One Reason to Kill (Escaping the Mafia Book 1)

by Evelyn Kiss

  “I know, but I can’t help it.” Ace looks exhausted. “She pushed all my buttons Monday morning. I swear to God, Dax, she was on the phone with him, and they were talking about sex and how—”

  “And how you’re a fucking idiot.” Dax chuckles as he massages the back of his neck. “Thousand dollars says that conversation was to set you up. For you to give her space so she can get the hell out of there.”

  Smart, Baby Mouse.

  “She knows how to play us both.”

  “Both?” I ask.

  “She called me last night at the hotel, remember?”

  I bob my head, confirming it.

  “What did she say?” Ace asks.

  “To say good night and to tell me about Cake-Ho. And to tell me that she had to tell Lexi about us because she overheard the two of you arguing.”

  “Shit,” Ace voices my thought. “Where was she when she called?”

  “With Lexi,” Dax says with air quotes. “I never thought to ask her if she was at school.”

  “Well, at least she called you,” Ace growls. She shut the phone off, and I couldn’t get a hold of her.

  “Do you have Lexi’s number?” Aysen asks me. “Her phone wouldn’t be off.”

  “No.” I never thought to get it. It’s been a long time since I had a real girlfriend, and I didn’t even know what Lexi and I were.

  “Jonah has it,” Dax offers as he pulls out his phone, taps a couple times, and puts it to his ear.

  “How do you have his number?” Ace crosses his arms in front of his chest. “I had to go over to the dude’s house.”

  Dax answers nonchalantly, “I took it from Teagan’s phone.”

  “She’s not going to like that,” Ace warns, but he’s shaking his head, wondering why he didn’t think of it.

  “I don’t care what she likes.” Dax brings the phone down and sends a message instead. Within a few seconds, he gets one back. “Here.”

  He practically shoves the phone in my ear before I hear Lexi’s voice. “Hello? Who’s this?”

  “Lexi, hey. It’s Chains.” I put the phone on speaker.

  “Santi,” she whispers. “Why are you calling me? How did you get my number?”

  “You probably have a lot of questions…”

  She huffs out in an annoyed tone, “No, I kind of got the gist of things. A crash course on I-9.”

  Ace rolls his pointer fingers in the air, mouthing the words “move it along.”

  “Is Teagan with you?”

  “Yeah, hold on a second. She’s in the bathroom.” I hear her shuffling around, and then Tee answers, “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes because Lexi insisted on coming with me despite me telling her that we were helping my cousin, and it was dangerous.”

  Lexi mumbles in the background. Mostly expletives.

  “How are things there?” she asks.

  “We’re sitting at the fast-food place casing, but everything is pretty calm around here.”

  The call ends, just as the other guys come back to the table with burgers and shakes. Daxton’s eyes remain glued on the window until he swipes the phone from the table and uses it to zoom in on Cake-Ho.

  The guys discuss a few things, but Dax pays them no mind, not even when they specifically call him back into the conversation. Aysen shoves his shoulder, which gets his attention.

  “What’s up, Dax?” Maddox asks as he pinches her forward. “Fucking brain freeze.” Instead of a milkshake, he had gotten flavored slushed ice. His tongue and lips turned blue, which makes him look ridiculous.

  “I think it’s happening right now.” He puts the phone on the table, and everyone gathers around it.

  “How do you know?” the initiate asks.

  Dax points at the blown-up image. “You don’t need guns to unload flour and sugar.”

  “But why the hell do you need a truck that big for five million dollar’s worth of drugs?” Gunner whispers.

  “I don’t know, but I don’t see Tony or Beppe. They must be inside, so now is the best time. Before the girls get here.”

  “Best time to do what?” Lexi asks as she stands at the head of the table.

  Immediately, Dax and Ace are at attention and scanning the restaurant for their girlfriend. I’m the one who asks though. “Where’s Teagan?”

  “She um… got a tip from a lady that it was a five-hundred-million-dollar shipment, and she decided to um—” She squeezes her lips together, glancing out the window.

  Both the guys shoot death stares at her, just when all hell breaks loose.

  Tires squeak.

  Gunshots fire.

  And the guys nearly trample Lexi over to rush outside, get on their bikes, and start shooting back. The people in the restaurant scream as they rush out to watch at a safe distance or duck under the tables.

  “She stole the fucking truck,” I scoff, noting Aysen had grabbed my keys. “Where’s your car, Lexi?”

  “Around the corner.”

  “Were you really fifteen minutes away?” I ask as I leave the side door, away from the bustle of chaos. I wait until the gunshots die down and take Lexi’s hand. Her tiny fingers curl around mine, and she tugs me back against her, before wrapping her arms around my waist and hugging me.

  Uh. “Lexi, this isn’t the best time to be doing this.”

  She nestles herself closer to me and then lets me go. “I lied.”

  Another liar. I roll my shoulders back as her hands grip onto my biceps, keeping me in place. “About what?”

  “Well, not technically me. Teagan. When you called, we were at Cake-Ho. When some woman came toward us and told us to go to the bathroom.”

  “Isabella?” She probably had no idea who that was. “Was she our age?”

  “No. Must have been in her fifties. She warned us that Tony and Beppe were inside arguing over the shipment and that it wasn’t safe for us there.”

  “Who was the woman?”

  “She worked there, I think. She has a nameplate,” she points toward her chest, tapping the space above her left breast. “Rosalie. She’s the one who told her about the shipment.”

  13

  Glass Box

  Lexi

  I wake up in a tall, vertical glass box. I’m on my ass on the ground, my back against the glass. Above me, open air and a blinding spotlight. Shielding my eyes with my tied-up wrists, I glance around but see nothing. Aside from my light, the room is pitch dark.

  My hands are bound at the wrist, and there’s something around my mouth. I use my tongue to feel around the material between my lips. Tastes like sweat and lavender.

  What the fuck? I grunt and move around, but the space is tiny, and there’s not much room for movement. Using the surfaces of my confines, I manage to get on my feet, which gives me a bit more room. I bang on the glass with my elbows and the sides of my hands, trying to topple the aquarium, but it’s secured to the floor.

  When my elbows ache, I knee the glass until the bones hurt, and stretching my leg out leaves me in excruciating pain. I scream as I much as I can, which isn’t much with something muffling my shouts, only stopping when I hear a weakened voice.

  “Lexi?”

  The thing in my mouth keeps me from talking, so I use my shoulder to help me move it enough to breathe freely, and with the tips of my fingers, I manage to wedge it free and bring it down to my neck. It hadn’t been tied that tightly.

  “Santi?” I whisper, because that was the last person I remember being with before we were stopped at the car. While Santi said something to one of the guys who approached us, the other conked me in the head with something, and that’s the last I remember. My head aches and seems a bit groggy, like I’m hungover, and my stomach twists in knots over and over again. My voice is hoarse from screaming, but I don’t remember it. “Santiago?”

  “Yeah,” he spurts out with a cough. An ugly, not dry cough that makes me cringe. The gurgle in the back of his throat when he breathes isn’t good either.

  “Are you okay?”
I ask, looking at the positive side. He’s still talking and breathing.

  He chokes again. Probably on blood.

  Oh, shit. What the hell did Teagan get me into?

  “I need you to stay calm.”

  “What?” Yeah, fucking right. How do I stay calm? “Santi, I’m in a fucking box!”

  “Listen…” He breathes heavily, and it sounds like he’s right next to me, but he isn’t. I can see a few feet around me with the spotlight, and he’s not here.

  “Santi, where are we? Where are you?”

  “In a different room.” Only now do I realize why I can hear him so well. He must have an intercom on him, and it’s on in here.

  “They’re going to come back in here.” More breaths and a very long heaving sigh. “But don’t give them anything. I don’t know what she told you in the car, but don’t say anything. No matter what.”

  “No matter what?” I squeak. I don’t like this. My body shivers as I glare up at the bright white light. “What do they want?”

  “Information.” Another voice comes through, just as my light is turned off, and Santi’s is turned on.

  There’s so much blood.

  I fall to my beat-up knees, my heart in my throat and tears in my eyes. He’s not in a glass box, just a chair in the center of his hexagonal room. In his boxers. Gashes all down his legs, blood oozing out of him. Despite the barriers between us, my heart leaps toward the misery. His beautiful face is fine, but there’s blood on his neck, and I honestly can’t differentiate between the red splotches on his skin and the stains.

  Before panic ensues and locks down my cognitive abilities, I make use of the brain cells someone must have given me, tuck the parental issues down to the deepest hole, and count backward from five to interrupt the spinning web of chaos.

  Five. Light. Glass. Shoes, Room, Blood— Nope. I shake my head free and move onto the next mindfulness step. Sound.

  Four. Silence. Crackling. Breathing. Santi—Oh, my God. This is not working.

  Three. Skin. My hands are fucking tied. I can’t feel shit.

  Two. Sweat and lavender.

  One. Fear.

  All I taste is fear.

  Screw sensory awareness. I’m more freaked out than before, and from a psychological perspective, this is going to fucking scar me for life. Trauma glue is really fucking sticky.

  The man dressed in a dark gray suit circles him, the light flickers and glints off a thin piece of metal in his hand before he holds it to Santi’s neck.

  I can’t watch this.

  “Where are my drugs?” the baritone, heavily accented voice growls through the open space, echoing not only from the microphone on Santi but from the emptiness around me or them. Or both of us.

  I want to scream, but I’m afraid he’ll hurt Santi.

  Lowering my gaze, I shield my heart from the scene. I know Santi and I just met, but I can’t watch him get hurt, not after Ian. Not after Teagan told me everything about her sister and him. About the shit he’s been through.

  Professor Ferguson had a point, emotional connection can occur without much talking. Santi didn’t do much, except show me his fucked-up. His friend did the rest.

  The whole drive over, after I caught her talking about the North Dragons, she told me what she could about her life, the real reason why we were going to Chicago, and their plans for Vonwest. She said I could choose to come with her, or never be friends again, but her plan was to save the people she cared about.

  The truth is, the second she said Chains was involved, my mind was made up. I didn’t want him to hurt anymore. Granted, she told me his past to ward me off, using excuses like ‘he’s not emotionally ready to love someone’, and ‘he’s going to have some deep-rooted trust issues after finding out Hannah was a whore’.

  All it did was make me recognize the trauma, and instead of pushing me away from the idea of Santiago, it helped me rationalize his behavior. We were too alike not to be together.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Santi hisses back, distracting me.

  “The owner of the drugs, but since we are on introductions, who are you?” As opposed to moments ago, he keeps his voice level, devoid of infliction, and yet menacing. I open my eyes to find the suited man, squatting down beside Santi. The filet knife running a long Santi’s thigh. “How about his? Let’s play another round of filet of thief. For every unanswered question, I take a piece of you?”

  I squirm at the thought of him digging the knife into this flesh and cutting out a chunk.

  “Go ahead. I’m not going to tell you anything.”

  Oh, my God. Puke. Definitely puke. That’s what’s coming up my throat right now.

  He doesn’t deserve this. He’s a good guy, awful year full of bad mistakes, but good deep down. He’s just hurting — emotional bleeding. And for real bleeding.

  I watch as the suited man takes the curved knife and makes a shallow incision on the space right above his knee cap. “With fish, we usually start at the gill, but then they’re already dead, so…” He flicks the knife off and replaces it with his finger. After using his finger to open up the belly of the wound and laughing, he announces to his audience, “Oh, we hit bone.”

  The knife goes back on the other side. The piece of Santi’s skin, held between his torturer’s thumb and index finger, flies through the air and hits the floor. “How about deeper now?”

  “Go for it,” Santi spews between his gritted teeth, breathing heavily in the process. “You’ve got me here for how long now? Stop playing with me and kill me already!”

  “Oh, I take my time with pretty boys, like you. Wouldn’t want to ruin the fun or the show.” He turns his head toward me, but it’s dark and he can’t see me. “When your friend wakes up, maybe she’ll have some more information for me … since you seem to be so unwilling to help. Or is she up already? You see, my associate has excellent acoustics in his new place.”

  “She’s not my friend,” Santi growls. “What place is this?”

  “Unita, I think.” The suited man takes an easy step to the side while still crouched down.

  He’s in shape, I note to myself.

  “I’m getting very tired of asking questions and not being listened to.” The knife slices throw Santi’s calf, and he growls out when the curved tip hooks on his skin, but it’s not anger anymore. He’s shouting to mask the pain, and it’s breaking my heart.

  “Stop!” I mumble out when Santi’s painful murmurs instigate my tears. “Stop, please.”

  “Ah, you’re awake.” He points the knife at me. “Is she your girlfriend, Santiago. Was that your name?”

  “No!” Santi shouts out.

  “Tsk. Tsk. I don’t believe you. She was in the cake factory with a friend, and then that friend stole my drugs. And you know,” he brings the bloody knife to his head, scratching at his forehead with the handlebar, “I have a plane to catch, and I can promise you my associate will not be as friendly as I’m being.”

  “Friendly?” I puff out. “He’s bleeding.”

  Instigate the psycho. Good job, Lexington.

  “Yes.” He stands up and heads toward me, waving the knife in the air to turn on the overhead lights in my room. He taps on the glass partition between us with the tip of the blade, leaving a blood trail on the surface. “Can you tell me who your friend is? The woman.”

  A sense of security fills me when I notice I’m alone in this room. “No, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I walked in there to order some cake for a birthday party.”

  He sighs. “Maybe I will take you with me … I can give you something better than cake.”

  “No, thanks.” I reply as I take a seat, bringing my knees to my chest in case he decides to join me or send a friend. This way, I protect my eyes and face and stay away from his grasp if someone shatters my aquarium.

  “At least you’re polite.” He points toward Santi, who has passed out from the blood loss, or from the pain. God, I hope it’s from the pain. “He’s not very n
ice, but maybe it’s my manners.” He bends down to place the knife on the ground and puts his palm to his chest. “My name is—”

  “That’s enough.” A woman’s voice comes from the side of my room. Blonde hair, in her late fifties, and looks like Teagan. “These two don’t know anything.”

  “That’s what you think, but then I don’t pay you to be me smart, do I?”

  “The kid talked.” The woman who I thought worked at Cake-Ho comes toward the Glass Box. Rosalie. She presses a button on the wall, lifting my glass confine up, and allowing me to squeeze through. “We got the information we need. These two don’t know anything.”

  The suit guy rolls his arms. “Let’s make it faster. We can let them go and follow them home.”

  “No need to. I know where your drugs are, and if you let these two go, I’ll tell you where to find the people who stole them.” She hits another button on the wall and announces, “Lift the partition.”

  “Fine.” He flicks his head from side to side, cracking all the bones in his neck. “But you have to deal with Tony Astori, which I assume shouldn’t be a problem.”

  We watch as he leaves us alone. Without a word, Rosalie gives me my phone back and keys, with a destination plugged into the phone. There’s no reception down here; I couldn’t call for help, not that it would be a good idea.

  Guess it’s up to me. The glass dividing me and Santi lifts slowly, and it’s only halfway up before I slide underneath it and move cautiously in his direction. Without looking at the ground, I rush toward him, trying to wake Santi up.

  “Santi,” I whisper as I work my way around his slippery body, looking for bindings. Handcuffs would suck, but it’s rope.

  I run for the knife, the suit guy left on the floor, and clutch it between my fingers. At his wrists, I frivolously cut through the tightly bound fibers. Back and forth, each twining taking forever to split apart. “Fuck. Wake up, Santi.” I change my pattern with uplifted sharp motions, the blade cuts better. I repeat and repeat the movements while coaxing him back to consciousness and assessing his wounds. At least ten, maybe a dozen cuts on his legs and abdomen that need stitches, some may be worse. Like the one on his knee.