37. Chapter 37

The first thing my brain registers as it comes back online is an overabundance of saliva pooling in my mouth.

You would think having a rag full of chloroform shoved in your face would give you some kind of dry mouth, but, in fact, the first thing I feel is the urge to puke my guts up.

Nausea churns in my stomach, and even though I haven't yet opened my eyes and have absolutely no idea where I am, I'm tempted to give in to the insistent demand to empty my body's contents on the floor of whatever fresh hell I've found myself in.

Instead, I take several deep breaths, swallowing down mouthful after mouthful of spit, willing the feeling to pass.

I have no doubt that when I open my eyes, whatever predicament I've found myself in will have the impulse to vomit coming back, and I really don't have time for that right now.

After the initial urge to throw up has passed, the very next thing to enter my mind is … where is my woman? My eyes spring open, and I immediately regret it.

The room around me spins and my head feels like it's gonna roll off my shoulders.

I've had hangovers before but this is like a hangover on steroids.

I don't drink nearly as much as I used to and there's a reason for that.

I'm too old to experience this feeling.

My party-going days are long behind me, and the fact that I have all the symptoms without the benefit of getting completely shitfaced, quite frankly, pisses me off.

After several long blinks and even more deep breaths, I slowly reopen my eyes, taking in the room around me.

At first glance, it would appear to be an apartment, except it's nearly empty.

The space is large and open, with only one set of windows directly to my left.

The moonlight pouring in through those glass panes is the only source of light in the entire room, falling directly over my strategically placed chair.

One that my wrists and ankles have been zip-tied to.

From what I can tell, the chair is old in the way that antique furniture made for showing off instead of sitting is old.

In other words, it's uncomfortable as fuck.

It could be the lack of padding in the seat, or it could be, I don't know, the fucking zip ties.

I attempt to shake off the remnants of the drug in my system, slowly turning my head left and right, trying to figure out if Siren is in the room with me.

Was she taken, too? I have to admit, if my hands were free, I'd be punching myself in the balls for not seeing this coming.

We were so focused on Siren being the target at the party that it never even occurred to me that that motherfucker Gaspari might come after me instead.

I guess he was still sore about the whole leaving him for dead thing. Tragic.

After a quick perusal of the space, I've determined two things.

One, it's not exactly an apartment as I first thought.

It's an empty loft of some kind.

Maybe at one time, it had been a warehouse or a mill and was in the process of being renovated to become luxury lofts.

Well, whoever owned it was gonna have a hell of a time selling it with my blood all over the place because I'm pretty positive that I wasn't tied to this chair so that Gaspari could give me a lap dance.

The second thing I realize after looking over the area is that Siren isn't here.

At least not in this room.

If she's being kept somewhere else within the building, I need to get out of this pin cushion of a chair and find her.

The realization that Gaspari isn't in the room with me is also troubling.

If Siren was taken along with me and she is here, I'd much rather have the bastard in here tormenting me than doing God knows what to her.

The very idea has red clouding the edges of my vision.

Tugging at the zip ties around my wrists, the sharp sting of plastic cutting into flesh barely registers.

I don't have time to care about pain.

Uninvited images of Siren being tortured or assaulted bombard my brain, and within seconds, drops of my blood hit the hardwood floor from where I've thrashed against my bonds to no avail.

Again, it doesn't hurt.

The self-inflicted pain is nothing compared to the absolute hysteria I feel at not knowing where she is.

My heart feels like it's gonna burst free from my chest, and I'm breaking out into a cold sweat, my skin clammy as the panic takes hold.

I don't know what I'll do if anything happens to her.

I'm seconds away from spiraling completely when a voice speaks up from behind me.

Blood turns to concrete in my veins, slowing to a crawl and it's suddenly hard to breathe oxygen.

The owner of that voice has only spoken to me once, but I hear in my head every day.

"I'm sorry it had to be like this, boy,"

the voice says, the smooth cadence of his southern drawl nearly enough to hide the fact that his words hold no emotion, no remorse.

Closing my eyes, I finally let the pain come.

The pain of the past washes over me like scalding water, leaving behind new scars to add to the old.

How did I not predict this? For all my digging and spying, I'm obviously thick as shit.

I thought I had everything I needed, so I stopped monitoring him.

Clearly, the worst mistake I've ever made.

As the man finally moves from the shadows behind me, stepping into the beam of light streaming through the window, eyes the same shade of blue as mine stare back at me from a face that would look weathered and wrinkled if it weren't for the plastic surgeon I know he keeps on retainer.

To the South Carolina State Senator, appearances were everything, after all.

My voice is low and deceptively calm when I finally speak.

"Are you? Somehow, I find that very hard to believe."

My father cocks his head to the side, taking in my sweat-soaked features and the hair that's come loose from its hair tie and now sits plastered to the sides of my face.

The longer he looks, the angrier I get.

Everywhere his eyes touch, my skin burns as though allergic to his scrutiny.

Letting out a humorless little laugh, he says, "You really do look like me.

Except, if I remember correctly, you inherited that blonde from your mother.

She was a cute little thing, though a little too trusting and far too naive."

At the mention of my mother, white-hot rage engulfs me, overtaking any remnants of pain caused by this man's actions.

In this moment, if my hands were free, I have no doubt that they'd be wrapped around his neck.

As it is, my nostrils flare as I try to breathe past the anger, reminding myself that expelling energy trying to fight my way to him now will only tire me out and make it impossible to find an escape angle.

I glance down at the floor and take several calming breaths before slowly lifting my eyes to his.

"You're gonna wanna be careful with your words, old man, and you better pray that I don't get free because every bad word you speak about her will equal one pound of flesh I'll remove from your bones while you're still alive."

I can tell he's taken aback at my words.

Something akin to fear flickers in his eyes and I take small comfort in knowing he's afraid of me.

He should be.

He doesn't know me or what I'm capable of.

I've waited my entire life for this moment, though, I didn't picture it going exactly like this.

I watch as he takes a small step backward, running a hand that's shaking slightly through his sleek hair.

Despite the obvious tells his body language is giving, he says, "You must've inherited that psychotic streak from your mama too.

No son of mine would dare talk to me like that.

I'm thankful now more than ever that I turned you away all those years ago.

If I'd made the mistake of taking you in, I would've had to sleep with one-eye-open.

Not that it matters now.

You won't be going anywhere."

"You didn't turn me away.

If you recall, I'm the one who gave you my back.

It didn't take more than a few sentences out of your mouth for me to realize what a piece of trash you are.

You didn't deserve to breathe the same air as my mother, much less raise the son she single-handedly kept alive for 14 years."

He stews on that for a minute before saying, "Hmm, 14 years? So what happened? She die?"

The nonchalant way he spits out the last word makes me wanna throw up.

In fact, everything about this man makes me wanna throw up.

With his selfishness and disregard for human life, it's no wonder he excelled in politics.

"Yeah, she died.

After you promised her the world to get in her pants, only to knock her up and then disappear," I say.

He lets out a laugh.

The sound is like nails on a chalkboard, making every hair on my body stand on end.

"Like I said, naive.

But your mama was no angel, boy.

She knew I was engaged to be married when she let me fuck her.

Sure, it took some convincing.

Pretty words, hearts, and flowers.

It was a lot of effort, but in the end, I got what I wanted—her cherry.

You're just an unfortunate byproduct.

You can hate me, but if you think about it, I did her a favor.

She needed to grow up."

Disgust tears through me.

Not only at his words but at his complete lack of any kind of empathy.

He made mention before about my psychopathy and I'm more convinced now than ever that every drop of my psycho was inherited from this man.

He's a sociopath.

He doesn't care who he has to destroy to get what he wants; that much has been clear for years.

What hits home now is that he's incapable of feeling remorse for his actions.

Thoughts of all the lives he's obliterated and the people he's stepped on over the years don't keep him awake at night.

Forget about sleeping with one-eye-open.

I bet this bastard sleeps like a baby.

As fiery rage transforms into a kind of resigned loathing, I want nothing more than for this man to shut the fuck up.

I'm not interested in anything he has to say.

I've gone far past the need for explanations or apologies.

I honestly don't care anymore.

The only thing I want is retribution.

I want to snuff out his life and then never think about him again.

The same way he did with my mother.

But I'm not an idiot.

I know that my current predicament isn't ideal, and as much as I'd like for him to just close his mouth and get on with whatever he has planned, I know I need to keep him talking if I want the opportunity to get loose.

Changing the subject entirely, I glance around the empty room and ask, "Where's Siren?"

He shrugs, unconcerned.

"How the hell should I know? "

Confusion fills me even as hope that she may not even be a part of this begins to take root.

"What the fuck do you mean? Didn't you take both of us?"

A look of annoyance passes over his features before he shakes his head.

Moving away from me, he begins to pace back and forth, disappearing into the shadows for a moment before returning to the light.

Over and over, he repeats this process, seemingly ignorant of the fact that it's incredibly stupid of him to take his eyes off me, even for a second.

I subtly test the strength of the chair's arms and legs by shifting my weight from left to right slightly.

Thankfully, it doesn't creak, but a distinct sway tells that while the chair may be an antique and well made, someone clearly doesn't value their things.

Like most old shit, if it isn't cared for, the quality of it degrades over time.

The joints of the chair aren't as strong as they used to be, and I wonder if it would splinter apart with the right amount of force.

I keep one eye on my father as I continue to gently shift my weight from side to side, working the screws and bolts loose.

Eventually, he replies with a shrug, "It was supposed to be both of you but good help is hard to find, I guess."

You guess? What the fuck is actually going on here? Clearly, he's the one that drugged me at the party, but maybe someone else was supposed to do the same to Siren and failed? I can only pray.

His phrasing however, gives me pause.

If you had hired someone to do a job and they didn't get it done, surely you'd be positive about the fact that said henchman isn't worth a shit? Pressing further, I say, "So she's not here? This is just between you and me, then? "

Shaking his head, he says, "I don't know if they got her, but, either way, this situation doesn't really even have anything to do with me."

A look of incredulity crosses my features.

"Then why the fuck am I here??" I demand.

A second voice sounds out from behind me, and my head jerks around to see who the newcomer is.

I can only make out his profile in the darkened room due to my limited mobility.

Even through the hint of a rasp, the Italian accent and glowing end of the cigar are unmistakable, though.

"Haven't you figured it out yet, Bastardo? Your father needed something taken care of.

I wasn't going to take the job, but then you stole my Sirena, and I found out who you were.

Your father was all too happy to trade your life as payment for a job-well-done."

The otherwise soft shuffle of expensive loafers sounds like bombs going off, every step reverberating around the room as Gaspari finally enters my line of vision.

He's dressed in slacks and a tucked-in button-down.

His hair is perfectly made up, the salt and pepper strands slicked back with enough gel to lubricate a slip n' slide.

His wrist is adorned with a very expensive Rolex, and gold cufflinks accent the ends of his sleeves.

Probably all paid for with my money.

One hand holds the still-lit cigar while the other holds a long metal pipe.

To what I'm sure is his everlasting irritation, none of this distracts from the long, angry-looking scar running the length of his throat.

The flesh is healed over, but the skin is still new.

As I take it in, I notice that it only extends to within an inch or so of his carotid artery.

I guess that explains how he's standing in front of me right now.

It also explains the raspy tone of his voice.

I would imagine speaking past such an ego crusher would be difficult.

Coming to stand directly in front of me, he looks down his nose as he adds, "Now, I suppose, in addition to killing you for touching something that doesn't belong to you, you'll also serve as bait."

Bait.

To catch Siren? For the first time since I woke up in this room, I'm actually glad I'm sitting because I'm sure the relief I feel at this moment would have my legs turning to jelly beneath me.

She's not here.

She got away.

I can only hope that Alexi got to her in time and got her out of that house.

If she knows what's good for her, she'll stay away.

And if he knows what's good for him, he'll lock her up until all this is over, one way or another.

Face turning to a mask of false bravado, I eye the pipe in his hands before saying, "Nice try, Mario, but she won't come after me.

She doesn't care enough.

We were just fuck buddies."

The words burn my tongue like acid, and the immediate urge to take them back claws at my insides.

But if he thinks she means more, he'll use it against me.

He'll use me against her the same way if he thinks she has deeper feelings for me.

Even in a dire situation like this, I can't drown out the voice in my head that whispers, God, I hope she does because I'm in love with that smart-mouthed witch.

I'm not sure when it happened because it was such a gradual process that I don't think I was ever fully cognizant of just how deeply she was burrowing herself beneath my skin.

Every little thing she did, from sniping at me to playing her violin for me long into the night, just pushed me closer and closer to the inevitable realization that I love her.

I know what love is and what it feels like.

I loved my mother, so I recognize the feeling.

However, what I feel for Siren is so much more complex and multifaceted … like the diamond.

Every angle sparks a new sense of wonder and awe.

Then you take a step back and look at it as a whole and realize it's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen and probably the most precious thing you'll ever hold in your hands.

That's how I know it's love.

Chip away at it and have no doubt, it'll cut you.

But hold it up to the light, and every facet will burst with energy until it's all you can see.

Until it's all you need to see.

A diamond doesn't ask permission to shine; it just does.

Siren didn't ask permission to invade my life.

To carve her way into my chest and fill that space that's been empty since I was 14.

She just did it.

God knows it isn't perfect, this love.

She filled that space with as much piss and vinegar as she did with gentle touches and endearments.

But I don't want perfection; I want real .

I just hope I make it out of this alive so I have the chance to tell her.

If I die before I can profess my undying love for her, she's gonna be pissed .

A sudden burst of pain hits the side of my face, radiating outward, followed quickly by an equal explosion of pain in my gut.

With a grunt, I hunch over as Gaspari pulls back on the pipe he's just whacked across my face and into my midsection.

When I'm finally able to take in oxygen again, the simple act of breathing hurts like a motherfucker.

Pretty sure I've got at least one broken rib and I can feel blood trickling down my face.

I can see my father's shoes shifting side to side out the corner of my vision.

As I lift my head to look back at the bastard that just hit me, my body shifts, and I realize that the force of the blow has also aided in further compromising the integrity of the chair.

The pain will be beyond belief but if I get an opening, I think if I tilt myself sideways, the chair will break apart.

I'll still have bits tied to my wrists and ankles but at least I'll be mobile.

Two against one aren't great odds, but I don't have much choice right now.

I've gotta shoot my shot if I get it, and the only way I'm gonna get it is by making Gaspari mad enough to make a mistake .

Coughing out a painful laugh, I say, "Ouchies.

Was that because I called you Mario? I mean, come on, man.

You're Italian and you just hit me with a lead pipe."

With a glance at my father, I gesture to Gaspari with a tilt of my head, saying, "Do his voice but say "Issa me, Luigi."

To my astonishment, the sperm donor that gave me life actually lets out what sounds like an involuntary snort.

The single second of humanity costs him dearly.

With an enraged roar that I know must hurt like a bitch echoing off the bare walls of the room, Gaspari tosses the cigar to the ground, reaching behind him to pull a handgun from the waistband of his slacks.

Between one blink and the next, a shot rings out, and I watch my father drop to the ground.

Alive one second, dead the next.

A pool of blood collects on the hardwood floor around him as his eyes stare sightlessly at the ceiling.

I wait for a wave of grief that never comes.

A burst of anger that's also suspiciously absent.

But there's nothing.

All my thoughts are preoccupied with the need to get back to my woman.

To find her and prevent her from being lured out here and into a trap tailor-made just for her.

Don't get me wrong, I always envisioned myself being the one that eventually ended my father's life.

An eye for an eye and all that.

His death for my mother's.

But somehow, over the last few months, my need for revenge against my father has been overshadowed by my need to avenge Siren.

To kill Gaspari and free her from the chains that have held her down for years.

So, am I mad at the fact that my father was killed by someone else? Surprisingly, no.

The end result is the same; now, only one person is standing between me and the object of my desire instead of two.

And, if I had a choice, I know without a shadow of a doubt that I'd much rather Gaspari's than my father's death come at my hands.

As the madman in question turns back to face me, he aims the pistol dead center at my chest as if he knows there's a piece of her tucked away in there and is determined to get her out.

I close my eyes, trying to come to terms with the probability that I may not make it out of this room.

If I don't, I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing the light leave my eyes.

I don't have to wait long before a loud bang sounds, I assume, to herald my eternal dirt nap.

But I feel no pain.

I open my eyes to the realization that the sound came from behind me as the door was being kicked off its hinges.

Men dressed in black suits and pointing guns of their own flood the room, surrounding Gaspari and myself.

I nearly breathe a sigh of relief before my brain takes more detailed stock of the men.

These are no Feds.

The few pairs of eyes that aren't trained on the two of us look back towards the door as someone else slowly enters.

With my back to the door, I can't see who it is.

Still I know immediately that I'm in much bigger trouble now than I was 10 seconds ago as I watch every bit of color drain from Gaspari's face, leaving it whiter than the ghost of the Senator whose blood will forever stain the floorboards of this room.

As the newcomer enters, the sound of dress shoes on hardwood is accompanied by the rhythmic clicking sound of … a cane.

As the man finally comes into view, the only thought reverberating through my brain is oh, shit .

Though we've never met in person, I don't need an introduction.

I know exactly who he is.

It's Ilya Kapranov.