Moving Target (Target #3)(8)
Seriously, no more Hallmark movies or romance novels for me.
“Would you like to dance?” I ask, uncrossing my arms.
His white teeth flash against a darkening sky, his gaze briefly dipping to my cleavage before returning to my face. He’s a gentleman at least. Mostly. “You beat me to asking.”
He takes my hand, pulls me close as a band begins to play. The heat of his body is overwhelming and not in a good way. Something is off. Very, very off.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
Leave. You don’t know him.
I glance around, trying to find an excuse that sounds reasonable so I won’t offend him. Men can be funny like that.
“After our dance is over, I’ll have to go back to my husband. He’s the jealous type,” I say as he dips me.
“So jealous that he’s allowing you to dance with another man?”
“My husband can’t dance. He’s… unable and this is my birthday, so...” Sorry, Mario.
“My apologies.” He seems sincere enough. Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe my brain is just wary of what happened the last time I met a strange man who seemed to be interested in me.
We stop dancing. He leads me away from the middle of the impromptu dance floor under the tower.
As soon as I realize he’s leading me away from everyone and into the shadows, I start to shove at him. “Stop. I don’t know you. I don’t want to go with you.”
He doesn’t answer, just keeps walking and dragging me along. How can no one see this? How can no one hear me?
“I said let go,” I screech, whipping my head around for help. There is no one looking our way. It’s like the people who are around are doing everything they can to pretend that this isn’t happening.
I claw at his hand, panic rising so fast that my brain is going a million miles a minute. I don’t know what to do except scream for help. Maybe that will get these dumbasses to help me.
Taking a deep breath, I open it, but a hand appears in front of me, holding a cloth over my mouth. An acrid scent fills my nose and my world goes black.
4
Dmitry
Ever since I helped my cousin, Benjamin, kill his father—a murderous megalomaniac like no other—I’ve felt lost.
Adrift.
Yet I’ve never been happier.
Except for a weekend in New York.
Pushing the thought I away, I go for my daily run around the village of Pecorile. While the day is balmy, I keep my sleeves long, hiding my past from prying eyes. The tattoos on my arms tell my story? one I’d rather keep to myself.
At thirty-four, I’ve retired to this little town with the full blessing of my father, my mentor, and my uncle. Six months ago, I bought a villa with a view of the sea. The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks lulls me to sleep at night.
Some might say I’ve grown soft since I’ve settled down here. Some would be wrong. I still keep a gun on me at all times, still sleep with a knife under my pillow, and still train every day. While my enemies are few, I can never be too sure of the past venturing into the present or even my future.
Keeping my pace steady, I make my daily greetings to Gustav at the bakery, Fletcher at the market, and Donatella at the dress shop. She’s hinted that she’s interested in me, but while she’s certainly a beautiful woman, I don’t want to get involved with anyone.
Yet.
“Mr. Romanov,” Donatella shouts in Italian, waving at me. “Your dress shirt will be in tomorrow. Perhaps we can have coffee and discuss what time you can come by.”
I don’t stop running, but I do slow down a little. “I’m at your service. Please text me when it comes in.”
Her full lips pull down into a frown, but she recovers swiftly. “We can have coffee then.”
Nodding my head at her, I speed up again and take the road that will lead back home. My car is in the drive, the black paint gleaming in the sun. It’s new, without the taint of transporting guns, money, or God knows what else. The only thing I’ve ever drawn the line at transporting is humans.
Everyone knows this and since we all have our quirks, it was accommodated with the exception of one time, but Leonid got over that rather quickly. I think the bullet in his knee helped with his attitude adjustment.
Not my finest hour, since I shot him due to pure irritation, but my mentor, Konstantin Benediktov, understood and punished Leonid for attempting to make me look weak.
That did not go over well.
After a quick shower and change of clothes, I sit out on my balcony, my feet propped up on the edge of the wall while I slowly drink shots of vodka.
A hum of contentment runs through me, but loneliness chases it. I’ve chosen a life away from my family, away from former cities overrun with Bratva so I do not provoke an attack. Yet, I lack a companion.
Perhaps I should get a cat. Or a dog. I’ve never had either. The life of a transporter is rather nomadic in nature and my former schedule was a nightmare. But now…I empty the small glass… now I make my own schedule.
My cell phone vibrates, and I pick it up. To be sure it’s Donatella.
I should give her a chance. Take her out. See if there’s something there. That mysterious spark I’ve been seeking for the past seven years.
An image of Chloe smiling at me in the sun while it turns her skin golden flashes in my mind. I don’t think a single day has gone by without thinking about her. There have been times when I am tempted to ask Benji to track her down, to see if she’s married, or even alive.