  “Have I done something to offend you?” I blurt, immediately wishing I hadn’t.

  His silence shouldn’t bother me, but we’re trapped here, and I think solitude would be better than this.

  “No.” He turns a page, still not looking up.

  “Then why do you hate me so much?” I know I sound like a whiny child, but I’m past caring.

  “I am indifferent to you.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Clearly you haven’t read much of that book.”

  He stares at me blankly.

  “Be kind wherever possible. It is always possible.”

  He releases a long sigh and snaps his book closed. “You wish for us to be friends.”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “I said no.”

  “If that were true, you would not be plaguing me with your conversation.”

  “I don’t want to be your friend, but we are stuck together for the foreseeable future.” Hopefully not for too long. If I can just get him to drop his guard a little…

  Confusion blankets his features. “Yes.”

  Jesus, this is like pulling teeth. “So you like being locked in this apartment, talking to no one?”

  He looks even more confused. “I do not need trivial companionship.”

  “We all need someone.” I shrug one shoulder, and he drops his gaze to his lap, brows knitted together so tightly they almost touch.

  “I need nothing.”

  Pushing to his feet, he places the book on the coffee table and drops to the floor, starting his daily fitness routine. Two hundred push ups, sit ups, and squats. He falls into silence, and I drift away into the bedroom.

  My God, he’s infuriating. I find myself trying to read him, but it’s like a blind person trying to decipher text on a page. Pointless.

  “Adelina.”

  I groan and open my eyes, wincing against the bright light. Blinking a few times, I see Sasha staring down at me. I’m suddenly wide awake, and I sit up, scrambling away from him.

  One brow arches. “Get dressed and pack. We’re leaving.”

  He walks out, and I glance at the alarm clock. It’s three in the morning. There has to be a reason we’re leaving in the middle of the night. Maybe Bianchi’s men found us. My heart rate ticks up, and for a second at the thought, and I panic. But then it all clears. This could be good.

  I grab my bag and throw in my meager collection of clothes: a couple of pairs of jeans and tanks, a hoody…

  “Where are we going?” I ask as I meet Sasha at the front door. A backpack is slung over his shoulder, his gun in hand. I don’t really expect him to answer me, but for once, he does.

  “Sicily.”

  I still. “What?”

  This time he does ignore me, opening the door and looking both ways up and down the corridor. “Stay close.”

  He closes and locks the door behind us. I’m so elated to be outside of the apartment, the danger doesn’t really register. This is a win-win. Either the Bianchi’s get me, or we’ll make it to Sicily where I have a greater chance of getting away from Sasha and making it to Gabi.

  Sasha moves through the streets like a ghost, and I wince at how loud my footsteps sound in the wake of his utter silence. My breaths rasp past my lips in a harsh exchange for oxygen. He doesn’t say anything though, and for once, I’m grateful for his standard lack of interaction.

  The streets are black and silent. The darkness should bring with it a sense of anonymity, but it doesn’t. The shadows just seem ominous, as though a bad guy hides in each and every corner. Adrenaline floods my veins as flight instincts take hold.

  Sasha leads me to the same harbor we initially docked in, but this time we move farther along, away from the commercial shipping areas. The harbor side gives way to little jetties. They branch off like fingers from a hand, stretching out over the black water, and gentle waves slap against the hulls of small boats, making them bob and dip against the side of the floating wood.

  I follow him, although the slight rocking motion of the boardwalk disorients me in the darkness. I try to keep up, but soon find myself lagging behind. A few lights dot the front of the harbor, barely enough to see by. They glisten off the water’s surface, making it hard to distinguish where wooden boards end and the water begins.

  Something brushes my arm, and I jump, a small squeak slipping past my lips. “Come on,” Sasha hisses. Grabbing my wrist, he tugs me along until we’re at the end of the jetty.

  He jumps down, and I hear his feet thud against the bottom of a boat. I can just about make out the silhouette, and it’s tiny.

  “Is that safe?”

  “Yes. Come here.”

  I step closer to the edge of the jetty, debating how I’m going to get into the glorified dingy and not topple over the side. I shuffle forward, but he grabs me around the waist, pulling me clean off my feet. I land, falling forward. My hands slam against his chest as I lose balance. I instantly right myself and scramble to get away from him. A small huff slips past his lips that almost sounds like laughter, but it’s more likely a frustrated sigh.

  “Sit.” He guides me to a seat at the front of the small boat before tossing something at me.

  A blanket. The chill from the sea breeze has already settled deep into my bones, and I can only imagine how cold it is past the bounds of the harbor. I grab the rough wool and tug it around me, tucking it beneath my thighs.

  With one firm yank, the engine sputters to life. The sudden noise sounds like an explosion in the surrounding silence, and it makes me jumpy. As soon as we’re away from the jetty, I breathe a sigh of relief, but it’s short-lived. That breeze becomes a fierce wind, snatching at the strands of my hair and tossing them in my face. The little boat is thrown up and down in the water, and I grip the tiny bench beneath me so hard that my fingers start to go numb through lack of circulation. It’s been a long time since I’ve prayed, but I close my eyes, begging God not to let me die on this shit box boat.

  It seems to work.

  We finally reach the port in Naples just as the first grey tones of dawn creep over the horizon. I’ve thrown up three times, and I still feel sick as a dog. Sasha steers the boat to the side of the harbor, and it nudges up against a little dock before he ties it off. Climbing out of the boat, he holds out his hand. As soon as I stand, my legs start to shake, and my eyes feel like they’re bouncing up and down with the waves. He pulls my entire weight out of the boat and onto the concrete. I stagger over to a small ledge and sit, closing my eyes, waiting for everything to stop spinning.

  “We need to move.”

  I whirl around and throw up again. When I’m finally done, I turn to find him smiling. “Glad I amuse you.”

  “It wasn’t rough.”

  “Well, if you’d found us a decent sized boat and not a floating fucking wheelbarrow, it wouldn’t have been an issue.”

  “It was easy to steal.”

  “Steal? Wait, you didn’t even buy it, or rent it? So, basically, you could have stolen any boat, but you stole that.” Now that I see it in the daylight, it looks so much worse, the bottle green paint peeling and flaking to reveal rusty steel beneath. The little engine on the back looks modern enough, but it’s basically attached to a Victorian-era bathtub. If I’d seen that in the daylight, there is no way I would have
got in it. “You didn’t even give me a life jacket!”

  “You can swim.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “Yes, I do. You were a national junior champion.”

  “What the—”

  “You can sit here and hope that the vomit in your hair will dissuade Mr. Bianchi, or we can move.”

  “Did…you just make a joke?”

  He walks away, and I jump up, hurrying after him. Regular service has resumed apparently.

  9

  Sasha

  Since I don’t own property in Sicily, I’m using one of Nero’s. His mother was Sicilian, and the villa was hers. It sits on atop a cliff over-looking the ocean. Far below and inland is the small town of Cefalù. I remove the bags from the taxi and pay the man. Adelina stands in front of the villa, her gaze drifting up over the cream vine-covered walls and terracotta-tiled roof. Little pink flowers bloom all over the vines, and I’m amused at the prospect of Nero owning something so…quaint.

  I move a pot next to the front door and find the key exactly where he said it would be. I know Nero never comes here, so inside I expect dust and a tomb of memories, but it looks as though his mother left it only yesterday. Everything is clean and tidy.

  “Why are we here, Sasha?” Adelina asks, and I ignore her. “If you’re trying to keep me safe then this is a shitty plan. The Bianchi’s run most of Sicily. You’ve brought me to where they have maximum reach, which means you must have an idea.”

  I’m not telling her anything, and my silence elicits a sharp breath from her.

  “I’m not sure you realize just how powerful they are.”

  “The downfall of powerful men is often in believing that they are powerful.”

  Her narrowed gaze meets mine. She tries to work me out, break me down, but she won’t. Her comprehension can’t stretch to someone like me. We are entirely different entities. That’s the way I like it, to remain removed from the masses of humanity. Apart. Other.