11. Tony

I’m bored.

I banged my palm on my brow. I’d been kidnapped and should’ve been looking for a way out or huddled in the corner weeping, my life flashing before me. Boredom came with privilege, and I had none.

Unless he took pity on me and cut off a finger and said enough! But the bit about me not going back to my old life? That stuck in my head. Maybe kidnappees were allowed to live, but in return, they were forced to work for the mob.

Was that how Antonio got caught up in mob business? But the boss… Flint… damn, I used his name. That made him flesh and blood with feelings, wants, and needs and urges. Just like me.

But we weren’t alike, and we had nothing in common other than we were both human.

Flint said Antonio’s folks, my grandparents, worked for his grandfather.

“Ahhhh!” My voice echoed around the space, becoming softer with each round.

My mind was whirring, and I avoided the feeling from earlier that he’d wanted me. And I ignored how my body reacted the moment Emilio had thrown me onto the floor. But it wasn’t just my cock. His scent, voice, those dark eyes, even that damn snake tat were rolled into an intoxicating package.

But he killed and cheated for a living, his organization on the other side of the law, a line I couldn’t cross. I gulped. Maybe I was attracted to him because it was in my blood. No, I refused to believe that sins-of-the-father nonsense.

As I puzzled over my future—assuming I had one—the door at the top of the stairs opened, and I leaped off the couch and backed away, hitting the kitchen counter. I bit back a yelp because my bruised body was aching from being banged up by Emilio.

He thundered down the stairs, dressed as he was earlier, but he’d removed his jacket. Another set of footsteps followed, someone smaller dressed in black. My heart constricted and one hand felt for a knife on the draining board. The cutlery in the basement was plastic, so me grabbing a knife was a bust.

It wasn’t Emilio, because I was familiar with how his body swayed as he strode through the club each night.

Flint stood at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing me, wary, as if testing whether I was going to yell at him again. But it was his companion that caught my attention. An older man with the same dark eyes who strode toward me.

“Who the fuck are you?” I aimed the plastic fork at his chest.

He said over his shoulder, “He’s no pushover. I like that.” He examined my face and tut-tutted before brushing past and opening the fridge. “I’m Rudy, and you need proper food.”

Compared to the fast food I ate while at college, what was in the fridge was a huge step up.

“Did you eat breakfast?” the older man asked.

This was the weirdest kidnapping I’d ever been involved with. I’d been placed in luxury accommodation with great food, air-conditioning, and a nice bathroom, and now Rudy, whoever he was, might provide room service.

“Cereal.”

Rudy turned up his nose, and the resemblance to him was undeniable. “I’ll make you something.”

Flint growled, a sound that came from deep inside him. It was terrifying but with a sliver of sexy. I did not just say my kidnapper, the mafia boss of all bosses, was sexy. Nope. My brain had lost the plot and needed reconfiguring. Maybe a reboot. It reminded me of Arnie’s old computer. Maybe my motherboard needed replacing.

“But not here.”

“Everything you need to make brunch or breakfast or whatever is here, Dad.”

The older man sighed and looked straight at me. “My son inherited this beautiful house where he was born when his father died, and yet he spends his nights in the basement.”

“What?” I swiveled to face him. “This is your father, and the basement is your what? Your bolt hole? Your secret pad? Your den? Is this where you squirrel away your concubines? Harem?” I couldn’t come up with the right word, but those would do for now.

Had he been down here last night? I was a light sleeper, and thanks to Emilio, the pain he’d inflicted refused to allow me a comfortable night. Not that I could sleep easy, being kidnapped and all, so I was certain I’d been alone.

“My father is offering to cook you a meal,” he said through gritted teeth. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and for a fleeting moment, I wondered what it would feel like to rub my hands over his stubble. Goosebumps erupted on my skin, but I was still wearing the robe so they were hidden. No human could pick up my body’s response.

“Upstairs.” His dad pointed to the ceiling. He took my arm with a smile, and I allowed him to lead me up the stairs, but I couldn’t resist glancing back at him as I limped. Flint was staring at me, twisting the signet ring on his left hand, the snake tat slithering under the shirt cuff.

I shivered not just because this man held my life in his hands, but also… My thoughts trailed away. I was confused, the terror I was experiencing bringing up possible scenarios for why I didn’t hate him as a way to save myself.

But I was going into the main house. There’d be a landline, maybe, wifi, windows and doors that opened. A father who possibly could be coerced into… taking me for a walk. He was pretty small, about my height. I could overpower him. I had to make nice with the dad. He was my ticket out of this mess.

“I’ll make an omelet. It’s about one of the few things I can cook.” The father bustled around the pristine kitchen while I stood awkwardly, my hands at my side. It was a huge room with expensive modern appliances, and from where I stood, they looked brand-new. Did Flint cook downstairs too? Nah, he probably got his staff to fill the fridge.

He hadn’t cuffed me, but I couldn’t escape with both of them in the room. Flint stood behind me, the hairs on my arms rising. I closed my eyes, willing him to walk away because I couldn’t think properly with him so close.

“Sit,” his dad insisted.

“Is this how a kidnapping plays out? You kick the guy around, lock him in the basement to stew overnight, and then lower his defenses with food?”

The dad paused as he held an egg while his son snapped, “Just be thankful we’re not starving you.”

“Oh right. I should be grateful I’m just bruised and battered and still have all my limbs.” I twisted around, bile on my breath.

His fingers curled as if he was going to wrap them around my throat and squeeze the life out of me. The seconds passed, our eyes locked on one another, his chest heaving as if he couldn’t decide whether to kill me now or wait until his dad fed me. This family was obsessed with food.

“I see what you mean.” His father chuckled.

The dad was amused when his son could have strangled me as he was cracking eggs. This was one messed-up family. I couldn’t wait to meet the rest of them, assuming they weren’t all dead, their bullet-ridden bodies lying unclaimed in some dusty morgue.

I slumped onto a stool and rested my elbows on the kitchen island. Flint left the room to answer a call, but the low mumbling suggested he was just outside the door. The murmuring subsided, and I studied the scenery beyond the kitchen window. The bushes shaped like animals appeared to be dogs, but I was interested in what lay past the lawn. More wooded land, and the security guys were out there somewhere, probably a bunch of cameras too. I searched the kitchen for a landline. There was a bulge in the dad’s hip pocket. A phone? If I could grab it and call 911, I might survive.

“How can you be okay with this lifestyle? Your son keeping me prisoner. Your husband and father-in-law were murdered.”

His dad stirred the egg mixture, but his back stiffened. “I knew your father.”

He was changing the topic. Or was he? Was he saying Antonio was murdered too? I decided to play along while trying to hear what his son was saying. More like cursing and veiled threats. Or was I imagining how mobsters talked to people? I got up and edged closer to the door. His short, sharp sentences reminded me of a gun firing.

“He was part of our extended family. He ate many meals in this kitchen, though it looked a little different back then.”

The boss was quiet, murmuring, “No,” and “Yes,” and “Not yet,” and I returned to the stool.

“Did he kill for a living too?”

Rudy placed the food on the island and grabbed a knife and fork. But his son came in just as his dad was handing me the utensils. “No knives or forks, Dad.” He rummaged in a drawer and brought out plastic ones.

I grimaced and muttered, “Go green. Get rid of the plastic.”

Rudy’s eyes darted between me and his son. “How are you going to resolve this?”

He was asking us both. I raised a hand. “You fire me because I broke the rules, and let me go home. And you never hear from me again. The end.”

“The end,” Flint repeated. Damn, not the best choice of words on my part. “Nice try, but you’re not leaving here.”