Chapter 2 - The Ghost in the Mercedes
Panic exploded in my chest like a shattered grenade.
"Aleandro!" I screamed.
The men in tactical gear advanced, their boots pounding against the wet gravel. One of them raised the butt of his rifle, aiming for Aleandro’s head.
Aleandro moved with the terrifying, feline speed I had forgotten he possessed. He grabbed the barrel of the nearest rifle, twisted it upward with a sickening crack of bone, and rammed his elbow into the soldier’s jaw. The man went down instantly into the mud.
Before the other three could fire, a second car—a reinforced black Mercedes sedan—roared down the path from the opposite direction. It slammed sideways into the SUV, creating a barrier of twisted metal and smoking steel.
The rear door of the Mercedes swung open.
Frank—Aleandro’s right-hand man, the same man who had handed me the death certificate six months ago with bloodshot, empty eyes—was behind the wheel.
"Get in, Miss Carter! Now!" Frank bellowed over the sound of rain and yelling men.
Aleandro reached me in three long strides. His hand—warm, broad, and terrifyingly real—slammed around my wrist. He pulled me against his chest.
I smelled him.
The wet leather. The expensive sandalwood cologne. The bitter copper scent of fresh rain and ozone.
He was alive. He was breathing. The chest pressing against my cheek was solid muscle and rising lungs.
"Aleandro... you're alive... how are you—"
"Questions later, bellissima," he growled into my hair, his arm locking like a steel band around my waist as he hauled me into the back seat of the Mercedes.
He dived in after me and slammed the heavy armored door.
"Go, Frank!" Aleandro roared.
Frank slammed his foot onto the accelerator. The Mercedes lurched forward, its tires spinning on the wet grass before finding traction on the asphalt. Bullets rattled against the bulletproof rear glass like heavy hail, leaving spiderweb cracks in the reinforced material, but none penetrated.
I lay across the leather seat, gasping for air, my mind spinning into complete vertigo.
Aleandro sat above me, unbuttoning his rain-soaked trench coat. He reached into an shoulder holster beneath his arm, pulled out a dark steel handgun, checked the magazine with a sharp, practiced click, and racked the slide.
The sound was loud in the tight space of the car.
Then, he turned to look at me.
He reached down, his leather-gloved fingers cupping my jaw, lifting my face so I was forced to meet his gaze. His thumb stroked my trembling lower lip.
"You lost weight, Emma," he murmured softly, his dark eyes sweeping over my face with an obsession so intense it made my skin burn. "And you haven't been eating properly. I told Frank to make sure you were taken care of."
A wave of white-hot anger, confusion, and overwhelming grief suddenly crashed through my paralysis.
I shoved his hand away.
"You bastard!" I choked out, tears finally spilling over my eyelashes, hot and furious. "You absolute bastard! I spent six months dying! I spent six months kneeling at a piece of stone crying for you! I couldn't sleep! I couldn't eat! I kept your watch by my bed every single night!"
I pounded my fists against his chest.
"You let me mourn you! You let me think you were burned to ash!"
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Aleandro didn't block my punches. He let my fists hit his broad chest until my wrists grew weak. Then, he gathered both of my hands in his single, massive palm, pulling me up until I was sitting on his lap, my wet dress soaking his trousers, my face inches from his scar.
"I had to die, Emma," he whispered, his jaw setting into a hard, unforgiving line. "Because if I remained alive, the people who bombed that warehouse would have come for you next."
