Sergio (Benedetti Brothers 3)

When I return my gaze to the spectacle in front of me, I’m very aware of my periphery. I want to catch any movement because that sound was too loud for a mouse.

“Get them out of here,” I say to the two soldiers behind the brothers.

“Yes, sir.”

I watch as Joe and Lance are walked rudely out of the room. After a few moments, I turn to my men. “Let’s go,” I say loudly. They walk out. I hang back, switch out the light, listen to the footsteps echo as they vacate the building. I reach for the handgun in its holster beneath my jacket and walk silently toward the direction from where the sound had come.2NatalieIt’s been silent for a while, but I’m too scared to move. I can’t believe what I saw. What I heard. Benedetti. I know that name. And the one in the suit, the man who once saved my life, I think he heard when my boot caught the screw on the floor. Although I’m maybe overthinking it. He didn’t say anything, just carried on with his business.

My knees creak when I finally dare to straighten. I’ve been hiding, crouched for too long. I’m holding my breath, my eyes wide. It’s pitch-black here, but I’m too afraid to use the flashlight on my phone.

I take two steps, peek around the machine that shielded me from their view. The room is empty. I creep to the top of the stairs. My heart is still racing as I grip the ice-cold banister, my knees not quite steady as I make my way down. I tuck my phone into my purse. I’m at the bottom of the stairs, my foot poised to step onto the ground floor when I hear it. The cocking of a gun. Twice in my life now, I’ve heard a gun cocked at too close a range. It comes in the same instant as the arm that wraps around my throat, that presses my back against a chest of steel.

I scream as the light goes on and three men come into view. The older one in the suit. Two others. And the one who’s got the barrel of the gun at my temple.

“Caught the mouse,” he says from behind me, his voice a deep timbre.

None of the men smile. They’re all looking at me. They each have a weapon in their hands.

“Warehouse is clear,” one of them says.

“Should have been swept before the meeting,” the one holding me says.

The arm loosens around my throat, is removed entirely, taking the gun from my temple. It’s decocked.

I gasp for breath, stumble backward. The strap of my purse slides down my arm and the contents spill to the filthy floor. I drop to my knees. The man behind me, he walks around to my front and I’m hyperventilating. I’m looking down at the ground, at the tube of lipstick rolling toward his shoe. It’s polished so perfectly I can almost see my own terrified reflection in it.

A hand fists my hair painfully and he draws me up to my feet, up on tip-toe. He drags me toward him.

“A sneaky little mouse.”

It’s him. The one in charge. Mr. Benedetti was what they’d called him. And the look in his eyes is dark.

“Sergio,” the older man says.

Sergio. That’s right.

He releases me from his gaze, but not his grip. I can’t turn my head, but I shift my eyes to look at the older man.

“You’re going to be late for the meeting. I’ll take care of this.”

Take care of this? By ‘this’ he means me?

Sergio returns his gaze to me again. He’s blurry because my eyes have filled with tears. He tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes.

“You deal with the meeting, Uncle. I’ll deal with our mouse problem.”

The grin he gives me coincides with the tightening of his fist. It forces the tears from my eyes.

“Do you want me to leave anyone?” his uncle asks. “A cleaner?”

Cleaner?

“I’ll take care of it,” my captor says, never looking away. I get the feeling he likes my tears.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” his uncle says, and a moment later, we’re alone as three sets of footsteps disappear out of the old warehouse.

“What’s a cleaner?” I ask, my voice barely audible. I don’t know why I ask it.

Sergio draws me into his chest. “Don’t worry about that, mouse. What’s your name and what do you think you’re doing here?”

I’m going to be sick or pee my pants or both.

He’s still studying me, his gaze is intense, like he’s gleaning information just from looking at me. Then he does something that surprises me. He takes his thumb and wipes it across my face, smears my tear across my cheek and just looks at it for a long minute.

“Well?” he asks again, when he returns his eyes to mine.