Chapter 13

Laine

Ijolt awake, my mouth open, my scream still tearing at my throat. Clasping my hands over my mouth, I bring my knees up and collapse forward, praying with everything in me that no one heard.

The air is cold against the sweat clinging to my skin. The terror of the memory clutches at my chest, churning as guilt swamps me as I sob. "It's fine. It was only a nightmare."

Closing my eyes, I repeat the words and work to slow my pulse, my heartbeat thundering in my ears. It's a cruel echo of the nightmare that followed me across the ocean.

Flopping back against the pillow, I stare up at the ceiling of the elegant and yet unfamiliar room. It's not so different from the sprawling Moneta home back in Chicago.

It's funny how when you see mansions from the street, people think the people inside must be living glamorous, charmed lives. I definitely used to.

Until I learned differently.

I press a hand against my chest and listen to the sounds of the house. If I woke anyone with my screaming, I'm sure they'd be racing through my door by now. Wouldn't they?

More likely, this mansion is soundproofed to mask the screams of bloody torture and mafia killing.

I sigh and roll my eyes in the darkness. I'm not usually this dramatic, but recent events have tainted my world view.

There's no use shutting it out because I know experiences like that bubble back up to the surface—usually at the worst possible moment.

Calmer now, I close my eyes and let the memory of the home invasion seep in.

It was definitely the Tessiano Outfit.

Milton, my father-in-law, had accepted some very lucrative clients over the past two years, all with ties to the Tessianos.

From what I knew—which wasn't much—their legitimate operations were garbage disposal and construction and their illegal operations centered around gaming and import/export.

At first, Milton kept Marco out of everything, but about six months ago, the old man called him into the study for a long, late-night meeting. That's when the dynamics of everything shifted.

I was never directly involved, and that was fine by me. Growing up on the West Side, I could read between the lines just fine. That's when I started bundling my get away fund and contacted one of my forgery clients for the favor with the passport.

It's a genuine passport—my forger client works within the government passport agency—and can put her clientele directly into the system.

She's that good.

And since I listened to my mom and kept my bank account separate from Marco's, I always had control of my exit strategy.

Sadly, that was her one regret. She'd bound everything she was into my father and their shared life. When things went badly, she didn't have the means to walk away and provide for us.

She was trapped.

I close my eyes as hot tears warm the sides of my face. How could I have lost Mom? Sure, there were bullets flying, but I didn't even remember until we were standing on that stoop.

And now I can't leave until I get her back.

Having lived through one home invasion because of a man being tied to organized crime, I'm in no hurry to repeat the experience.

The fear slowly subsides as the details of the dream fade into the soft shadows of the room. I'll get Mom back, figure out how to get away from here, and then I'll start my new life.

The duvet isn't heavy enough to ground me, a flimsy shield against the chill that has settled deep in my bones. The digital clock on the bedside table reads 3:07 AM.

Flipping back the covers, I wander to the window to stare out at the grounds at night.

Shadows move in the darkness, and I freeze.

The home invasion is too fresh not to panic.

But no. It's Tag's men…loading things into a van…at three in the morning.

Are those bodies?

I close my eyes, a wash of dread overwhelming me. Pulling the duvet over my head, I try to unsee what I think I just saw.

I doubt sleep will be my companion tonight, but that's fine. The time will be better used to figure out how to get out of this mess.

And away from Tag Quinn.