Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 144979 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 725(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 483(@300wpm)
The realization that he might not be alone snaps me back to reality. This man has a motivation, and it can’t just be an obsession with me. The most reasonable conclusion is that he’s an enemy—someone who could benefit from my kidnapping. Anyone my father has wronged, enemies of the Vitales, and particularly the Stavros family, are all sound assumptions. Truthfully, the rivals of the Cosa Nostra are far and wide, and it could be anyone.
The shadow of this exact scenario has followed me for the entirety of my existence. I’ve always known it might happen. I was told as much so many times that it became a foregone conclusion. Perhaps that’s why I feel oddly numb. Or maybe it was the whispered reassurances of my mother, who told me they’d return me once Papà fulfilled their demands. Except, he won’t.
My life isn’t worth much to him.
A cool breeze sweeps over us as he hauls me off, unlocking a new fear I haven’t yet considered. An image springs to mind—one of him tossing me over the railing to plummet to my death.
In a moment of bravery or stupidity, I thrust a knee into his chest and try to wiggle free. An irritated grunt catches in his lungs before his giant palm collides with my ass in a stinging slap. This time, I yelp.
That’s definitely going to leave an imprint.
“What did I tell you?” His rough words heat my blood, temporarily disorienting me.
“I—”
A protest lodges in my throat when I’m lowered onto a chair. I don’t know what his plans are, but there’s no point in abandoning myself to an emotional outburst. I learned long ago that would get me nowhere, with the harshest lessons being from my father. Anything but neutrality is a sign of weakness, and I learned to dissociate out of necessity.
Taking a Mafia princess hostage is a power play, but these men don’t know me. They’ll expect easy tears. They’ll probably try to break me in unimaginable ways. The only variable I can control in this situation is depriving them of the satisfaction. So, as I wait for what comes next, I invest my energy where it matters, which is figuring out who I’m dealing with. Off the top of my head, I can think of at least ten of the most likely culprits.
“Ares Stavros?” I offer up my first guess.
My question is met with a hollow laugh.
“Any of the Stavros brothers?”
That goes unanswered entirely.
“Need a hand, boss?”
My brows pinch together at the unmistakable accent of a New Yorker. Which Seattle rival has East Coast guys in their outfit?
“No,” comes the gruff reply.
A moment later, a third man joins us, speaking to his cohort in a low murmur. They both have New York accents. Strange. They must be contract hires.
Meanwhile, my stalker tugs my arms around the back of the chair and secures them with rope. When he finishes, he drapes my long hair over the seat, his fingers barely grazing my shoulders. My skin prickles at the sensation.
He moves to the front next, his gloved palms sliding down my calves as he pulls my legs apart. A small, unsteady exhalation escapes me, and he pauses. Did it sound…breathy, or was that just my imagination?
God, how embarrassing. I blame romance books and twenty-five years of abstinence. It only gets worse when I use humor to cope.
“You ever heard of buying a girl a drink first?”
A long, uncomfortable silence follows as he binds my ankles to the chair legs.
“Do you make a habit of propositioning men who abduct you for a date?” he asks.
“Oh, is this a kidnapping? I thought you were flirting with me.”
He cinches the final knot around my left ankle tighter than the last, then rises and leaves. The sound of his footsteps drifting away steals some of my bravery. Because no matter how small and insignificant it may be, there’s a rapport with him. The other men, I’m not so sure of.
“Wait,” I call out, hoping he doesn’t notice the undercurrent of panic in my voice.
For a beat, I hear him pause, but the words die on my lips. What am I going to say to him—please don’t leave me?
He chooses to walk away, his footsteps fading into the backdrop with a haunting finality. I listen for the sound of the door shutting behind him, and I think I hear a click, but it’s difficult to tell over the rustling of the leaves in the garden.
A minute passes before one of the other men approaches, and the uncertainty of what he might do makes me break out in a cold sweat. Time seems to stretch on indefinitely as I consider every worst-case scenario.
Then, without warning, the bag comes off my head.
My eyes water as they adjust to the moonlight and the two figures in front of me. Their faces are obscured with black balaclavas, and they’re both wearing jeans, leather jackets, and gold chains. Without question, they’re either Cosa Nostra-affiliated or they’re soldiers. They aren’t high enough in the ranks to dress the part, which is never a good indication. They don’t call in the guys in suits when they want a dirty job done.