Page 11 of The Red Queen

He took advantage of her temporary vulnerability, by kneeling on her forearm and knocking the glass shard from her palm. She felt a streak of pain as it sliced through the hand towel and cut her palm.

She recovered enough to curl her other hand into a fist, gritting her teeth at the agony of her missing finger, and slammed her fist into his ribcage.

He grunted but didn’t shift from his position, instead maneuvering himself until he was almost on top of her. It would be game over if he pinned her. He’d either kill her or confine her. She had to get out of there.

For a split second, as he lifted a leg to straddle her prone body, he left himself vulnerable. She slammed her knee into his crotch, sending him sideways. As he hit the floor, she leapt to her feet, kicking him in the ribs before running for the door.

A bullet smacked into the wooden frame as she was about to pass through. Instinct made her freeze. She suspected the Italian was a very good shot and hadn’t been aiming for her but sending a message. Stop running or die.

She slowly turned on the spot.

He was lying on his back on the ground, his arm extended, his gun pointed directly at her. Though fury flashed in his dark gaze, his expression gave away none of the pain she knew he must be feeling.

Tough. She admired tough.

“Maybe you’re not as suicidal as I thought,” he growled.

She bared her teeth at him, spun on the spot, and ran out the door. If he shot her in the back, she was fine with it. She’d die a free woman.

She heard another shot, but suspected it was temper more than anything. The Godfather wasn’t quite as calm and cool as he tried to portray. She’d certainly got under his skin. Of course, she’d tried to kick his balls into his throat so she couldn’t blame him for being grumpy.

She flew through the wine cellar, retracing her steps to the front of the house. As she reached the door, she hesitated. When they’d driven up to the estate, she’d counted nine security personnel. There were probably a dozen more she hadn’t seen. She wouldn’t stand a chance of escaping through the front door.

Cursing herself for losing precious seconds to indecision and blaming it on the drugs that were still coursing through her system, she whirled around and ran toward the back of the house, looking for the kitchen. Racing through door after door, hall after hall, she vaguely wondered how big this place was before she found what she was looking for.

Unfortunately, the grouchy looking housekeeper was in the kitchen. She looked up from a pot on the stove, startled as Desi hurtled toward her, grabbing a knife from the knife block on the island.

“Out,” she snarled at the woman, who needed no more encouragement, rushing from the room screaming.

Desi frantically searched the cupboards, her frustration growing until she found cleaning supplies. She grabbed a mop bucket, slammed it down on the counter, emptied a jug of cleaner in it and picked up a bar of glycerin-based soap. Giovanni walked through the other door, looking grim and disheveled.

“Don’t,” he said, holding his gun on her as she lifted the soap over the bucket.

Desi dropped the soap, picked up the knife and ran for the back door.

He was faster, reaching it before her and slamming her into the glass.

She dropped the butcher knife and grunted at the impact. Damn it, she was getting tired of being squished by this man.

“You want to die, Desiree?” he growled in her ear, sending an unexpected skitter of sparks down her neck.

“We’ll both die if we don’t get out of the kitchen now,” she pointed out, speaking for the first time since she’d started her attack.

“I’ve had a good life,” he said in an even tone. “Have you?”

She flung her head to the side, peeking over his arm at the bucket. She could hear the contents sizzling and bubbling. They didn’t have much time.

“Let me go!”

“No.” His hold tightened, and she could feel the anger spilling from him and onto her.

He stepped back, but before she could thrust the door open and run, he gripped her by the shoulder with the gunshot wound, turned her around, and slammed her back into the door.

“Do you want to die today, Desi?”

She stared at him, anger and hate warring within her. It took her a moment to realize what he was asking. That he was serious. He wanted to know if she wanted to die.

The impact of the question deflated her. Did she want to die?

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