Chapter 5

He grips my wrist tightly, pulling me to him. His eyes are wild and dangerous. The pain shots up my arm and I wince.

“I've been so nice to you Adrianna.” He says, tightening his grip till the pain is almost mind-numbing. He lets me go and I crumble to my knees, cradling my wrist. He walks to me and I all but crawl away, watching the sick smile on his face. He's enjoying this. The wall behind me stops me from going further.

He takes his wristwatch off and flings it to the side, then he takes his belt off. “I never wanted you to see this part of me.” He says it's my fault he's crazy.

He wraps the leather strap of his belt around his knuckles and leaves the buckle dangling. Panic wells up in me. I grab at his legs, tears streaming down my face. I beg with everything in me, forgetting shame. I didn't infiltrate Lance’s syndicate to be killed like this.

He seems a bit stunned at first and he lets the belt drop to the ground. He kneels in front of me and cradles my face in his palms. Years are streaming down his face too.

Psychopath.

“I lost it for a moment there.” He says, hugging me. “I’m so sorry. It’s just, I hate being...”

I tune his voice out. I have to find a way to leave him or he'll kill me or maim me too. Then even his protection will be worth nothing.

I stare at the number on my phone, the sound of the dialer making me crazy. The crumpled complementary card in my hand burns a hole in my palm but I can’t stop now.

Mario is gone. Business to attend to, he had said.

The sound of the dialer echoes through the empty suite. And suddenly, it dies, replaced by Lance’s voice. “Hello?”

His voice snaps me back to reality. What the fuck am I doing? Trying to run away from one murderous psychopath by enlisting the help of one that is hell bent on killing me to “teach” me about revenge. And if he gets me away from Mario? Then what? Does he put a bullet in my head?

That’s the nicest thing Lance could do.

“Adrianna, is that...?”

I hang up immediately, cutting him off. I switch my phone off and put it aside. I’ll think of a way out of this myself. There must be a way I can stay safe from Mario and Lance at the same time.

(Two months later)

I am clad in the ugliest wedding dress I have ever had the misfortune to behold in my twenty-three years of life, standing at the altar about to pledge my life to a man I am sure will kill me if I stay married to him long enough. The only beautiful thing about my outfit—the custom made Jimmy Choos—is totally hidden by this monstrosity of a dress.

Mario must have managed to stay off drugs for a while. He is standing at the altar in a tailored white suit that does nothing for his hair, but he doesn’t look washed out. He is smiling, the picture of the perfect groom.

I feel sick.

I recite the vows perfunctorily after Mario’s eager recitation.

“I, Adrianna Aurelia Houston, take you, Mario Leonardo Lombardi, to be my lawfully wedded husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish...”

I feel reluctant to say the last part. To bind myself to this man for the rest of our lives. I swallow, fully aware that any hesitation will be noticed.

“Till death do us...”

Warm liquid splashes against my veil, cutting my sentence short. There is about three seconds of silence that seems like a lifetime. My dress has bright red spots on it. I look up to see Mario standing, his body intact but his head blown to smithereens.

He keels backward and falls to the floor, splashing blood all over the carpet. There is a hole in the window. A bullet sized hole.

I remain standing for a few seconds even though everything has gone up into chaos. People are running off and shoving at each other. Another bullet smashes a vase behind me, snapping me back to reality. I fall to my knees in shock, my legs no longer able to support me.

I stare wide eyed at the dead body in front of me, unable to believe I have just been widowed. More vases and windows are shot to pieces and there are screams of terror all around. I know I should get up and leave, take cover or something, but I cannot process what has just happened.

The hall is soon emptied—everyone has run off. I look at the pews and see someone sitting at the last one, unmoved and unfazed by the shooting. He is wearing a black suit, looking like a Grim Reaper.

Am I dead? Is that what this is?

He stands and walks to me, stretching his hand to me. It is Lance.