Echo, page 28
Except I was not painting on canvas.
I was painting the walls.
All of them.
In a white so bright it was blinding.
Because every room in the rambling old house with terracotta floors and arched doorways had been painted a different color, and I could not stand it when I had first walked in. I wanted peace. I wanted quiet. I wanted order.
So I had asked Allegra, the older woman who came by every day and brought me groceries and helped me clean and spoke Italian but with an American accent, if she knew where to get very bright white paint.
The very next day, she had shown up in her little car with two cans, two brushes, two stirring sticks and one tarp.
Then she had chatted cheerfully as we painted the kitchen.
The next day, there were three cans of paint, and we painted the living room.
The day after was the sunroom, and so it went.
That had been over a week ago, and my arms hurt, but the house was almost all painted.
I was gathering the courage to ask her for wood and tools to make my own bookshelves in the study off the living room, but I had never built anything before, and I was not sure what tools to even ask for.
I did have a computer though. A slick, grey laptop, and it had internet, and I had a credit card in my new name attached to my new bank account, and there was a lot of money in it.
I could have purchased bookshelves.
But I did not like to stare at a computer screen any more than I liked to watch television on the big TV in the sitting room or the smaller one in the master bedroom.
I also did not trust using the money.
I knew what a green-and-gold-eyed SEAL had told me.
I remembered the cryptic comment the man named after a month had said when he had given me the envelope full of things with my new name printed on them.
Everything’s secure. You’re safe to use them.
It was not until later, when I had opened the envelope and saw the name he had chosen, that shock struck me.
The passport, driver’s license, credit cards, checkbook, cell phone, bank account—with a staggering balance—all of it said Sophie Markos.
At first, I had thought it was a cruel joke.
Then I began to wonder why November had chosen that name, and the only explanation I could come up with was that maybe it had been easier to build a false identification for someone when you could tie them to someone else who already existed.
Or maybe it had been his way of trying to tie me to a Cosa Nostra Enforcer who I had not heard from since leaving his penthouse and stepping foot in this house.
Shoving my spade a few inches into the moist soil, I made another hole and dropped another seed as I told myself to let it go.
Maybe I needed to let it all go.
The garden, the notion of building my own bookshelves, the wistful thoughts of a villa in the Sicilian countryside that had a library.
Maybe I needed to….
The shadow fell over me a second before his voice coated the very earth I was kneeling in.
“You garden in a dress, Principessa?”
My heart stopped, and I looked up.
Thick, black hair, beautiful eyes, hard jaw, huge muscles, and so many colorful tattoos.
Shock loosened my grip on the spade, and it fell from my hand as the sun shone down on him, magnifying his every attribute as if its only purpose was to embrace him in a golden halo of magnificence.
Already drowning in his deep voice and dominant presence, words fell past my lips. “You cannot call me that anymore.”
Watching me intently, he tipped his chin over his shoulder toward my already planted rows and ignored what I had said. “You’ve been busy.”
“How is your chest?” Black short-sleeved shirt, black pants, black boots, black gun at his waist, he did not look like he had been shot a fortnight ago.
“Fine.” He glanced from my healed cheek to the seeds nestled in the skirt of my dress. “That the last of them?”
I looked down.
Seeds. Erico. Sun. Water. Air. Earth. I looked back up at gold-and-green eyes and I knew. “Yes.” He was my element of nature.
Dropping to a squat, he picked up the spade and quickly made four more holes. Taking the seeds off my lap, he dropped one in each, then swept the spade across all four holes at once. The entire process took him seconds.
Standing back up, he held his hand out for me. “Up for a ride?”
I glanced at his hand, then at mine. “I am dirty.”
“You’re beautiful.”
My cheeks flamed, my head dipped and my eyes closed. I inhaled orange blossoms, dark musk and hope.
“Ride?”
I looked back up at him. “I am still dirty.”
“Never more so than me.” He gestured with his fingers as he continued to hold his hand out. “Come, bella.”
I slipped my hand into his.
Huge fingers wrapped around mine in warmth and strength, and he pulled me to my feet, but then he did not move.
For two heartbeats, he stared down at me, and everything fell away.
No Cosa Nostra, no nine years, no death, no regret, no mistakes, no secrets—it was just us and the truth.
“I am sorry,” I whispered.
“Don’t.” The rough pad of this thumb stroked across my bottom lip. “We’re done with apologies.”
I needed to explain. I needed for him to hear me say it, just once. “I stayed with Ademaro because I thought I was protecting you.”
“That was never your job.”
“You are alive. I would do it all over again.”
His chest rose with a sharp inhale, and he gripped the side of my neck so tight I felt it all the way to my bare feet. “You will never do that again.” The spot on the side of jaw tensed with anger. “Do you hear me?”
“Yes.”
Still gripping me tight, he took two more breaths, then he released my neck, but not my hand. “Anything else you need to get out?”
“Yes.”
He raised one eyebrow.
Color swept across my cheeks, but I did not look away. “I missed you.”
Grasping my chin, the growl erupted from his chest and throat without him ever parting his lips. Then he spoke in a tone so low, it was lethal. “I’m not kissing you. Not yet.”
My skin tingled, my stomach fluttered and suddenly, I wanted nothing more.
Once again, he dropped his hand from my face but kept my fingers locked in his. Turning toward the house, he issued his command like the warrior he was. “Walk. I’m taking you somewhere.”
Echo
Naked under her white dress, her skin touched by the sun, her long hair hanging halfway down her back under that goddamn hat, she was so beautiful she took my breath.
If my housekeeper wasn’t in the house and I hadn’t orchestrated my plan, I would’ve fucked her in her garden, right between the rows of dirt she’d probably dug with her bare hands.
But I wasn’t a damn animal, and Caio was right.
She deserved better.
Growling in sexual frustration, I forced myself to let go of her chin, but no way in hell was I releasing her hand. “Walk. I’m taking you somewhere.” I wasn’t letting this woman get away again.
Not if I could help it.
Which was why I was doing this.
She needed to let go of the past, and I needed a redo on the crucial mistake I’d made. Taking her back in time was the only way I knew how to move us forward.
Leading her through her garden and across the lawn, I walked into the house from the terrace and called out for the housekeeper. “Allegra! You done?”
The old woman came rushing down the stairs. “Yes, yes, sì, sì.” Smiling wide as she looked between us, Allegra handed me an overnight bag. “Here are her clothes, just like you asked. She is all ready.”
Cursing the old woman’s big mouth, I took the bag. “Grazie.”
Allegra held her hands to her chest. “This is so exciting!”
Sancia looked up at me and frowned. “What is going on?”
“Like I said, I’m taking you somewhere.”
My Principessa stepped back. “I am dirty and not properly dressed. Even my feet are bare. I cannot leave the house like this.”
“You look fine.” She looked more than fine. I glanced at Allegra. “Shoes?”
“Sì, sì. It’s all packed.”
“Where are we going?” Sancia demanded.
Allegra leaned forward. “Yes, where are you taking her? Somewhere pretty?”
Biting my fucking tongue, I gave Sancia one concession. “You have five minutes. Go throw something else on if you want.”
She stared at me.
“Four minutes, fifty seconds,” I warned. Then I was throwing her over my shoulder.
For a beat more, she kept staring. Then she pivoted and ran up the stairs.
“You can tell me,” Allegra stage-whispered. “Where are you taking her?”
I glanced around the house. It looked different. Brighter. “House looks different.”
Allegra waved a hand dismissively. “We painted it. Are you going to the Bahamas? You said to pack her warm weather clothes. I’ve always wanted to see the Bahamas.”
I fucking paused. “What do you mean we painted it?”
Both of her hands waved around this time. “You know, with brushes, paint, lots of paint. She wanted everything bright. That’s what she said. She asked if I knew where to get paint, so I got the cans and we painted. Is it Bermuda?”
I scanned the house again. Sure as shit, every wall was freshly painted. “The two of you did the whole fucking house?” In a week?
“Yes. Your missus, she is very determined. She planted the garden too. I got her the seeds she asked for.”
Jesus fucking Christ. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve hired someone to do all that.”
Going completely still, Allegra cocked her head.
Allegra never stopped moving or talking. “What?”
Her smile dropped, and she reached for the bag. “I take it back.”
Hell no. “Not happening.” I shouldered the small duffle on my left side.
Allegra shook her head. “I take it all back. This is not exciting.” She walked toward the kitchen.
What the fuck? “Don’t turn your back on me.” She wasn’t on AES’s dime the past two weeks. She was on mine, and I’d been paying her a goddamn mint to take extra precautions getting to and from the old estate. I’d even hired security to watch her and her place so she wasn’t followed.
Allegra spun around. “If you can’t be proud of her, of all of this….” She waved her arms dramatically. “Then you do not deserve her.” Lowering her voice to a level of scorn my own mother had never used, the old woman pointed her finger at me. “Be proud of her.” She stormed into the kitchen.
Coming down the stairs, Sancia glanced between me and a retreating Allegra. “Is everything all right?”
No. “Yes.” Hell, I didn’t fucking know. “Ready?”
Her hair brushed, her face flushed, wearing a beige dress, beige heels and painted lips, she held a light sweater. “That depends.”
“On?” I selfishly liked her better barefoot and in the white dress smudged with dirt.
“Where are we going?”
Somewhere that could get us both killed. “It’s a surprise.”
Sancia
He fed me, he stared at me, he kept his hand on me, but he did not speak.
Mr. Conlon and Whiskey flew the plane, we sat in the very back, and after a meal that came from the small jet’s kitchen that was more gourmet than anything I had had growing up, the plane landed.
Then the men were moving. Fast.
As if it were an orchestrated event that they had planned, coordinated and practiced a hundred times, the plane’s controls were rapidly shut down. Erico opened the cabin door. They all grabbed guns from the same overhead compartment, and I was shuffled down the airstairs with two armed men in front of me and Erico at my back.
The familiar scent struck me as soon as I inhaled, but I barely had time to register where we were as I was ushered to a waiting helicopter.
Vance opened the passenger door, then the pilot’s door.
Erico lifted me into a rear seat.
Whiskey got in front next to Vance.
And the blades began to spin as Erico put a headset on over my ears and buckled me into a five-point harness.
Smelling the ocean, seeing the landscape beyond the tarmac of the small airport, realizing we were in Sicily, I smiled at Erico. “Thank you.”
Tightening the straps, he looked at me. “This is not permanent, bella. This is….” He paused. Erico Mantovani never paused.
“Echo,” Vance clipped as he rapidly flipped switches on the control panel and scanned the airport. “Get your ass inside.”
After securing my door, Erico strode around the front of the helicopter and got in the back beside me. Quickly buckling his seat belt, he put on a headset.
Then his dominant voice filled my head. “Sancia.”
Tearing my gaze away from the beautiful Mediterranean in the distance, I looked at green-and-gold eyes that were the color of the hills and the trees. They were the color of home.
“This is a one-shot deal,” Erico warned. “Understand?”
I did not have time to answer and tell him I understood none of it, or that I did not want to even question it. I was here, and I was with him.
“Right.” Vance’s voice came though the headset. “Here we go. Whiskey, SAT images?”
“Clear,” the blue-eyed man answered.
Vance glanced back with a grin. “Hang on, kids.”
The helicopter lifted into the air so fast, my stomach bottomed out.
Then we banked sideways so sharply, I immediately knew why Erico had tightened my safety harness.
“Conlon,” Erico barked through the headset in warning.
“Right, right, got it, Mr. I Hate Flying. Go easy on you.” He chuckled. “Copy that.”
Vance did not go easy. He flew low and so fast I thought we would hit the treetops. Then we were out over the cerulean blue sea, and I no longer cared.
We were soaring, and it was beautiful.
But as fast as it had started, it was over.
Before I could drink in everything that was my country, my home, the helicopter banked hard toward land, pitched up, then dropped back down, and suddenly my heart stopped.
Lemon trees, olive trees, rows and rows of them, and a tiled roof surrounding a wide courtyard and… Bedda Matri.
“Erico,” I whispered as the helicopter touched down in the courtyard.
My courtyard.
“Hold,” Vance ordered, grabbing the assault rifle he had brought from the plane and placed between the two front seats of the helicopter.
With his gun from the plane still in his hands, Whiskey opened his door. “Clearing.”
“Copy,” Erico answered as he took off my headset, then his, and held his huge gun at the ready.
I glanced at the villa. “We are going inside?”
“Yeah.” Like he had nine years ago, Erico scanned the courtyard.
A tense moment later, Whiskey came back to helicopter and leaned in through his still-open door to glance at Erico with his expressionless blue eyes. “Clear.”
“Perimeter,” Erico ordered. “Two roads in and out. Head on a swivel.”
“Copy that.” Whiskey strode off.
Reaching over to unbuckle my harness, Erico glanced at Vance. “Stay with the bird. Thirty minutes.”
“You’re rodeo, Casanova. Do what you gotta do, but for the record, if I get shot today because you’re inside fu—”
“Finish that sentence, Marine, and I’ll shoot you myself.” Deftly undoing his own safety belt, Erico spared me a glance. “Wait.” Getting out, he rounded the front of the helicopter with his gun in his hands and his eyes scanning the grounds.
“You doing okay, love?”
Too shocked about where we were to say anything, I looked at him.
Vance chuckled. “Right. That’s what love will do to you.”
Erico opened my door. “Come.” But he did not hold his hand out, and he did not step back. His gun already hanging from a strap on his left shoulder as if he had never been shot, he lifted me down from the helicopter and set me on my feet before taking my hand. “This way.”
Speechless, trying to hold back sentimental tears with so many emotions behind them that I did not have a name for them all, I followed a warrior to the portico and waited.
Erico pushed open the ancient, heavy wooden door of my childhood summer home, then stepped back and looked down at me. “Ready?”
I was very much not ready. “Yes.”
He gestured for me to enter first.
Taking a step I never thought I would ever take again, I walked back in time.
Everything, absolutely everything, was untouched. It looked exactly like it had the day Papà had rushed us out to go back to Palermo.
Except with a layer of dust and an air of neglect.
Or maybe this old villa had always been neglected, and I had failed to notice it. I thought of the cabin. It, too, had the same unoccupied feeling of emptiness, but this…. I turned in a circle in the foyer. This was much different.
This villa was neglected, and that neglect dated back much more than nine years. It was peeling paint, crumbling plaster in the corners, scuffed floors, and sagging shelves in the library—none of which a good cleaning could fix.
This villa, my home, it was old, and it was stately, but it had lost its dignity to negligence and the deceit that had lived within these walls a long time ago, and suddenly, my memories were an entirely new color.
I glanced at the rows and rows of books in the library that I had once treasured, but all I felt was anger covered with a watercolor wash of self-indulgent sorrow. No wonder I had always left the windows open when I was here. No wonder I had sought every breeze, every scent, and every moment of unspoiled nature from the orchards and sea.
