“What do you… want?” she demanded, silently cursing a voice gone tremulous from pain.
Instead of answering, he stopped behind her.
She tried to turn her head, to follow him with her eyes. She didn’t trust him. He was friends with Mateo and Raina, her targets. She’d seen him around the mansion, but had ignored him, as he wasn’t the one she was interested in. He looked relatively unscathed for living through the bomb blasts she’d set off in the house and on the grounds.
She felt his fingers on the back of her neck, then the strap holding her head in place released. She swiveled her head, glaring at him, intent on biting him if he made the mistake of getting too close.
He didn’t.
She could see him now though, and up close he was far more intimidating than he’d been at a distance when she was surveilling the house. He wasn’t overtly powerful like Nico had been. This man was tall and slim with an air of deadly ruthlessness about him. His brown eyes were chips of granite, while the lines of his face were implacable. His lips were thin and cruel, his nose an arrogant blade, hawk-like. He had dark grey hair, curly, long enough to touch the collar of his shirt.
He wore a white untucked dress shirt, now stained and ripped, probably from the bomb blasts. It was also wet, making his chest and arms visible through the thin fabric. Lean, wiry muscles roped his arms, and his belly was as solid as a man thirty years younger.
She suspected he was in his fifties, though she wasn’t sure.
Then it hit her. She did recognize him. Of course she did. How could she have not known the Godfather of Italy was staying with Mateo? Bent on her plans of vengeance, her tunnel vision had caused her to ignore the identity of their guest.
A stupid mistake.
A shiver of fear snaked its way down her spine.
“I know you,” she croaked.
Was he here to torture her some more before Mateo came in to finish her? Or maybe the Italian would be the one to put a bullet in her head. She knew Mateo hated killing women.
She eyed a water bottle on the table behind him, licking her lips, thirst beating at her. Was that another torture method courtesy of the sadistic Mateo?
“Who am I?” He pulled a key from his pocket and knelt next to her left side.
“Giovanni Savino, head of the Italian Savino crime family.”
He didn’t answer, but she knew she was correct. Everyone in the underworld knew of him.
She jolted when he unlocked her wrist, then jerked it into her lap, wiggling feeling back into her hand.
He watched her with a closed expression. The slight tightening of his muscles told her he was preparing for an attack if she launched one. She didn’t. She was in too much pain, and he was ready for anything she might throw at him.
