Page 197 of Salvatore

We hit the tarmac ahead of schedule, the overcast sky hiding the midday sun.

Ivy unclasps her seatbelt and makes to move, but I stop her with a staying hand as I scan our surroundings, searching for threats.

A flight crew walks toward a nearby jet, sleek cars sit beside hangers, and airport staff go about their business. It all seems normal.

“Who are they?” Ivy focuses on the Suburban parked on the tarmac a few yards away, the driver and his companion leaning against the front of the vehicle as they stare at us.

“That’s Russo and Valenti.” I reach for the door, satisfied we’re in the clear.

“Are they?—”

“Remy’s men,” I cut her off, hating the anxiety clinging to her. She fidgeted all flight, her usual ball-buster attitude stowed with the luggage. “My brother trusts them with his life.”

She swallows, perhaps mulling over my words before nodding.

I guide her from the helicopter, keeping her close until she’s settled in the waiting vehicle.

“Your brother got caught up at the funeral home,” Russo says as we’re driven from the airport. “He’ll meet you at Lorenzo’s.”

I jerk my chin in acknowledgement, my sights set on passing traffic, on potential threats.

“Are you worried?” Ivy’s hand settles over mine, bare inches from the gun at my side.

I’m always fucking worried when it comes to her—worried about her safety, about her walking away, about the possibility she doesn’t reciprocate the same maddening feelings that burn through my veins. “Just being vigilant.”

Her demeanor grows more meek as she focuses on our joined hands, a fingertip homing in on the tiny remnants of dried blood clinging to the crevices of my knuckles.

“You should try taking a nap.” I drag my palm away, not wanting her to fixate on the death I inflicted. “It’s at least a twenty-minute drive to Lorenzo’s.”

Her eyes meet mine as she withdraws. “I don’t need sleep. I’m fine.”

She’s far from it, her chin a little too high, her apprehension blinking back at me.

I fucking despise seeing her like this. So I look away, casting my attention out my side window, determined to keep my focuson her safety, not her emotions. But every minute of the drawn-out drive is painstaking.

I have to fight the instinct to take her back to Virginia Beach. Back to isolation.

“Boss,” Valenti murmurs from up front, his focus on the side mirror out his passenger door. “I think we’ve got a tail.”

“I agree.” Russo glares at his rear-view. “They’re a few cars back. White sedan. I can make out three passengers.”

I turn to the back window, pinpointing the issue. The sedan sits in the opposite lane, tailgating a minivan. “Get us out of here.”

The Suburban accelerates incrementally.

“I said get us the fuck out of herenow,” I sneer.

“I’m on it.” Russo punches the gas, shifting into the second lane to bypass another vehicle, then darting back at speed.

The sedan mirrors our moves, following us from lane to lane, making the chase obvious as Ivy watches on with trepidation.

“I need you to get down.” I guide her head toward my lap. “Just in case.”

She obeys without hesitation, crossing her hands over her stomach, her cheek moving to rest against my thigh as the concern in her eyes blinks up at me.

“Fuckingmove, Russo.” I pull out my gun, aiming at the sedan’s tinted windshield.

“Hold on.” He swerves onto the shoulder and slams on the brakes. The sedan flies past us, its taillights flickering in hesitation.

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