I call Tony on my cell as I watch Ben get into the blacked-out SUV. Tony answers just as I reach the first taxi. “Wait a sec,” I bark into the phone, holding it to my chest as I hop into the back seat, instructing the driver to follow the SUV. “Sorry. Change of plans,” I tell Tony, holding the phone out from my ear as he lets loose a string of expletives. “He’s on the move, and I have to follow him. Use my cell to track my location. I’ll wait for you when we reach our destination.”
I hang up before he can berate me for my reckless reaction. I had to make a split-second decision, and I’m not sorry I made this call. If I had waited for Tony to come back, we would have lost Ben. I don’t want to have to return to New York. It’s taken a lot this week to psych myself up for this meeting, and I just want to get it over and done with now.
If the driver thinks it’s weird I asked him to follow another car, he keeps those thoughts to himself.
Traffic is shit, and it takes forty minutes to drive less than thirteen miles. Eventually, Ben’s car turns off the busy roads, driving up and down successive side streets before pulling into the parking lot of a two-story building in Queens.
The property is on its own contained lot, distancing it from other bars, clubs, and stores in the area. There is an overgrown park on one side, and the Hudson River is only a couple of streets away according to Google Maps. Requesting the taxi driver to pull over to the curb at the corner, I watch Ben’s SUV as it parks right in front of the building while I phone Tony. “Where are you?”
“I’m about ten minutes behind you.”
“Okay. Hurry.” I hang up, chewing on the inside of my mouth as Ben’s driver opens his door and he gets out. He has left his coat and suit jacket inside the car, emerging in a crisp white button-down shirt, expensive black pants, and matching dress shoes. I can only see him from behind, but his form is every bit as impressive as I remember it.
Images flash vividly in my mind.
I see his large warm hands grazing the length and breadth of my body. I feel his skillful fingers and tongue sending me into a frenzy of unleashed desire. I shudder at the remembrance of his monster cock pounding inside me as we created a new life. Heat creeps up my chest and onto my neck, and I shake myself free of all nostalgic thoughts. This isn’t the time or place.
The two men in suits, still wearing ferocious expressions, accompany Ben into the building while I contemplate my options. I know I should wait for Tony. He’s only ten minutes away, but my gut is telling me to go in there after Ben now.
“Please wait here,” I tell the driver, handing him a fifty. “I will give you another one of those and a generous tip when I return.” I don’t want to go into that building without a way of getting out of here, just in case Tony is delayed or I need to make a rapid exit.
“Lady, you sure you want to go in there?” He glances over his shoulder at me.
“My friend is on his way. He’ll be right behind me.”
I climb out of the back seat before I can second-guess myself, tying the belt of my three-quarter-length pink woolen coat firmly around my waist. I’m glad I dressed warmly because it’s freezing in New York today. At least there is no rain or snow, so I’m grateful for small mercies. Holding the strap of my Michael Kors purse, I walk quickly across the road in my black pantyhose and stilettos, heading toward the building Ben went into.
The building is in need of TLC, a lot like the area. Gray shutters are pulled down against the windows, and paint peels off the overhead sign. Weeds poke up between the asphalt as I stride across the parking lot. Besides Ben’s SUV, there are four other vehicles here, but the place appears virtually deserted.
Nerves prick at my skin as I approach the grimy front door. What the hell is this place, and what is Ben doing here? Wetting my dry lips and tucking my long blonde hair behind my ears, I draw a brave breath and open the door.
Music greets me as I step inside, but it’s low, just background noise in the dingy, dimly lit room. It’s a bar or club of some sort with a mix of booths and open seating areas surrounding an elevated section in the center of the room, resembling a runway with the addition of stripper poles.
Classy. Not.
It’s like the eighties threw up in here with its brick walls, tired décor, and dark wood furniture that looks like a throwback to Cheers. I scan the space, spotting the back of Ben’s head as he enters a rear door at the far side of the room. A burly guy with a shaved head and a scowl on his face stands guard in front of it, so I wander to the bar and pull up a stool to wait for Tony.
A lone bartender is working behind the bar, and he looks up when I sit down, gawking at me for a few seconds. I know I look out of place in a joint like this. I thought I was meeting Ben in a plush office in the middle of the Central Business District, and I dressed accordingly in my fitted long-sleeved black knee-length dress, black pantyhose, and skyscraper black Louboutins. Add the expensive pink coat and patterned silk scarf, and I stick out like a sore thumb in here.
“What can I get you, Miss?” he asks, masking his surprise.
“I’ll take two sparkling waters. Pellegrino if you have them.” He stares at me like I have spoken a foreign language. “Two bottles of water. Any will do,” I rephrase. “My colleague will be joining me shortly.”
Without saying a word, he retrieves two bottles from the fridge, placing them in front of me. I slap a twenty down on the counter. “Keep the change.” He tips his head and swipes the cash but otherwise ignores me.
Feeling eyes on me, I look right, noticing the two old perverts seated at the bar watching me with blatant curiosity. Apart from them and the two staff members, there is no one else around. I glance at my watch, willing Tony to hurry the fuck up, when the rear door opens and one of the guys who came in with Ben pops his head out, speaking to the man standing guard. The bodyguard nods and walks off across the room, exiting through a different door, while the other guy disappears back to where he came from.
The bartender is crouched down behind the bar, stacking drinks on shelves, so the only witnesses are the two perverts at the end of the bar. Sliding carefully off the stool, I walk on the dirty threadbare carpet in their direction. Handing each of them a hundred-dollar bill, I tap the side of my nose. “You didn’t see anything,” I tell them in a low voice, ignoring the fluttery feeling bouncing around my chest cavity and how all the tiny hairs on the back of my neck are standing at attention. I’m definitely channeling Esme right now, and Tony is going to string me up, but I’m not wasting the opportunity.
Keeping one eye on the bar, I walk quickly toward the rear door and slip inside, surprised to find stairs leading to a lower level. Blood rushes to my head, making me dizzy, and I clutch the wall until it passes. My heart is thumping wildly against my rib cage as I remove my shoes. Holding them in one hand, I slowly descend the stairs. My legs feel like they might go out from under me, and when a guttural scream rings out, I stall midway down the stairs, blood pounding in my skull as bile travels up my throat.
My cell rings in my pocket, and I about die, scrambling to mute the sound before someone hears. But I doubt anyone could hear over the incessant roars emerging from downstairs.
I’m frozen.
Rooted to the spot.
One-half of me is screaming to get the fuck out of here before I become that stupid person in every horror movie. You know, the one who just has to investigate and usually ends up paying for their curiosity with their life?
The other part of me needs to know what’s going on, and that part is overriding all sense of logic and self-preservation. My gut tells me to press on. That it will be okay.
Unless there’s another exit point in the basement level, Ben is down here. He won’t let anything happen to me. No matter how dangerous he is, he has protected me before, and I know he will keep me safe again.
13
SIERRA
Pushing through my fear, I force my limbs to move and continue forward. When my foot hits the floor, I have no choice bu
t to turn left because it’s the only option. Keeping my bag clasped tightly to my chest and my shoes secured in my free hand, I flatten my body against the closest wall and move stealthily down the long corridor. Successive doors are on the left, all closed except for two in the middle that are slightly ajar.
Lighting is scant, and the only illumination comes from a flickering light bulb dangling from the cracked ceiling. Cobwebs cling to the corners of the walls, and I shudder as a blast of cold air swirls around me. The concrete floor is like ice under my shoeless feet, my pantyhose offering little protection.
My nostrils twitch as a godawful smell slaps me in the face. It reeks of sweat, stale piss, vomit, and other indistinguishable smells. I press my lips together and scrunch my nose, and it marginally helps to keep the grossness at bay. My stomach lurches, and I pray this isn’t the moment my pregnancy nausea kicks in.
Soldiering on, I take slow careful steps forward. I startle, as more roaring and screaming echoes through the basement, slapping a hand over my mouth to stop myself from reacting and giving myself away.
This is a bad idea.
But something is still prompting me to keep going, not to turn around, so I persevere, ignoring the vicious trembling in my body and the rapid beating of my heart.
As I approach the first open door, I press my spine flat to the wall, pricking my ears to determine if I hear movement in the space. I hear voices, jumping when another shout rings out, but it doesn’t sound like it’s coming from the room right beside me. The shouting is muffled, not piercing like it was when I first heard it on the stairs. Wherever it’s coming from, I don’t think it’s this room.
Making the sign of the cross, I risk a peek, relieved when I discover the empty room. I sneak inside, softly closing the door but not all the way. I stuff my hand in my mouth, blocking the scream ready to let rip when I lift my head, staring at the glass window in front of me. It looks right into the much larger room inside, and I’m waiting for one of the five men in that room to notice me, sure it’s about to happen when Ben’s friend, Leo, stares right at the window, straight at me. I stop breathing as I wait for him to call me out, but he turns back around, expression unchanged, as if he hasn’t seen me.
This must be an observation window, like they have in police stations. I release a shuddering breath, relieved they can’t see me and they don’t know I’m here.
“I can do this all day, Sergei. And we know enough to determine the Irish are meeting your Bratva bosses,” Ben says, rolling his sleeves to his elbows as he stares at the man strapped to a chair in the middle of the room.
Although calling it a room is a bit of a misnomer. It looks more like a dungeon or a torture chamber. The bare brick walls and concrete floor are spattered with dark stains, and various hooks and chains dangle from some steel contraption secured to the ceiling. A trickle of urine leads from the man in the chair to a large vent in the floor. That explains part of the woeful smell. The man is naked, bound at the ankles and wrists to the chair with silver cable ties. He has several lacerations across his arms and his chest and a deeper gash in his thigh. Blood drips onto the floor from his shredded skin, yet he spits at Ben in defiance, spouting something in a foreign language. Given his name and Ben’s mention of Bratva, I’m guessing it’s Russian.
Bright strip lighting grants me a prime view of the proceedings, and I watch the scene unfold in a state of dazed numbness. It’s almost like it’s not real. Like I’m watching a movie or show and these are just actors playing a part. That’s not real blood. And it’s not my baby daddy getting ready to beat a man bloody.
My heart is lodged in my throat as I watch it go down.
Ben coolly removes a set of pliers from a steel unit wedged against the wall. Both shelves are full of weapons and instruments of torture, all clean as if lovingly cared for. The pulse in my neck throbs when Ben turns around and I see the front of his shirt for the first time. His pristine white shirt is now smeared with blood, and it turns my stomach. “I won’t ask you again. This is your last chance, Sergei. Why were you meeting McDermott? What business do the Russians have with the Irish?”
“Fuck you, Mazzone, and your dead whore mother.”
Ben’s sinister smile sends chills creeping up my spine. I expect him to lash out at the man for the comment about his mother because I know a little of the history there. But he is the epitome of cool, calm, and collected as he applies the pliers to the man’s hand, breaking his fingers, one at a time.
Panic is racing around my chest as I watch the man I crushed on as a kid slowly and methodically remove each one of Sergei’s fingers. Gargled sounds escape the man’s mouth as he grinds his teeth together. Blood spurts from his stubby hands, and I’m rooted to the spot again, staring in horror as Ben sets the pliers down on the table, picking up a bloody knife this time.
“You know, I’m building a new organization. Changing the playbook,” Ben says. “It’s not too late to change allegiance. We could use another couple of spies within the Bratva.”
“Fuck you, Italian scum bastard.”
Ben shrugs before gesturing to Leo. Leo grabs the man’s head, forcing his mouth open. Sergei thrashes on the chair, refusing to do this quietly, until one of the other men presses down on the oozing wound in his thigh, stalling his movements. Piss leaks from Sergei’s flaccid cock, soaking the front of Ben’s pants.
Ben looks down in clear annoyance. “You will pay for that.” His voice is monotone, devoid of any emotion, and he barely looks human with the dark glint of mad rage glittering in his eyes and the complete lack of decency.
It’s clear Sergei is not getting out of here alive. He could shoot him. There are several guns on the table, but Ben is choosing to torture him.
I don’t understand why I’m still here. I’ve seen enough to know I’m not letting this man anywhere near my baby. But I can’t make myself move. Stunned into watching this play out by some morbid fascination.
Ben slices Sergei’s tongue off in one fast motion, flinging it across the room. Nausea swims up my throat, and I clamp a hand over my mouth to stop myself from puking. Ben looks every bit the monster as he lays into the man. He slices Sergei’s skin with the knife, over and over, until his chest is a bloody mess, his internal organs hanging out. I gag as I struggle to hold on to the contents of my stomach.
The man yells in agony when Ben slices his dick off, and the moment he shoves it in Sergei’s mouth, I wake the fuck up. I can’t witness any more of this brutality, and I need to get out of here before I’m the next person strapped to that chair.
I no longer trust Ben to keep me safe.
I’m in a shocked, terrified daze as I get out of there, but I haven’t lost all sense of reality, carefully edging out of the room and tiptoeing up the stairs so I’m not heard. I concentrate on the rapid thumping of my heart to keep myself grounded, barely hearing the gunshot as I ascend the stairs and open the door to the main room.
Which is now strangely empty.
Fueled by a fresh injection of anxiety, I race across the main room, desperate to see the back of this place. I burst through the front door hyperventilating as I stagger to the corner of the building and puke my guts up.
A hand covers my mouth from behind, as I straighten up, and I swing my arm around, lashing out with my stilettos, ready to inflict damage, when a familiar voice says, “Don’t scream. It’s me.”
I slump against Tony, and the dam breaks. Strangled sobs leak from my mouth as I turn around, flinging my arms around him, so grateful he’s here.
“Are you hurt?” He holds my face firmly in his cold palms, jerking my head up.
“No,” I pant over a sob.
“We need to get out of here.” He grabs my hand. “You didn’t leave anything inside, did you?”
I shake my head. I’m still clutching my purse and my shoes for dear life.
He tugs me around the corner of the building, clamping his hand over my mouth again when I move to scream at the sight of the five
bodies piled on top of one another at the back of the yellow taxi.
“Don’t make a sound, Sierra,” Tony warns. “Not if you want to live.”
I stare at him in shock, and he lifts me over one shoulder, racing through brush at the back of the building toward the rental, which is parked at the corner of a back alley.
He places me in the passenger seat before getting behind the wheel and flooring it out of there.
We don’t speak for ages.
I’m not sure I have the ability to form a coherent sentence or a coherent thought. Tony is tense, glancing in his mirrors constantly, checking to see if we’re being followed. Every so often, he casts a fleeting look in my direction, his expression troubled. He doesn’t stop his incessant monitoring until we are out on the highway, heading toward JFK.
Pulling my knees to my chest, I look sideways at him, wondering if I know who this man is at all. “You killed them,” I whisper. “Why?”
“I couldn’t leave any witnesses. No one could know you were there.”
I stare at him numbly before mumbling, “I don’t understand.”
Traffic slows down until it comes to a standstill. Tony turns to me, keeping one hand on the wheel. “What did you see in that building?”
“Monsters.” I look him dead in the eye. “I saw monsters.” Ben might have been the one doing the torture, but it was clear from the state of Sergei’s body and the smells clinging to the walls that he had been there for some time. Ben just finished what the others started.
“You should’ve told me the man you were with in Vegas was Bennett Mazzone.”
“How did you know it was him?”
“I didn’t until I got here and I couldn’t find you. I forced one of his goons to talk. He told me Mazzone had just arrived, and I connected the dots.”
“You know who he is.”
He nods, easing the car forward when the traffic starts moving again.
“He’s part of the mafia, isn’t he? That legit businessman image he projects is just a front.”
Condemned to Love:  Page 10