by Karina Light
Torin.
I leave the wake early to head to the docks, too stir crazy to sit around playing nice any longer. A skeleton crew is manning the operation, and I want to check in before heading over to Jersey. It’s impossible to relax about the new schedule. Nolan stole my baby and left it for the wolves, all to look better to Pop.
It’s still sleeting, and the storm is supposed to get uglier as the day stretches on, so it’s a good idea to drop some supplies off to my pet mafia princess before it gets too dicey to head out there. She’ll have a snowy stretch of days ahead of her.
The docks are quiet, as expected, and each crew member nods and gives condolences in passing as I head inside to the main building. The slush is sticking to the concrete, and I need to make this quick if I want to avoid spinning off into a ditch in the middle of fucking nowhere.
The stock inside is its usual mix of models, though we’re a little light to make room for the influx Nolan scheduled next week. They’re cheap movers, too, so the car lot customers might get a little snippy. The base models may appeal to some buyers, but most of ours want at least mid-range, so I’ll chew Nole out for that, eventually. It’s an honest mistake, but one he wouldn’t have made if he’d bothered to show his face around here over the years to do more than drink and do back flips off the pier. The latter might explain why he’s such an ass. Maybe he got a brain-eating amoeba from the Delaware. God knows the river’s shit brown hue doesn’t scream health and wellness.
I’m only planning on a quick walkthrough, but an undone latch on an emergency exit in the rear office catches my eye. We always keep it secured with a flip lever. The wind off of the water rips it open otherwise. With the storm blowing in, leaving it undone will leave a foot of snow everywhere by morning.
As I approach, a small metal piece wedged in the door’s frame grabs my attention. Upon closer inspection, I realize it’s moving. Explains the undone latch. Now normally, I’d probably open the door carefully just in case it’s one of our guys trapped outside, but right about now, caution can fuck off.
I turn the handle’s lock and kick the door open in the same motion, hitting whoever’s on the other side hard enough to hear a grunt over the initial gong strike of the door into bone.
I reach into my waistband and pull out my 9mm before stepping outside to identify my victim. If it’s one of the new guys, he just learned a painful lesson in not being stupid around here.
But it’s not.
A huge bald stranger lays sprawled on the wet concrete in a daze from the metal door he just took to the face. His nose spurts blood like a fucking hose, leaking all over his black rain parka and dress slacks.
I land a kick to his side before digging my heel into his chest, holding the behemoth in place as I take aim at his face. I can’t take any chances with a fucker this size. “Who the fuck are you?”
I don’t know why I’m asking. I know he’s Italian. They’ve been crawling around here like roaches for weeks. He’s the unlucky one to find himself in my crosshairs, though. And fuck if my inner rage doesn’t spike staring at this bloody bastard.
Maybe Nolan’s right.
Antonio is up to something. Maybe he was just putting on a front of fake sympathy and gloom at the funeral. Why else would he send this fat son of a bitch to break into our spot when he knows we’re at Aidan’s services?
The stranger coughs, sputtering on his own blood as it floods from his nose into his mouth.
“I can’t hear you,” I grind out, resting nearly all my weight on his chest. “Looking for something, bud?”
The trigger beneath my finger begs to be pulled. I’ve waited for this since finding Aidan. Nothing would feel better than to see this worthless piece of shit’s head pop like a watermelon under a car tire.
I look around, taking in the emptiness behind the building. The blanket of sleet falling from the sky makes the area a ghost town. No one would know any different. I can make his face match Aidan’s, place a call, and no one will ever know about it.
He chokes on a gulp of blood, spraying it across my pant leg. “No, wait, no!”
I lean forward, hovering above his face with the gun. I line the sight up with the center of his unibrow. One shot and he’s a goner. Just one shot. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
But I’m tired of the uncertainty. I need answers out of him. Now. No more games. No more bullshit. This bald fuck is going to squeal like a pig or I’m going to shoot off his fingers one by one.
“Fal, what the fuck?” Nolan’s voice comes from the doorway behind me, and I silently curse fate for being such a cunt this week.
“I caught a rat,” I say, not budging from my position.
The man grunts, grabbing at his nose while his blood drips to the pavement. I am aiming a gun in his face, so I can understand Nolan’s confusion to a degree. I don’t, however, understand why my darling brother is here instead of at the wake still.
He comes up beside me, resting a hand on the barrel of my 9mm. “Easy, Fal. We were going to play it cool, remember? No shooting.”
Bull-fucking-shit. “Before or after the traps?” I spit out.
“Relax, dude. I told you I was just fucking around.” Panic laces through his voice. As usual, Nolan can’t handle confrontation.
I move the gun from pointing at the man’s face to his arm before firing a shot. “Well, I wasn’t.”
The man screams as his blood mists over my shoe.
Nolan shoves my shoulder, successfully budging me from the man’s chest. “Jesus Christ, Fal! What the fuck are you doing?”
I want to fire again.
So I do.
This time, it hits the man lower on the same arm, entering between his wrist and elbow. He wails in agony, begging me to stop in what sounds like tongues.
I go to fire a third time into his gut, but a hand grabs my shoulder from behind.
“Fal, enough.” It’s Lorcan, and he meets my eyes with agony in his. His perpetual sneer is gone, replaced with a somber line. “This won’t bring him back. You know that. You need to cool off. Take a walk.”
“I know that motherfucker’s behind it,” I bite out, refusing to budge the gun from aiming at the stranger’s stomach. I want to keep firing until nothing’s left. “This bastard knows it, too. We need answers.”
“This isn’t how you get them, man. Take a drive.” Lorcan shakes his head while Nolan crouches next to the man, almost shielding him from me.
I’m tempted to shoulder through him and shoot the fucker again, but Lorcan has a point.
Maybe I need to take a drive. Into the woods.
Maybe the answers I need have been sitting there all along.
I just need to get them out of her.
9
Eva
Dueling frozen rain and slush ping off the bathroom’s window.
I’m freezing, and all I’ve had for warmth since being abandoned in this hellhole is the stupid coat the stranger left me. I can’t even wear it properly because of these dumbass handcuffs, so I have to alternate between literally freezing my ass off or turning my front into a sheet of ice.
I wish he’d left some blankets along with the stash of water and food, the hodgepodge mix of nuts and chips grabbed during a gas station run. Or I don’t know, maybe a fucking space heater. If I didn’t need it to wipe my ass, I would’ve attempted a toilet paper quilt by now.
I haven’t seen either captor in days. I don’t know how many, given the circumstances, but judging by the sunsets, I think today’s Saturday, which means I last saw one of them on Tuesday, when the annoying asshole sat in here and verbally poked at me for a few hours like a circus animal.
I tried to wash up in the tub earlier, which went as horribly as expected since the water isn’t heated and smells like tree bark. But I needed to get some grime off before I went insane. I could literally smell myself, and I suddenly felt a hell of a lot worse for anyone who’s ever been on Survivor.
My strapless bra and thong ar
e drying on the edge of the tub after being rinsed, leaving me shivering in my dress under the coat. I wanted to wash the dress too, but one, it’s too fucking cold, and two, I can’t get it off unless I rip the straps.
So basically I’m damp, dirty, and desperate.
The storm outside has steadily picked up as the day’s gone on, and I’m terrified about what it means for me going forward. Every part of me aches from the cold. If the temperature dips any further in here, I’m not sure that I’ll live through this. The coat only offers so much warmth.
I check my bra’s dryness for the hundredth time, desperate for the extra layer. My nipples scratch against my dress, the peaks permanently set to hard now that my bathroom jail cell has turned into a meat locker. Gripping the underwire portion between my fingers, I groan at the dampness. I never thought my life would get to a point that not wearing a bra would suck.
As I finger the satiny fabric, the underwire beneath rolls between my fingertips.
I need metal.
Underwires are metal.
Holy shit.
I tear into the luxury lingerie like an animal, sinking my teeth in to fish the wire out. It’s a struggle, but I emerge victorious with the metal half circle, and happy tears threaten my eyes.
I have a fucking chance.
I bite off the plastic tip meant to save flesh and break into full-blown sobs as the beautiful metal end looks back at me.
I feel like a moron for not thinking of this sooner, but shove the negative thoughts aside to get to work, maneuvering the piece the best I can with my hands bound to first try to pick the keyhole. Now isn’t the time to dwell on mistakes. I need to make up for lost time.
I promptly figure out that idea is dead on arrival because of the metal’s width and move to mess with the teeth of the cuff on my right hand. I force the underwire over them, hoping the mechanism will slide backward, but it moves forward instead, pinching my wrist and making the cuff tighter. I yelp as the shackle bites into my flesh, but the pain vanishes when the cuff slides back and loosens, allowing me to slip my hand free.
Bruises mar where the shackles rested, and I have to stare at my bare wrist for a moment to take in that I freed myself. I really did it.
I repeat the step with my other hand and stand on shaky legs once I’m free.
Completely free. No cuffs. No shackles. Nothing.
Nothing’s stopping me.
I reach for my thong, slipping on the damp panties under my dress before pulling on the coat the stranger left and buttoning up. I can go braless into the cold, but I won’t go commando. Not with the wind I hear howling out there.
Knowing damn well that my captors could be on their way, I rush to the bathroom door, relieved to find it unlocked. It spills into a square room with a fireplace I could’ve fucking used all week while I flirted with hypothermia. An old cot sits in one corner and a cabinet in another, neither of which hints that anyone’s been by recently.
After a quick search of the bare bones quarters, my heels are nowhere to be found and there’s nothing I can fashion into footwear, either.
Just fucking peachy.
I’m barefoot in a winter storm.
But I have no other option.
I unlock the flimsy lock that leads to freedom, only to stop dead in my tracks as soon as I open it. There’s nothing but forest beyond the building’s rundown porch. Thick, middle-of-nowhere forest. The kind you see on a brochure to a campground with trees, trees, and more trees.
Where the fuck am I?
I don’t know which way to run, with both the left and right seeming equally desolate, but I don’t have time to sit around thinking about it, so I launch off the porch and into the brush, heading right and praying it’ll take me to civilization quickly.
The plants are cold, wet, and long-past dead, scratching at my skin as my feet sink into the forest floor. I know the slush is leaving footprints, but hope the falling wintry mix will cover them before anyone comes poking around. If I have any luck at all, they won’t for days. There’s a good chance, seeing that they’ve ignored me this long.
The cold mixture burns with every step and amplifies to sharp pain as I stumble into a thicket of thorns that scrape my bare calves. I look around, hoping to avoid them, but it’s useless. They stand between me and getting away. The stranger’s coat hangs past my knees, only protecting me so much, but I keep going. Soon the barbs sink into my feet and deliver a hot, searing bite that takes my breath away.
I cry out but refuse to slow.
I can’t stop.
I’ll literally run until my feet fall off. I don’t care. I won’t go back there. I need to put as much space between me and that cabin as physically possible. If anyone catches me now, I’m done for.
The underbrush is thick, tearing at my exposed skin. I keep my eyes on the distance, hopeful that a road will come into view as I plow through. I don’t realize I’m crying until I feel the warmth on my face, the salty brine of tears meeting my lips. I beg the cold to take over, to numb the pain.
This is my only chance.
The trickle of the wet slush from above and the thumping of my heart fill my ears, the steady beat urging me to keep going even as my feet demand I stop the constant torture.
The angry vines are the only plant with life left to them, the only other green in sight being the pine branches overhead, their needles heavy with frozen sludge and bending downward. A few clusters of slush fall to slap off the earth below, the sound initially sending a panic through me until I watch one cascade down with a large plop.
Nothing but thick forest lies ahead, and as I run, happiness rushes through me to join the pure adrenaline of the escape.
But deep inside, a tiny piece of me breaks.
I know I’m running right back into the cage I was so desperate to flee.
And Papa will never let me out now.
10
Fallon
Driving to Jersey takes an obscene amount of time. Everyone’s cruising at the speed of shit on the highways, and more than once I want to run a soccer mom off the road or shoot out a tire.
There’s a state of emergency now that the storm’s expected to bring a foot and a half of wintry crap to the area, making an in and out trip vital in avoiding a travel headache. Snow plows are nonexistent where I’m headed, and I don’t plan on spending the night in my vehicle.
I grab a blanket and a sleeping bag from a department store on my way out of the city, knowing the cabin isn’t heated. I don’t care if the girl’s comfortable, but I need her alive. I might get more information out of her in exchange for warmth, too. The cold will bring even the humblest of men to their knees.
Women in the Tully fold are completely in the dark about our business, but they’re also well-behaved and know respect. Lombardi’s daughter is practically feral in comparison, so there’s a decent chance she might know something. Lombardi has no sons, so he could plan for her to take over someday. She’s the jewel in his crown. He married off Nikki to a washed up loser at eighteen. He’s kept Evangelina for a reason.
If anything, she could've overheard something. A lot of secrets must echo off the walls of that Lake Como knockoff manor north of the city. Little Evangelina doesn’t seem like the type of girl who’d ignore them, either.
Either way, I’m getting answers, and I’m not opposed to forcing that smart mouth of hers into the toilet to get them. She might be a little chattier when faced with a mouthful of filth.
I pull onto the dirt road and park in a wide enough spot to turn around later before making the long walk to the knotted tree. I’m still in fucking dress shoes, which given the slush isn’t the best choice in footwear, but I forge ahead before cutting onto the path and traveling the thorn-laden trail with a familiarity I hate. I hold the bundle of bedding under one arm, cupping the other over my eyes to keep the sleet and snow from sticking to my face. It’s coming down hard and the temperature is dropping, so it’s good I got here now instead of later. My litt
le captive might’ve frozen to death otherwise.
If she’s a good girl and shares some information, I might let her sit by the fireplace. Torin didn’t leave handcuff keys, but I keep a pick handy at all times. She’ll probably behave for some warmth. If she doesn’t, I’m not opposed to putting a gun to her head.
The hike to the cabin is rough, but the sleet weighs the thorns down somewhat, so I can step over the barbs most of the time. It beats the hell out of taking briers to the calves again.
When I reach the cabin, there’s kicked up ground at the base of the porch like an animal ran through recently. Sticks. Mud. Old leaves. Probably a fucking deer. They’re everywhere out here. Like the last time, I skip the squeaky parts of the steps and right my keys to open the door, but this time, it’s unlocked. I know I locked it when I left last. I checked the damn door twice to be sure.
My heart plummets before doing a quick rebound. Torin might’ve dropped in earlier. Maybe that’s why he was giving me the okay at the funeral. If it was something important about Aidan, he would’ve called.
I open the door and step inside, finding the interior not much warmer than outside. The room is in its usual state of deplorable, but the bathroom door is wide open, sending my heart into an all-out free fall of panic. Dropping the blankets, I rush over, connecting my fist with the wall when I see the empty bathroom.
My pet mafia princess has escaped her cage. Her restraints lay in a discarded heap, a tattered bra the only sign that she’s ever been in these four walls. The black satin looks like a dog got to it, the underwire excised beside it, undoubtedly used to pick her handcuffs.
When I catch her, she’ll wish the thought never crossed her mind, and she’d better be thankful that I’m the one making this discovery and not Torin. He might’ve put a bullet in her for the trouble.
She has a lead on me, but I’ll find her. I’ll rip this forest apart from top to fucking bottom. She’s next to naked in a scrap of a dress and my coat. She won’t make it far. Not without shoes, either.