“It’s good stuff.”
I turn back around when he speaks and watch as he swallows the last of the amber liquid in one of my tumblers. Ice clinks against the crystal. It’s such a pretty sound. A familiar one. Reminds me of my dad and me sitting in his study as he drank his whiskey.
But there’s no comfort in that sound today.
The man is still watching me. I’m not sure he’s taken his eyes off me since I walked inside. And his expression, it’s intense. Like he’s trying to figure something out.
He rises to his feet, gives a nod. “Help the lady with her bags.”
Another suit comes toward me. I step to the side, but there’s nowhere to go. For some reason, I’m clutching the bags like they’re a shield. But a moment later, he takes them from me and sets the groceries on the large kitchen island, its white marble veined with gold. It’s what separates the kitchen from the rest of the open floor plan living and dining space.
I hear the sound of liquid being poured and watch the man’s back—the one who’s obviously in charge—as he refills his glass. He approaches me with a second one. He takes me in, his dark eyes roaming my face, my body. He’s not smiling anymore. He’s big, maybe a good foot taller than me. Even with my three-inch heels, I don’t think the top of my head comes to his shoulder. And he’s powerfully built. His suit fits him perfectly, stretched tight over broad shoulders and thick arms. I stupidly wonder if it’s custom-made.
“Here,” he says, holding out one of the tumblers.
I don’t move. This isn’t my first rodeo. It’s not the first time I’ve been taken by surprise in my own home. I don’t think he works for my brother, though. He’s no soldier. He’s too elegant. Too beautiful. Too much in control.
And I can’t see him bowing to my brother—or any man.
My hand shakes when I reach out to take the tumbler, and I know he sees it too. “Who are you?” I ask. “What do you want?” How does my voice sound so calm?
He sips from his glass and waits for me to do the same. I take the smallest sip. I don’t drink whiskey often. I don’t really like it. When I do drink it, it’s only to try to recapture a fading memory.
“Sit down, Ms. Estrella,” he says, rolling the r, watching my face as he says my name. My real name.
I swallow. “It’s Larrea. I’m Em Larrea. You have the wrong—”
“I’m not a fool, Emilia.” He gestures with a tilt of his head toward the couch.
I look at all the men standing there, and as if they’re not enough, a toilet flushes and, moments later, another man walks out of my bathroom. I’m outnumbered. Even if I could get to the kitchen, I’m sure they’re all armed and much faster than me.
But I’m not a pushover. I’ll fight. I’ll claw out their eyes if I have to, but I’ll fight because not fighting makes you a victim. An accomplice, even. I am neither. I will never be again.
Although them thinking me docile will only work in my favor. I walk over to the couch and perch on the middle cushion.
He nods and resumes his seat in my armchair. He swirls ice around his glass before taking a sip, but he never once takes his eyes off me.
“You look very different than your brother. Aren’t you supposed to be twins?”
I was right. He doesn’t work for Alessandro, or he’d never be asking that question.
“Who are you?”
“I’m Giovanni Santa Maria.”
Italian. So my guess is mafia. Are they gentler than the cartels? I don’t think so.
“What do you want?”
“Information.”
“I hardly think I have information that would be of value to you,” I say, swallowing a mouthful of my drink and rising to my feet.
The moment I do, two soldiers step forward, each with one hand disappearing into his jacket. Reaching for their guns, no doubt. My heart is racing, but I remind myself they can’t hear that. I stop when they move, but Giovanni puts up a hand to halt them. I can see him watching me. It’s unsettling the way he does that. Like he’s looking for something.
“I’m hungry,” I finally turn to him to say. “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead.”
I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to get a single bite of food down, but I need to get to the kitchen.
I feel his eyes burn into my back as I make my way across the room and around the island. My heels click along the hardwood. I keep my focus on the task of unpacking the groceries, taking out a box of pasta, a jar of sauce, a baguette, a bottle of wine, and several of water. I fold the paper bags and eye the drawer where I keep my pistol, but I don’t reach for it just yet. Instead, I tuck the bags into the cupboard beneath the sink and take a water glass from the draining rack. I open one of the bottles and pour myself a glass. Only then do I return my attention to the man in the chair.