| BOOK ONE OF THE VENANDI SAGA | A DARK MAFIA ROMANCE |
Teeth scrape over skin as he nips at my earlobe, "I told you..." Threading his fingers through the strands at my nape, he rolls my head to the side and his lips continue their exploration, "...
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Caught in that 'blue hour' when night clings to its few final minutes and daybreak claws to be free, time dwindles to a picture-perfect crawl like a freeze-frame seconds before the credits roll. Raphe's personal Black Hawk helicopter shuttles us toward a shimmering shoreline. Miami is aflame, kindled by newborn rays stretching beyond the horizon. Radiant hues of ruby, tangerine, and rising sun turn sparkling glass facades into glistering torches set atop a fading neon nightlife. Soon, the sleepy tranquility of darkness will dissolve into the harsh glare of day and all the misfortunes it holds.
Rotor blades in motion beat their constant Whoop-Whoop-Whoop. Sound passes through my body in waves of grief and anxiety. One whoop, and my heart seizes, stricken over my family's safety and Knox's failing health.
"We could lose them for good."
Another, and it palpitates with a fresh surge of jittery adrenaline as Dad's parting commandment thunders in my head.
"Listen to me, both of you. Whatever happens, Teo must not find out you know Mercedes paid for the hit.If he even suspects it, He'll consider you a liability."
"What if he doesn't believe us?"
"Then, Meat has my permission to put a bullet in his head."
"Gladly."
"But only if he suspects it and only you, Venandi. If a Medici pulls the trigger, it becomes a matter for the Royal Court and it's out of my hands. This. stays. with us. Don't be hasty, but don't let him get the drop on you, either."
"Sir."
"One more thing. You do not - for any reason - leave her side. I don't care if he has a gun to your head, you don't leave my daughter alone. Am I clear?"
"Yes, sir."
Wedged in Kole's devoted grasp, a quick squeeze to the palm renews his pledge. Presumably, he's rehashing the same conversation - reliving the same hideous ordeal. Even now, snippets of dialogue are cut with gurgling voice overs...
"Help me..."
...and the haunting reek of fruity death.
Treacly decay mixed with the iron-like scent of dried blood settles on my tongue; every bitter inhale sucks the fetid stink farther inside to sour and sit. Nauseated, saliva burbles up to fill that rancid pocket, lending texture to taste like a slimy slug clinging to my tonsils. Sickness swiftly ensues, amplified by the relentless droning overheadand heaving, leftover, Chicago deep dish splatters across metal grating. Sharply polished combat boots scuffle to avoid the saucy backsplash.
"S-Sorry, I-I didn't mean to," I rasp, coughing into my mic. Carried by radio, scratchy hacks burst from my headset in deafening surround sound, reverberating endlessly in the groans and grunts of our private escort.
