"Stop saying that."
"What?" I sneered. "The truth? Well, sweetheart, it doesn't get any truer than your reality. Allow me to kill you before your family or cancer does, and at least you can own your own death rather than fearing it."
She reached for me, touched my shoulders, and then cupped my face. I hated it because I liked it; my body leaned without me telling it to. She was so warm. "And what makes you think I fear my own death?"
"Everyone is afraid of dying. The hardest part is never admitting we're mortal, but coming to terms with the fact that we have no control over how long we're given. You do."
"No… I don't… You're trying to take that control."
"Say the word." My hand moved to the Glock strapped to my thigh.
"I'm not afraid." Her lips trembled. "At least not of death… but I am afraid of something."
"Oh yeah?" I hissed. "What's that?"
"Yours."
Confused, I stepped back, immediately looking for a weapon. "I don't understand."
"You wouldn't." She shrugged. "Because you, Sergio Abandonato, are already dead." She moved gracefully across the room. "You're dead inside… and you don't even know it. Forget cancer — and take a long hard look in the mirror — that's what death looks like."
CHAPTER TWO
Andi
MY ALARM CLOCK WENT OFF at seven a.m.
Not that I needed it. I'd been waking up early my entire life. Call me paranoid, but it seemed sleep was the only time someone could actually hurt me. If I was sleeping, then I was vulnerable, even if I had packed a semi-automatic under my bed, a pistol in my nightstand, plus two ninja stars under the pillow just in case.
I groaned, placing my hand against my clammy skin. You'd think after years of having chronic leukemia I'd be used to the symptoms, but who in her right mind would ever get used to waking up in a pool of her own clammy sweat?
I blew out air between my teeth and stood on shaky legs. I needed a shower, and my room — the room I'd chosen at Sergio's house last night after he'd all but offered to kill me — didn't have a bathroom attached, meaning I had to go searching for one.
Stupid, stupid, Andi.
I'd listened to Frank, the Alfero boss, when he'd dropped me off last night. His words had been, "He'll be fine, just give him time."
I'd felt like a kid getting dropped off on her first day of school. The house was impressive, daunting even, but I'd been around scary all my life, so I didn't think anything of it. Not when the lights were all turned down, not when I heard what I could have sworn was a ghost floating through the halls, and not when I happened to overhear my future husband say aloud that killing me would be a kindness.
I had been half-tempted to say, "Not if I kill you first."
But that would only have been out of anger.
In the end, he would be doing me a favor, loath as I was to admit it. Honest moment? I felt sorry for him. I might be marching toward my death, but that guy was in way worse shape than I. Did he even appreciate life? I highly doubted it.
I managed to throw on the smallest sweatshirt I had and tightened my black pajama shorts. I was losing more weight.
I refused to look in the mirror because it would only confirm my suspicions… the symptoms were worse… I'd need a bone marrow transplant, or I'd die.
And all the money in the world wouldn't put me high on that list.
Especially considering my connections, my birth father, my reputation. I shook the negativity from my head and opened my bedroom door. The hallway was silent.
Which was really unfortunate, considering my new roommate had decided to drink all the alcohol in the entire house.
With a smirk, I ran back into my room, grabbed the baseball bat from the corner — yet another weapon I kept around just in case — and ran down to the kitchen.
Where I found a large enough pot.
I started walking through the long upstairs hallway.
Banging it to hell.
Bang. Bang. Bang. "Sergio?" Bang. Bang. Bang.
A groaning that sounded a lot like an animal either dying or attempting to give birth erupted from the farthest bedroom down the hall.
I hit the pan harder.
"Son of a bitch!" The groaning turned into yelling, and, sure enough, the door flew open and a crappy looking Sergio turned his murderous chocolate eyes in my direction. They’d gone from blue to black with rage all within a few seconds.
Did I say chocolate?
I meant possessed.
No way was I allowed to find him attractive. It would be weird, my wanna-be killer being sexy.
Wasn't there a term for that? Stockholm syndrome or something?
"What." His voice was deep and gravelly. Oh, what the heck, he was sexy. "The. Hell." He wiped his face with his hands, his fingers pressed against his temples. "Is. That."
I held up the bat. "Not a fan of sports?"
He glared then stomped toward me, jerked the metal slugger out of my hands, and threw it down the stairs. "Can't say that I am."
I tapped my fingernails against the stainless steel pot and grinned.
"You have a death wish."