Chapter Twenty-Four

Lore

I’d been planning the meal since I woke up. For once, not upset at being alone. Renzo had warned me he’d be gone early. After holding me all night.

“Elian, can we do another order on your phone?” I asked. “And I’ll give you the cash,” I added, making a mental note to ask Renzo how I could go about buying things online or via apps when he got home.

“You cooking again?”

“Yeah.”

“On one condition then,” he said.

“Sure,” I agreed, having a feeling I knew where this was going.

“I get a plate.”

“Well, obviously,” I said, rolling my eyes at him.

After that, I offered him my list, then went about finding the right pots and pans, setting the table ahead of time, before getting myself showered and dressed before helping Elian bring in the groceries, and finally rolling up my sleeves and getting to it.

And, this time, there were memories of my mom, of course. Of her reminding me to always measure spices by the heart, to always remember to salt the pasta water, to take my time and enjoy the process.

But instead of sorrow, what I felt was gratitude. That I’d gotten the chance to learn these things at her side. And, because of that, I could one day do the same for my children.

I couldn’t tell you what time it was when I’d heard a popping noise in the hallway, or the strange thud. I’d been too lost in the idea of sitting across a table from Renzo again, from having more conversations like the one we’d had the night before. And, then maybe… not talking for a while afterward.

I’d tensed at the odd interruption, but when I’d heard the beep of the code being punched into the keypad, I felt my shoulders relax, imagining it was either Elian or Renzo trying to bring something inside.

I didn’t even think anything was amiss when it was neither of those men who moved into the apartment.

I knew this man too.

I’d met him at the one party I’d gone down to.

He’d been lurking around the pool table while I talked to one of the younger, more extroverted, men.

He had a more normal name, that much I remembered, even though that night was pretty vodka-soaked and wavy.

Christopher?

Matthew?

No, Michael.

This was Michael.

Renzo’s cousin.

Unlike my family, and most of the organized crime syndicates I knew of, Renzo’s crew wasn’t entirely built up of blood relatives at the top. He had capos with no blood relation to him. Like Cinna and Rico and, I was pretty sure, Dav.

As you got further down to the soldiers and associates, of course, there was even less blood relation. But that was true of my family as well.

Michael, though, Michael was an actual family member.

And I suddenly felt like maybe I should know more about him than I did.

Renzo had given me details about his childhood. His awful parents, his almost equally terrible uncles. But he’d never specifically mentioned his cousin, even though he’d likely told me about said cousin’s father.

“Hey, Michael,” I said as I fished the lid out of the can of tomatoes I’d just opened, setting it down on the counter, then gathering up the can to drop it into my pot.

It was his silence that had me looking over, wondering why he hadn’t said hello back.

And it was right then that I saw it.

The gun in his hand.

The popping sound.

That’s what I’d heard.

The gun with a silencer.

Elian.

My heart squeezed in my chest even as the adrenaline sizzled across my nerve endings making everything suddenly feel too bright, too abstract, like the room itself had become impressionist splashes across my vision instead.

Because, surely, if I was seeing correctly, I would have picked up one of the full cans. To throw. To bash.

Or gone for the lid I’d just pulled out of a can, surrounded by little teeth from the opener. Enough to do some damage if he got close enough.

Instead, though, I seemed to freeze, to stand there completely uselessly as he drew closer.

I saw that look in his eyes.

I’d seen it once before, in the eyes of a man named Brio in my family. A man who got a sick sort of satisfaction out of his job. Which often seemed to involve a lot of bloodshed and pain.

It was an animalistic sort of coldness.

Like all the humanity had been leeched from him.

When he lunged, I would like to say I scratched, clawed, bit, fought.

All I seemed to manage, though, was throw the can of tomatoes, some of it splattering across Michael’s pants, my own bare feet, and the floor.

I braced, expecting to feel the burning pain of a bullet slicing through my skin, my vision flashing back to the handful of times I’d seen a member of my own family with a bullet wound, how they’d curse and throw back whiskey as someone performed battlefield medicine on them. Once, in my own childhood kitchen.

Instead, though, Michael flipped the gun in his hand, holding it by the muzzle, lifting his arm, and striking out.

There was a split second of an explosive pain in my head.

Then complete and utter blackness.

I woke up being jostled, but too groggy to remember that I should be fighting as my brain screamed, little icepicks being drilled into my skull over and over.

By the time I remembered it all—the pop, the slam, Michael, the gun, being struck—I felt myself slammed down across a backseat, a man’s body coming down on top of me, crushing me.

“Drive!” he snarled, making my head whip over, seeing the darkened SUV windows, the back of a man’s head in the driver’s seat.

It was Michael on top of me, his chest pressing hard enough to make my lungs hurt when I took a breath, prepared to scream.

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” Michael snarled, shifting his weight to slap his hand over my mouth, his weight pressing down, making my teeth ache with the pressure.

His finger was pressing up against the underside of my nose, making it harder to pull in a proper breath, causing this uncomfortable tight sensation to spread across my chest.

Panic, familiar and unwanted because it made my brain mushy, spread, little tendrils of adrenaline snaking around my mind, my chest, my throat.

I needed to calm down.

To focus.

It was already too late to make sure I wasn’t taken to a second location. We were already in one, and on the way to a third one.

Nothing good could happen there.

The best case would be that my kidnapping was just a ploy to draw out Renzo.

Even if that was the result of this, it would likely mean Renzo being hurt or killed.

This, it seemed, was some sort of coup in progress.

But other possibilities formed.

Of hands dragging me to a new place. Hitting, kicking, smacking, pulling off my clothes… and… worse things.

All the while Elian was possibly bleeding out in the apartment building, with no one to know something was going on, that he needed help. That I did as well.

Sure, Renzo said he would be home for dinner, but that was hours away still. The chances of him coming home earlier seemed really thin.

My phone was sitting on the charger on top of the microwave in the kitchen. I had no way of trying to warn him.

There was no one coming for me.

No.

No.

I wasn’t going to get hopeless.

I’d never make it through this if I let that happen.

Someone would come. Eventually.

At some point, someone would find Elian. Then realize I was missing. And Renzo told me there were cameras all over the hallway and in some parts of the apartment as well.

He hadn’t told me why, save for saying it was regarding whatever ‘serious shit’ was going on with the family right now.

I hadn’t thought to press.

I’d been raised to know better than to do that. When or if the men were able to share details, they would. Otherwise, they didn’t tell us in an effort to protect us. Mostly from the police, if things came to that.

So I knew it wasn’t really my place to press.

Those cameras, though, if he took two minutes to review the footage, he would see Michael hitting me, taking me.

Then he would come.

I just had to buy myself some time.

I had to be calm and smart.

Stall, if possible.

Then wait for Renzo to come.

Even if this was a coup, there were clearly those still loyal to Renzo. Elian, for example, who’d taken a bullet for me. Cinna, I would bet my life on her being loyal. Rico and Dav also.

He wouldn’t be walking into a trap alone.

He’d have backup.

And he would save me.

Reminding myself of that allowed me to stop trying to take panicky quick breaths, focusing instead on long, deep ones that slowly allowed the fog of anxiety to clear.

The car veered in and out of traffic to a chorus of horns as Michael’s body slid around on top of mine, making my stomach churn, but I fought to stay as still as possible, pressing my legs into the door, hooking my bare toes into the cutout under the door handle, wondering if the child locks were on, if I could use my feet to open the door and… I don’t know… roll out from under him, scramble out, throw myself out onto the street. Dangerous? Sure. But likely a better fate than whatever Michael had in mind for me.

As the car kept driving, I teased my toes up. Then, as the men were distracted by the traffic jam ahead of us, a cabbie and someone in a regular car outside of their vehicles, screaming at each other, I pulled with everything I had.

To no avail.

The door was locked.

There was no getting out.

Hopelessness bubbled up, making me need to blink away tears even as the driver got impatient and charged forward, swerving around the mild road rage incident.

I fought to tamp it back down, reminding myself that it had been worth a shot, that I needed to keep staying that sharp, trying anything that came to mind.

But, unfortunately, it was just one more turn after that before the car ducked into some sort of—very coveted—garage, the driver cutting the engine, then hopping out to yank the door closed, shutting out the rest of the world, so no one knew what was going on as the driver pulled open the door at my feet, and Michael slid out and off of me.

I took my first real breath since before I’d been taken, and quickly scrambled up, curling into myself near the other door, out of reach.

“Just making it harder on yourself,” Michael said, slamming the door, and coming around the SUV.

I didn’t stop to think.

I threw myself into the front seat, stabbing my finger into the lock button on the driver’s side.

Out of the windshield, I saw the driver reach for his key fob with an eye roll.

But I kept my finger stabbed into the button, preventing him from unlocking it, making Michael shout at him as he paced around the car.

It was a temporary diversion, I knew.

Eventually, they would get me out of this car.

And they were just going to be all the more pissed at me about stalling the inevitable.

But I needed a second.

I had to think.

To look around.

Try to find another way out.

There was the garage door, but I doubted my ability to get to it, get it raised, and rush out under it before one of these men caught me and dragged me away.

There was an interior door, leading, well, in somewhere.

That was likely where they were planning to take me, which, undoubtedly meant that there would be no easy means of escape from there.

I watched as the driver came closer, holding up the fob, trying to get in.

I didn’t know anything about cars.

I’d never driven in my life.

But I was pretty sure that a car would start so long as that thing was close.

If he was close enough, could I maybe turn the engine on? Put it in reverse? Back into the garage door?

If nothing else, might that get attention from someone outside? Enough that they might even call the police? Fearing someone had a seizure or fell asleep or had some sort of medical emergency while behind the wheel?

I glanced down, looking at the gear shift, seeing the R that had to stand for reverse.

Taking a deep breath, I stabbed my finger into the ignition button. But… nothing.

I tried again, tapping one of the pedals.

Then, finally, as my foot hit the other pedal, the engine purred to life.

I didn’t waste a second, knowing that it wouldn’t last long if the guy so much as moved away from the car.

I yanked the gear into reverse, and shoved my foot against the accelerator, feeling my belly bottom out as the car flew backward immediately, crashing hard into the door.

I hadn’t anticipated it holding up against the crash.

Or remembered the airbag.

Until it was exploding outward, smashing into my face, scraping across my skin, the impact like a blow to the side of my face, which took most of the abuse.

My neck snapped back, another pain making my eyes water.

I remembered almost before it was too late to press my finger into the lock again as the driver tossed the fob, making the engine cut.

Figuring there was no more chance of escape this way, my free hand reached to slide the gear back into park as the airbag deflated, leaving just the pain behind as I stared at an increasingly angry Michael as he screamed something at the driver.

The driver’s cold eyes slid to me, his jaw tight, not a drop of sympathy in his eyes as he turned suddenly, walking away from me.

Then coming back less than a moment later, a crowbar in his hand.

I thought he would go for the passenger door. Or the backseat.

But he came right up beside me, arm raised, slamming the bar into the window.

Once.

Twice.

The glass spiderwebbed.

Three times.

Then it broke inward toward me, pieces of glass getting caught under my hands on the seat as I tried to push myself away, cutting into my palms.

He reached inside, slicing his arm in the process, not even wincing as the blood dripped down his arm and over the car, unlocking the door, then yanking it open.

“Get your ass out here,” he snarled at me, shocking me as instead of reaching to grab me by the arm or around the waist, he gathered a handful of my hair, and yanked savagely, leaving me no choice but to fall out of the car, my back cracking against the bottom of it before I dropped to the cement floor.

I didn’t know which pain was worse then.

The slamming in my skull from the pistol whipping before. The way each strand of hair screamed as he pulled. My face and neck from the crash. Or the aching pain in my lower back from crashing into the car.

It all seemed to mingle together, this awful symphony of pain that overtook me completely as I continued to be dragged across the floor.

I reached up, trying to grab my hair above his hold to ease the sting.

But I stopped even trying as I was yanked up a step, my back colliding with the edge of that as well, making stupid, useless tears sting my eyes.

I pressed my lips together, trying not to cry out, to give him the satisfaction he was likely looking for.

The pain on my scalp eased, at least, as the door slammed behind us, and Michael said to the driver, “Just drop her there.”

I was released, and I let myself lower to the floor, curling up on my side, knees to chest, trying to protect as much of myself as possible.

Because, lord knew, this was not going to be the worst of it.

I blinked back the tears, trying to focus on my surroundings.

It wasn’t some dark, windowless space with no chance for escape. In fact, the entire back wall was lined with old, warehouse-style windows.

The floors—cement—and the walls—brick—weren’t an option.

But there was a door all the way in the back corner.

Maybe it only led to a bathroom or an office.

It was a door, though. To a different room.

One that maybe had a lock.

Or furniture that could be used as a barricade.

Nothing would last forever, of course. I didn’t need forever, though. Just until Renzo could come to find me.

“What now?” the driver asked.

“You gotten in touch with Coal yet?” Michael asked.

“Can’t get him,” the driver said.

“He’s got to have him then,” Michael said.

And suddenly, I was thinking of rushing down the street toward Renzo, who was about to follow several of his men into the building. The building where there’d been crashing noises.

Was that what Renzo had been protecting me from?

Had he picked up one of Michael’s men?

Could he already be onto him?

Maybe even on his way?

Hope was a small, delicate flicker in my chest, but I cupped my hands around it, protected it from blowing out.

Even as Michael barked an order at the driver who reached for me again, this time by the ankles, dragging me across the room. And, yes, closer to that door.

“Pretty thing, ain’t ya?” the driver asked, a dark look in his eyes making a shiver course down my spine. Every woman knew that look. That evil, animal glance. A predator hoping to sink their teeth into their prey.

Michael moved past us, paying no attention as he disappeared into that small room, flicking on a light, and letting me see the corner of what seemed like a desk sitting there.

An office then.

Lots of things could be used as weapons in an office. Pens, scissors, a paper weight.

And with a room that small, I figured if I could turn the desk, it might actually wedge against the door, making it impossible to open.

“Been wondering what Renzo got a taste of to make him lock this down,” the driver said.

Then he was reaching for me, grabbing at me, fingers sliding across skin, yanking at my pants, dragging them down.

I reeled back, kicking out, striking, then sucking in a big breath to scream.

“Hey,” Michael snapped, making the driver release me, his hand still holding my pants, leaving me on the cold floor in my bare feet and panties. But it wasn’t the cold that had a chill moving through me. “Knock that off,” Michael said, and that little flicker of hope inside of me grew a bit as I scooted back until I hit the wall, pulling my knees in, and wrapping my arms around myself. “You can have all the fun you want when Renzo is here to watch,” he added, making my belly bottom out.

“Bet she’s got a great little cunt,” the driver said, leering at me, and I glared back, refusing to give into the desperation inside of me and cry.

“Must if she’s got Renzo being fucking monogamous,” Michael said, turning to look at me. “Maybe we’ll both take a turn. Renzo will fucking love that.”

I wanted to run, to scream.

But, honestly, the idea of one of them coming closer to me, touching me, made my belly twist, had bile rising up my throat.

Better to stay as far away from them as possible.

Maybe Renzo would come with force.

Maybe none of those things would happen.

That’s too many maybes, a voice in my head whispered. And I swear it was the voice of all the heroines in the books I read. Many of them just girls. Like me. Put in impossible situations. Like me. Forced to find their own inner strength.

And that was what I needed to do.

I waited until the men were distracted, Michael texting on his phone, the driver, bunching up my pants in his hands over and over, lost in thoughts I didn’t care to know about.

Then I slowly, one inch at a time with long moments between, started to scoot toward the office door.

If they noticed, they showed no signs.

And while it was impossible to actually tell time, I was pretty sure a solid fifteen or twenty minutes passed before I was closing in on the door, having moved completely across the open, empty space.

My gaze kept slipping to the men, both of them now on their phones, and my stomach twisted again, thinking of them calling in other reinforcements. Other men to abuse me. To kill Renzo.

I started unfolding one of my legs, ready to slip it under my body, press my weight onto it, and run for my freaking life into that room, slamming the door, then shoving the heavy desk in front of it. Up close, I was almost certain that it would work as a great barricade if I turned it and wedged it between the door and the wall across from it.

Then, well, I didn’t really know after that. It seemed to have a window, but I had no way to tell if it had a fire escape, or if it even opened at all.

All I knew was that a door between me and these monsters was far better than being out here in the open and fully at their complete lack of mercy.

But just as my knee pressed against the cold concrete, there was some sort of loud, shrieking noise that had the men stiffening. Michael, in his surprise, dropped his phone, and it skittered across the floor. Halfway toward me.

I could make a grab for it before running into the office.

I didn’t have Renzo’s number memorized. Or any of his family, for that matter. But I knew mine. Sure, they were way too far away to be of any real help in this life-or-death sort of situation. But they could get in touch with Avery, who would likely know peoples’ numbers, and could tell them what I knew.

I needed that phone.

My focus was so complete, that I missed whatever it was that had Michael and the driver reaching for their weapons.

I was in a lunge position when, suddenly, the door freaking flew inward.

And there was Cage, a dang battering ram like the ones cops had in his hands.

I was kneeling as, suddenly, Cinna and Dav flew inside, armed with military-style automatic weapons that had both Michael and the driver thinking better of trying to engage in a shootout.

“Kick them over,” Cinna snarled, her gaze laser-focused on the men, as was Dav’s.

It was only one set of eyes that landed on me instead.

Renzo strolled casually into the space, looking calm and collected.

Until his gaze landed on me, taking in the damage to my face that was, in all fairness, my own doing from the airbag.

It wasn’t until his gaze traveled downward, though, and took in my bare legs that I watched a vicious kind of darkness overtake him.

This was not Renzo, my husband.

This man was Renzo Lombardi, the mob boss.

The one that, whether they would admit it or not, had scared the crap out of my family for years because of his notorious ruthlessness.

His gaze slid from me and cut toward his cousin and the driver.

“Who put their fucking hands on my wife?” he snapped, his voice cutting enough for the men to stiffen.

But it was then that Renzo saw them.

My pants.

Draped casually over the shoulder of the driver.

He moved so fast that I swore he blurred.

And I, well, I finally took myself into the office, feeling like I didn’t want to have to see what was going to happen next.

I threw myself into the corner, my hands pressed to my ears, and started to hum.

And prayed for it all to be over.