Total pages in book: 94
Estimated words: 91164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91164 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 456(@200wpm)___ 365(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“This way,” he says roughly.
A man whose voice I don’t recognize instructs someone to stay with the car. Says he’ll only be a few minutes.
Cigarette smoke. I guess his driver smokes. A moment later, music. Not loud. Must be the car radio. It doesn’t matter. I’m just grateful he doesn’t shut off the car, so I have that light. I turn to look at what it illuminates.
A portion of the cellar was used to store wine and although most of the wine was cleared out, I see there are a few bottles left. I crawl to it and reach up to take one. I wipe the dust from it.
Mom didn’t fight them. I understand why. But I’m not my mother. I swore after what happened that I would never play good little victim again. I told Cassian as much. I won’t be that for Malek. I won’t be that for anyone.
Footsteps outside. Whoever came is leaving. He meant it when he said he wouldn’t be long. I stand up, walk to the window, but it’s too high and although I can’t see, I can hear. I don’t scream for help. I know better. Anyone who is here is not here to help me.
“Let me be very clear. There’s only one reason I’m keeping quiet. It’s not to help you.”
I don’t know the speaker.
“She’s stubborn. I need time,” Malek says.
“You don’t have it.”
“Don’t forget what I can do.”
The stranger sighs. “I’m well aware. But there’s only so much I will do. You make your bed, you lie in it.”
Malek mutters a curse. “I’ll take a page out of Moretti’s book then. By the time he finds her, it’ll be too late.”
A car door closes and the light changes. Tires on gravel. I hold the bottle by the neck, raise it and smash it against the metal door. The smell of old red wine makes me dry heave. It’s fully dark again as Malek and his soldiers march back into the house. I lay my hand over the broken bottle, feel the sharp edge of glass.
My mother didn’t fight them. She knew she was lost and couldn’t risk losing me.
Me, though? I have nothing to lose.
And I’ll fight like hell.
I’ll fucking murder Malek Lombardi.
4
CASSIAN
Once I’m back at the house, I pull on a bulletproof vest in preparation for battle. Soldiers load into SUVs, some already on their way to the Moretti house. He won’t be there. It’d be too stupid. But it’s a start. They’ve been instructed to stay out until I get there. I tuck a cartridge into my Glock and I’m heading out of my office when Jet walks into the house. He looks over his shoulder at the men heading out to the waiting SUVs.
“Enzo?” I ask.
“He’ll be fine. They’re stitching him up.”
“Good. I need to go.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because if your brother is involved, I will kill him, and you won’t want to see that.”
I start to walk past him, but he stops me with a hand on my shoulder. “Move.”
He doesn’t. “Why would Sev be involved? I mean, fucking think. How? He’s in fucking Atlantic City. And even if he’s an asshole, he’s not a kidnapper. You think he has the stomach for what we saw? For what you’d do to him?”
“I don’t know, Jet. Do you have the stomach?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about eight million dollars. I’m talking about Michael Moretti somehow getting an injection of cash, eight fucking million dollars, and buying his sister back!”
I hold up my phone, show him the confirmation of deposit.
He looks at it, then at me. “You think Sev gave him the money?”
“I don’t know, Jet. Did he? Did he send a loaded gun to my two-year-old nephew? Who the hell knows how far your brother will go— Fuck! We’re wasting time. Get out of my way!”
“I’m coming with you.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I’m coming whether you like it or not.”
“Christ. You know what? You want to get yourself killed, fucking fine.” I stalk out of the house, heading toward the waiting SUV. Jet stops to open the passenger side door of the Porsche and reaches in to grab something. I notice it’s a Glock. I didn’t know he had one. He tucks it into the back of his pants and falls into step beside me.
“He’s not going to be at the Moretti house. That’d be stupid.”
“You know how to use that thing?” I ask, gesturing to the gun.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“You know playing mafia can get you killed?” I climb into the SUV and Jet follows me in. I tell the soldier whose place he took to get in another car. We have a fucking procession of them.
“I’m not playing and he’s not going to be at the house,” he repeats, looking straight ahead.
I look at him in profile. I used to trust him, but he’s proven himself false. And if nothing else, his last name is Blackstone.