Page 6

6

STEFI

M y heart hammers in my chest. I reach behind my back for my gun, never taking my eyes off Joao’s face, and slowly, carefully place it on the floor. I learned to be an assassin through training and long hours of practice. Joao, on the other hand, was a natural. He was the best shot of our class, his bullets traveling with a sniper’s deadly precision.

I can’t afford to take any chances.

“Good girl,” he says. The words are approving, but his tone is flat. “Kick it over to me.”

I do as he orders. He picks it up, his aim never wavering from my forehead. “Now the rest.”

My mouth is dry. I wet my lower lip with my tongue, and his gaze locks onto it. A moment passes before I risk a question. “How did you find me?”

“Marcus O’Shea. You used one of his bespoke poisons in?—”

“London.” I curse myself for my stupidity. Reyhan Benita was a rush job, and I used one of Marcus’s vials as a shortcut. A moment of impulsiveness has resulted in a breadcrumb trail that’s led Joao straight to me. “Is O’Shea still alive?”

His face darkens. “He shouldn’t be,” he growls. “But he is. Unlike you, Stefi, I only kill when I have to.”

He looks. . . different. Harder. The boy I knew has grown up to be a man with frost-blue eyes that radiate power and menace. His shoulders are broader than I remember, and his face is leaner and more angular, no trace of softness left in its lines.

There’s a narrow scar just under his lower lip. There was a time when I knew every inch of Joao’s body as well as my own.

But this scar is new. I don’t know it.

I don’t know him.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I demand, keeping the shakiness out of my voice with ruthless effort. Bending down, I unbuckle the ankle band holding my half-dozen sharp throwing knives and kick it his way as well.

“I haven’t killed seventy-three people in the last six years. It’s an impressive body count, I admit, but a little too high for my tastes.”

His contempt stings. “You should talk,” I throw back, looking at the slumped bodies on the floor. “Or are these people merely injured, the way Marcus O’Shea is?” Then his words sink in. “Seventy-three? No, I’ve only killed thirty-five.”

And I shouldn’t have said that. I’ve given too much away, and I need to go on the offensive before he registers what I said. Joao’s sudden reappearance has me dangerously off-balance. He’s someone I loved with all my heart, and he’s looking at me as if I’m his enemy. My stomach churns and my head spins at the disgust in his voice and the disdain in his eyes. “Who do you work for, Joao? Who hired you to take me out?”

A thin, humorless smile stretches his lips. “I’m not here to kill you, sweetness. If I wanted you dead, I’d have shot you the moment you stepped inside, the way these guys were going to.” He nudges one of the bodies with his foot. “This was a trap. Someone went to a great deal of effort to lure you here.”

It should be reassuring that he doesn’t want to kill me, but it isn’t. There are too many unknowns here. My thoughts are still chaotic, my equilibrium dangerously disturbed. I kick off my boots, unbutton my jeans, and push the waistband down my hips. More weapons follow. The garrote taped to my ankle, the blades worn against my skin.

“Who?” I ask, forcing myself to push Joao’s reappearance to the background and work out the possibilities. Who set the trap? O’Shea is the most likely possibility, but why? The reward had to be pretty great; he, better than most, knows that in our line of work, betrayal usually results in death.

Joao’s eyes move over my body slowly as my bare skin comes into view. His aim, however, doesn’t waver. The gun stays fixed on my forehead. “I’ll tell you if you answer one question. Why did you leave, Stefi? Why did you let me believe you were dead?” For the first time, his voice cracks. “Do you have any idea what it feels like to stare down at a badly burned body, thinking that it’s your dead wife? I searched for you for months . I visited every morgue in Jalisco and Nayarit, looking for missing corpses because I couldn’t accept the truth.”

I suck in a breath.

“You faked your own death,” he continues. “You put your wedding ring on that corpse’s finger, and you walked away without a backward glance. For eight years, you let me mourn you. Tell me why. ”

Every word is an accusation slicing into my heart. I hear the pain in Joao’s voice, and I can’t bear it. I can’t bear knowing I was the cause of his anguish.

I had to do what I did. It broke my heart, but there was no other choice open to me. None at all.

And I knew it would hurt Joao. It was the only way, but I knew I was stabbing my husband, the love of my life, in the heart.

But I desperately hoped he would recover. He’ll move on, I told myself. Give it a couple of years, and you’ll be a memory. He’ll forget you and find someone else.

But I was lying to myself to make my choice bearable. He hasn’t forgotten me at all. The way he’s staring at me. . . The hurt in his voice. . . If I’ve been in hell for the last eight years , so has he.

“Nothing to say?”

I could try to explain, but there’s nothing I can say that will erase what I put him through. And the truth— the whole and complete truth —would wreck him.

And I don’t have it in me to hurt him more than I already have.

“Is there anything I can tell you that would change the past?” I ask quietly. “Is there anything I can say that would make it okay?”

He stares at me for what seems like an eternity, then takes a deep breath and shakes his head. “No,” he replies. “There isn’t. Just tell me this one thing. I thought we were in love. Was that a lie, too?”

My chest is tight. It feels like his fist is wrapped around my heart, squeezing. The break in his voice is bringing back the past I thought I left behind. The shell I built around my heart is cracking open, all of the caged emotions are tearing free, and I’m once again a scared girl in an airport bathroom, staring down at the two lines on the?—

He can’t see me cry. I won’t let that happen.

“No,” I whisper. “That wasn’t a lie. Leaving you behind was the hardest thing I’ve ever done in my life.” I swallow back the lump in my throat and remind myself that Joao isn’t the same person he used to be. I have only to look at him to see that. The Joao I knew lived in T-shirts and jeans, but this grown-up version is wearing a bespoke navy-blue linen suit and a watch that costs a hundred thousand euros.

The boy I loved is gone forever, and the man in front of me now is holding a gun to my head.

Be careful, Stefi. Be very, very careful.

I nudge my jeans toward him with my toe. I need answers—I have to ask. “You went missing off the coast of Marseilles a year after I died; Bach thought you’d drowned in the Mediterranean. What happened?”

“How did you know that?”

Because I almost contacted him.

I regretted my decision to fake my own death the moment the guest house went up in flames, but I forced myself to stay the course. Joao and I used to communicate through a secret chat room in an obscure corner of the Internet so that Bach wouldn’t find out about our relationship, and as many times as I wanted to log on to talk to Joao, I didn’t let myself. For so many months, I made myself stay away. Too much was at stake, and I couldn’t take any risk that might lead Bach or his minions to my door.

But then, after everything fell apart and I wept alone in a darkened hospital room, I called Bach’s intermediary. Pretending to be a client looking for a hitman, I asked Tommy Power if I could hire Joao.

And Power told me that the man I loved more than life itself was dead. “That assassin is unavailable,” he said. “He was killed on a job. Unfortunate, but not entirely unexpected, to tell you the truth. He fell to pieces when the woman he loved was killed, and it was only a matter of time before he made a fatal mistake.”

I was already deeply wounded, but hearing that Joao was dead, and that it was my fault, shattered me. It fractured my mind so badly that it took me years to glue myself back together.

“Nothing to say again, Stefi?” Joao asks mockingly. “I don’t think you understand how conversations work. Quid pro quo, honey. You give me answers, and I’ll do the same.” He shrugs his shoulders and answers me anyway. “Working for Henrik—I couldn’t stand it any longer. I had to get out. And then, once I did, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with myself.” His lips twist in a wry smile. “You know how it is. All our lives, we were raised to be killers. I didn’t know what else I could be. I bummed around the world for eighteen months. Spent some time in Japan meditating and making soy sauce?—”

Despite the current circumstances, I feel myself start to smile. “Seriously? You, meditating?”

His lips twitch. “Almost a whole year, if you can believe it. Then I realized that I didn’t leave Henrik only to lock myself away from the world. I needed to do all the things we used to dream about. So, I got a job I loved, working for a boss I respect, and I made friends—” The smile wipes off his face. “Why am I telling you all of this? Keep stripping.”

For a moment, it almost felt like old times. But he’s still got a gun aimed at me. I’m still in danger.

I start to lift my T-shirt over my head, and he inhales sharply. I freeze. The scar has faded to almost nothing, and he shouldn’t be able to see it at this distance?—

“Who did that to you?” he demands, his voice strained.

Did what? I follow his gaze to my ribcage, where an angry red line extends from just below my right breast to my left hip. Oh right. I was so focused on the scar just below my bikini line that I forgot about my most recent souvenir.

“Why do you care? You’re holding a gun to my head.”

“Who, Stefi?” His voice promises murder for my assailant, and it sends a thrill through me. The ice-cold version of him I might not recognize, but this hot rage? This is the Joao I knew, who lived life with laughter and passion. “Tell me who hurt you.”

“Save your rage—he’s dead. I took care of it.” He’s given me an opening, and I’m going to use it. I drop my T-shirt on the floor and take off my bra. His eyes flare with heat, his look so intense that it sends a shiver through me.

I take a step toward him. My emotions are all over the place, and I feel dangerously off-balance. Maybe I’m testing him. Maybe I want him to feel the same turmoil I’m feeling. But I can’t reconcile the memories Joao—my Joao—to this man threatening me with a weapon.

“Would you really shoot me if I tried to run?” I ask softly. “Could you?”

The barrel wavers.

I recklessly step even closer, close enough to lift my hand and cup his cheek. “I can’t believe you’re still alive,” I whisper. “I can’t believe you’re here. I’ve missed you so much, Joao. And now Henrik Bach is dead, and I?—”

“Bach is dead?” he cuts in.

I nod. For a moment, shock and disbelief shows on his face before he wipes his expression clean.

“Stefi.” He clenches his eyes shut. “Fuck. I’ve dreamed about this moment for eight fucking years. I’ve wanted. . .” His voice trails off, and he takes a deep, shuddering breath. Turning on the safety, he tucks the gun into his waistband. “Fuck it. Come back with me to Venice and?—”

I freeze and jerk back. “You live in Venice?” The hope building inside me bursts like an overfilled balloon, and every nerve in my body screams in warning. If Joao is here, then it means. . . “Who do you work for, Joao? Who sent you here for me? ”

He frowns. “Antonio Moretti. Why?” He takes in my stricken expression. “Is this about Alina? The padrino isn’t thrilled about your abduction attempt, but it’s okay. He’s a really good guy. He’s my boss, yes, but he’s also my friend. I talked to him and?—”

I inch a step back and then another. “You work for Antonio Moretti.” My voice is shrill and high. There is a trap, but it’s not O’Shea who lured me here. No, it’s the King of Venice himself, one of the hardest targets on my hit list. “Why, Joao? Of all the people in the world, why him?”

“What’s wrong with him?” His expression turns concerned. “You’ve turned deathly pale, little fox. Are you okay? Come here, let me?—”

“No.” No, I’m not okay. For a second there, I dared to dream. I became hopeful. There was a chasm between us, one that I created eight years ago when I made the decision to disappear, but for one brief, shining instant, I thought that maybe it could be bridged.

But hope is for other people. Every time I start believing that my future holds something other than misery and pain, something happens to remind me otherwise.

Seven years ago, I made a promise in a graveyard in Istanbul to kill every single person in Bach’s network.

And Antonio Moretti, padrino of the Venice Mafia, a man that Joao considers his friend, is pretty damn close to the top of my list.

Sirens sound in the distance, getting rapidly closer. Finally. Joao hears them, too. He turns his head toward the window, and in that brief second of distraction, I dart forward and grab my gun.

His head snaps back to me. “You had someone call the police?” he asks, ignoring the weapon I’m now pointing at him. He nods in reluctant appreciation. “Nicely done.”

His praise warms me from the inside out. But my heart is breaking because, once again, I have to let Joao go. “You know me,” I say lightly. Keeping my eyes on him, I grab my T-shirt and jeans. “I always like to have an exit plan.”

“Oh, I know,” he says, his voice coated with bitterness. “Puerto Vallarta taught me that.” He could probably wrestle the gun from me if he was really determined, but he doesn’t. Instead, he pushes a tendril of hair away from my face with callused fingers, his touch unexpectedly tender. “I can’t stop you from leaving here, not without hurting you,” he says. “But I’m going to find you again. I’ll be seeing you around, Stefi.”