Chapter 16 · Coffin with a Cupholder

The spotlight hit me right between the eyes, white and blinding.

I froze with my hand on the rip cord.

The outboard motor gave one wet, pathetic cough and died. Cold rain drove needles into my skin. My wedding band clicked hard against the wheel because my fingers were shaking, and God, I hated that he could see it.

"You done?" Dante asked.

He wasn't yelling. That was the part that made my stomach drop.

He just stood at the edge of the pier in a drenched black overcoat, rain pouring off the brim of his hair. In his right hand, the severed fuel line dangled like a dead snake.

"Go to hell," I choked out.

"Already there, piccola. You moved in three weeks ago."

Two armed guards stood five paces behind him, rifles angled down at the wet boards. Neither man looked at me. They knew better.

I stared at the water. Black. Frigid November chop. If I jumped, hypothermia would take me in four minutes flat.

I still thought about it.

Dante dropped into a crouch at the dock's edge and reached down.

"Take my hand."

"No."

"Lucia." His voice went low, rough around the edges. "Take it.