Page 34 of Dagger in the Sea

Fuck, she’s adorable. Hardly the pretentious beauty she could so easily be.

She steadied herself, the lines of her face relaxing as she approached the woman she obviously knew. They embraced, exchanged Greek double kisses, spoke, laughed, and the friend got into a waiting Lamborghini.

Adriana flinched at the shrill scream of a motorcycle on the bend of the narrow waterfront road. A hand went to her heaving chest. She turned away from the road, and her troubled gaze snagged on mine. Her eyes widened, and my pulse gained speed.

Remember me, baby?

Her lips parted, she shook her head at me. A slight movement, but I caught it. Was she calling Game Over or was she warning me off? Maybe she hadn’t been some random girl bumping into me, flirting with me? Did the Alibertis know I was shadowing them and had sicced Adriana on me as a distraction?

Only one way to find out.

I strode toward her. Toward them. The traffic on the road behind her got thicker. A tourist bus, droning motor scooters with helmet-less teens, motorcycles with couples, cars.

Those blue gray eyes got huge. “Turo?” Adriana said, her voice low, stiff.

“Leaving so soon?” I asked.

Her long, elegant neck straightened. A swan preparing to take flight.

Not so fast, Lovely.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to your boyfriend?” I asked.

Alessio prowled over. Luca tossed his cigarette, tracking to the other side of Adriana. Alessio’s dark eyes gleamed as he gave me a curt shake of his head. That Italian“Who the fuck are you, what the fuck is this?”

“Turo DeMarco.” I stretched out my hand to Alessio.

Alessio stared at my hand, an eyebrow raised. His full lips twisted into a smirk. Luca’s face was a mask.

“Adriana! Adrianaaaa!” shouted photographers from across the street. She immediately turned her back to them, pressing next to Alessio, her body bunching up. She was uncomfortable.

“Adriana!” the paps shouted. Her jaw set, her face tightened. Was she famous?

“Ignore them, Adri,” muttered Alessio, a hand at her back.

Just over her shoulder, a few yards beyond us on the main road, a mud splashed motorcycle with two helmeted figures in long sleeved jackets slowed down at the curve approaching the club’s entrance, weaving in front of the line of cars parked at the end of the walkway. They moved deftly, swiftly. They weren’t paparazzi. They weren’t club-goers. Not to this club.

Needles pricked the back of my neck.

The rider in the back raised his arm, a semi-automatic in his grip.

I lunged at Adriana.

Crack. Crack.

Twisting her into me, I rolled onto the ground with her in my arms. I covered her, our bodies pressed together into the pavement. She clung to me.

Rat-tat-clip-clip-crack.

A high-pitched scream ripped the air above us. Muffled moans. A tidal wave of shouts.

I pushed up, digging my fingers in her hair, cradling the side of her pale face. Anguish, terror. “Are you all right?” my voice as tense as my grip on her. “Adriana? Are you okay?”

“Yes! Yes—” She couldn’t catch her breath, her eyes opened widened even more, flitting to the side of my face. A hand reached out, touching the side of my stinging face. Blood stained her shaking fingers.

I touched the side of my face and found torn, wet skin. Must have been from falling to the sidewalk.

Alessio, Luca over us. A flurry of Greek, Italian. I pulled her up and held on to her. Her arms were cold, so cold. Alessio, the bodyguard, an ashen Gennaro hanging behind him. Luca shouting, gesturing. My head reeled, was I swaying on my feet? I grabbed Alessio by the shirt.

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