My mouth gapes open, because have I just heard Matteo right? He found us a wedding venue while tracking me across two continents?

"Bryn, I'm sorry." Guilt flickers behind his eyes.

Hysterical, disturbingly Nicky-like giggles shake me. "I'm not mad you did it without me! Matteo, it's a gift. After me sweating over the venue for so long, you just went and found a perfect place? Just like that? Wow! I had no idea I'm about to marry a Superman!"

He still fidgets on the edge of the bed, instead of swelling with pride, then clears his throat. "I didn't book the venue without talking to you about it, Bryn. I just know where we have to get married."

His gaze, the wonderful shade of amber-brown that can be insanely warm, intensifies.

"Why... why do I have this feeling that I won't like what you have to say?" I mutter. My premonition is absurd. How can I not like a wedding venue? I'm marrying Matteo!

"Because you won't." Matteo sighs. "We're getting married at the vineyard."

Dun-dun-duuun cords play in my head. I can't even gasp, I'm so fucking shocked.

Scenes of horror from the wine cellar flash through my memory. The barrels in somber rows. Unfortunate couple's bodies dismembered, spattered with red. Terrible thought that they must be the same age as my parents... The woman even resembles my mom... And over everything hangs the smell that I'll never forget. The dreadful smell of pain and death.

Matteo's voice comes to me, muffled, as if he is speaking into a pillow.

"Say something," he says.

"If you want me to be absolutely honest..." I stammer. Does he? Is this the moment for the extra-special diplomacy Mom nags me about whenever she gets me on the phone? The preserve-your-marriage one? Or does Matteo want me to be honest about my feelings?

"Yes," he answers both my question and my thoughts.

Mom warned me about that too. Some ancient female instinct is supposed to kick in and tell me when he think she wants to hear the truth, but actually wants me to agree with him.

Screw that! It's our wedding, and that wine cellar is the very definition of trauma.

"Matteo, you've pinpointed one place on Earth where I don't want to say our vows."

"Thought so." He chuckles.

My cheeks flush with a mix of anger and incredulity. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing."

He chuckles again, despite his words!

I bristle more than the meanest porcupine. My hands squeeze into fists. I open my mouth to give him a piece of my mind... and he cups my cheek. I would jerk it away, but he finds my eyes with his to hold my gaze.

"I'm relieved, Bryn. Just relieved. I was afraid you'd throw my ring at me, then run away, screaming."

"It's still a possibility." It's too late for that, but let him squirm for the upset he's just caused me. If this is a prank, I'm going to slap him, I swear! But there is not a trace of crinkle next to his eyes and his lips press into one stubborn line.

"You are serious, aren't you?" I whisper.

"Yes."

This is when I don't slap him, but my fists fly to my chest. He's mad, absolutely mad. I lose a minute or two of full awareness. I think I actually stomp my feet, screeching, "No!" in a complete imitation of a toddler in a mall.

He clicks his tongue. "I deserve this, Bryn."

How could he be so cold! "If you know it's wrong, then why..."

I run out of breath, gulp for air. My chest and my side burn, as if I was running a sprint up Mount Whitney. I bend nearly in half and I don't let go of my question. "Why... why do you want to get married in that cursed place?!"

The more I scream at him, the quieter Matteo responds. With a question, of course. "Do you remember Nicky's thumb drive?"

I nod wordlessly, because I screamed myself out.

"That drive has names of people who gambled on your odds of survival in Irene's torture chamber. Who gambled on my failure? Some of them are rich and idle, strangers, but the rest... they know us. With people like that, we can't show fear."

I don't ask him how many people-like-that Matteo has encountered. I just shudder. "They'll be at our wedding?"

"Some," he says.

I shudder again, because it sounds medieval or from a soap opera. "And you want me to invite my Mom and Dad? My family? Children?"

"Yes."

"Matteo!"

"The best way to flip them off is to bring them to the vineyard. There we can ultimately triumph and stare them down. Then they won't dare touch us."

A snarl twists his face, reminding me I saw a predator under his glossy Italian appearance the second I laid my eyes on him all these years ago. At church. It was, and it still is both unnerving and exhilarating.

"And if Ilya has the list decoded by then, I'll make it clear that I haven't forgotten a thing, and I'm coming for them."

I cling to him, finding solace in his even heartbeat. Sometimes a girl needs a stone-cold killer in her life, because nobody else makes her feel safer. "But..."

"There are no buts. It has to be done. Our world doesn't appreciate forgiveness between enemies."

"Because it makes you look weak." Same reason he's just killed Irene and Kassan. Same reason my life with him will never be peaceful. But I tossed the dice ages ago, choosing to live fast, possibly die young and if I'm very, very lucky—have a good-looking corpse.

I sigh, surrendering to his will. Mom would be proud of me!

Unless she got a whiff of Matteo's actual career aspirations, of course. I can't imagine her approving of her only daughter marrying a mafia enforcer, aiming to be a mafia don. I think even a cop would have been off the table if it were up to her. But this is my life. This is my wedding.

"I hope they can scrub away the blood stains in time for our revenge nuptials. Or do you want to spray on some more to make a point?"

"Bryn—"

Matteo's phone buzzes with a message. He checks it and sighs, almost like he regrets the interruption of our lovely wedding planning conversation. "Let's park it, okay? Ilya is waiting for us by the chopper."

"Don't forget to invite him." I sound sour and can't help it. "His grave-digging abilities are astonishing. Might come in handy after the reception."

Matteo doesn't reply. His gaze is fixed on the phone that wouldn't stop buzzing.

Following Ilya's instructions—I presume—he throws documents from a drawer into a bag, and leads the way. I walk behind him in silence. Icy dread seeps through my sulk, freezing my gut. If Matteo is after revenge, and the people on that thumb drive are ruthless...

God, in this case, I hope Ilya never deciphers the drive. After all, everyone is alive and well, at least on our side. Let the by-goners be bygone.

Ilya and his junior gravedigging team wait for us inside the chopper, not next to it. The big Russian reclaimed the pilot's seat, thank God. If I had to fly this chopper with my shaking hands, I can't guarantee it would end well.

Nicky, Sergio and Santiago are packed in the backseats like sardines, looking as deadened to the world as the canned fish.

"Glad you're on time." Ilya waves at Matteo with a small piece of black plastic and metal. The thumb-drive. I've seen hundreds of those in my life, and I can't look at this one without my stomach churning. Not only does this tiny piece of tech hold the record of our torment, it has the potential to destroy my future.

I side-eye Matteo, and almost throw up. His profile is so intense, so hungry for revenge... this can't end well for us. I can't take it and move my gaze away... only to catch Ilya's knowing smile.

Nicky destroys the men's moment of complete understanding. "I gave it to Ilya," she whispers, "he promised to protect me."

Her eyes are swollen, but she reapplied her make-up somewhere, somehow, at some point, concealing the ugly splotches on her cheeks and the redness of her nose. Her youth even transformed the haggard appearance into tragic beauty. It's too bad that youth is fleeting, it's a powerful force.

Under its spell, Ilya pats Nicky's hand that she's placed on the back of the pilot's seat. "I will."

She smiles through the veil of welling tears, her lips part...

Ilya yanks his hand back. "Don't bother. You're not my type."

Despite the mix of pity and revulsion that Nicky's performance raises in me, I'm intrigued. So, I almost applaud when Nicky's breathy voice asks, seemingly of the air in the cabin, not anyone in particular, least of all Ilya. "But what's his type?"

It's like she's blurted her thoughts out loud on accident...as if! the teens of my generation would have exclaimed.

"I like women who don't dream of slitting my throat in my sleep." He faces away from her, his eyes fixed on whatever the windshield window of the chopper is called. But he says it so loudly, he would shout, if he wasn't so stone-cold. "I let you keep your two boy toys. Be happy with that."

Again, the resemblance between Matteo and Ilya strikes me.

Nicky glowers at the back of Ilya's blond head. There are no multiple choices for who she blames for all her present and future misfortunes. Everything's Ilya's fault, period. Logic or facts have nothing to do with it. Irene's conviction that Matteo is a villain must be just as groundless. Like mother, like daughter, right?

At any rate, I'm happy that Ilya let Sergio and Santiago come with us. One of them—I can't tell which twin—buffers me from the ball of hatred that is Nicky. Because, of course, I have to sit in the back with the teens, while Matteo takes the shotgun seat.

Ilya takes the invisible daggers digging into him stoically, but he doesn't crack a single joke during the flight. I doubt his silence is all because of the stress of taking us safely and illegally over the international border.

He lands the chopper with barely a bump. In my professional opinion, it can't be better. And I can't be happier to get out of the damn chopper. The cabin is too small for all the drama, and once Matteo and I disembark, it's going to get worse, because Nicky slips into Matteo's vacated seat. The coquettish smile that plays on her lips makes me ill... she should be too young for this sort of thing. Except, maybe, losing her parents makes the girl grow up faster, even if she'll never lack for material goods.

Luckily, she's Ilya's problem, and he asked for it. Always be careful what you ask for, am I right?

At any rate, I plant my feet firmly on the gravel and put Nicky's drama out of my head.

"So, this is Tuxtla, Mexico?" I ask Matteo.

The light industrial area, surrounding the small airport, could be anywhere. It's basically a dusty lot, surrounded with a chain-link fence around dismal shops.

"Yes."

"And you drove all the way here, all alone?"

The whirling of the chopper's blades starts. Wind coming off of it ruffles Matteo's hair, tempting me to do the same, if we weren't holding hands. "I did," he replies, "but we are returning together."

"Yup!" Shivers of excitement tickle every inch inside me. I wave Ilya goodbye, wishing for the chopper to lift into the cloudless azure already. Then I can be alone with my Matteo and nothing can ruin it. Not even Nicky's face that plasters against the glass of her window to stick her tongue at us.

"Lucky Ilya," I mutter. "I think she means to seduce the guy to use him against us."

He shrugs. "Yeah, good luck to her with that."

Actually, I agree with him. Nicky's chances for success with a guy like Ilya are a big, fat zero.

We watch the chopper until it is the size of a child's toy in the sky. Then the smile on Matteo's features changes from . "Finally! Now, we can make good on that lie I told your parents."

"Ah, that magic get-away you sprung on me?"

"Spot on!" His eyes warm to melting amber, ready to trap me inside their amazing depth forever. "The car, the road and just the two of us. Sheer bliss!"

Just the two of us! My heart races from joy. Everything is always so easy when there's only the two of us!

I throw my arms around his neck. "Won't you get bored?"

"Never!" He pulls my head to his in a kiss so deep and long that I don't register when the chopper takes off. After what seems like hours of bliss, Matteo whispers into my ear. "From now on, I'm not letting you out of my sight."

I tweak his nose. "Like, ever?"

"Uh-huh. I'll even come to the shop for the dress' fittings. I don't care what they say about luck. Bad luck is when we're not together."

"That's so sweet!" But his lips are sweeter when I kiss him again. Actually, it makes sense. Matteo always weighed in on my wardrobe. "Honestly, why not? You have such great taste in clothes, and I'm not superstitious."

He heaves a sigh of relief. "It's settled then."

"A fair warning though: I hear it takes hours to fit a wedding dress."

His bottom lip curls in. "I'll catch up on my sleep."

"Liar!" I know where his gaze would linger the entire time!

Just as I snort, a shadow of suspicion flickers in his eyes. "Is it an actual wedding dress? A proper one? With a skirt and everything?"

"Yes! What do you think, I'd waltz down the aisle with no pants on?"

"Well... no." He's looking as sheepish as I've ever seen him. "At least, I hope not. It's just you had no idea what you wanted before... ah."

He's so adorable when he's off balance, I can't resist kissing him again. "What do you think I was focusing on in Irene's stupid cage? What kept me going while climbing that dumb wall?"

"Your wedding dress?"

Wonder turns his gaze golden, and I bask in their light before I nod. "Yup. My wedding dress."

His fingers brush my cheek, while dimples appear by the sides of his mouth. "What would you say if we change the plan? There's a peaceful hotel in Tuxtla. It's been such a long, tiring day, that I can't wait to go to bed."

He sounds so hoarse, it's like he hasn't had a drink for days. Turns out, I'm also parched. Except, isn't it dangerous? From what he told me... "Will the Juarez' Cartel leave us be? After how you've royally messed with them here?"

"Mila tells me she tangled with their security and systems so badly to help Esme get out, they would be lucky to find their assholes in a month."

"Color me convinced! Let's get Your Precious, and..." I look around for his car, and there's not a speck of the blinding brightness in sight.

My heart drops in my chest. "Please, Matteo, please, tell me you didn't leave your Lam out here? The last thing we need right now is an extra-challenge of our car being stolen."

"You're looking at my new car." He wraps his arm around my waist and turns me a bit, so I look straight at a Honda Accord. A mousy-gray Accord whose venerable age and beat-up looks are the best anti-theft protection.

My brain freezes, because this puzzle is too much for it. "Did you rent this or something?"

"Not exactly." A shadow crosses his face. "I traded this for Lam to get to you."

"Lam for...this?"

"Yeah. To be fair, the guy also threw in a bunch of ants."

If ever a question pops up in my mind if this man loves me, I'll remember this exact moment when he sheepishly admitted sacrificing his precious car to extricate me from Irene's clutches.

"Ah... at least shopping for a new car will be fun for you."

"For sure! I'm thinking of upgrading to a minivan."

Oh, crap! Crap, crap, crapity-crap. Minivan is such a loaded word!

"H-how about a Ferrari?" Though, with my luck, Ferrari has a line of minivans now for the drop-dead gorgeous men who found themselves in a family way. I mean, it's hard to stick to one's values when the economy is this bad.

"A nice red Ferrari? I'll even okay another orange car." I'm not picky. So long as it doesn't have space for a purse in the back, let alone a child's car seat, it's alright with me.