by Cassia Leo
He moves slowly as he aims to dig farther into me with each stroke. Every thrust elicits a louder moan from me as he bites down on my shoulder to keep from coming too fast. Finally, he bites down so hard, I cry out in pain. I look at my shoulder and the blood streaming down to my breast is alarming.
“Knox, stop.”
But he doesn’t stop. He continues thrusting deeper and deeper. Biting harder and harder.
“Stop!”
“Rebecca, wake up!”
I open my eyes and Lita’s face appears above me. My heart is pounding and my throat is aching.
“Was I screaming?”
“Yes. You need to be quiet!” she whispers urgently.
I blink a few times to focus my eyes as I sit up. I recognize the room immediately. It’s the basement where Lita and I have been held for the past three days and nights. There are no restraints holding me to the bed. No gags tied around our mouths. But the walls and windows are covered in soundproofing foam.
I cover my face and begin to cry. “When are they going to find us?”
“Rebecca, there’s no guarantee they’re going to find us.”
I don’t want to think of the alternative. Lita may like to stay pragmatic about this, but I don’t want to imagine that I’ll die here in this basement. Though everything I’ve seen in this place has proven that no one will ever find us unless the assholes who brought me here want us to be found. We’re being used as leverage.
I guess I can count my lucky stars that they haven’t decided to take advantage of us yet.
Then I think of the dream I just had. I reach up to touch my shoulder and I flinch when Lita puts her arm around me.
“You were having a sex dream about Knox.” I chuckle through my tears and she laughs. “It’s okay. If anyone’s going to get us out of here, it’s him.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he loves you.”
My mind flashes to the dream again. Knox has never told me he loves me. But the Knox in my dream loved me. He loved me enough to kidnap me and tear open my shoulder as he fucked me. God, I have a sick mind.
“I’m not so sure about that. What if he’s the reason we’re here?”
“Come on, Rebecca. Don’t be naive. Of course he’s the reason we’re here.”
“Then how can you even claim that he loves me?”
She lets go of me and hugs her knees instead. “Because he’s not a monster.”
“What?”
“Everything he does is for you.”
“No, everything he does is for his crazy vendetta.”
“No, you’re wrong.” She turns her head to look at me through the dim yellow light cast by the bulb that dangles from the ceiling of the dank basement. “He’s been paying my stepdad’s hospital bills for seven months. And he hasn’t done it for his vendetta. He did it so he could get close to you. To do that, he got close to the two people you were closest to: me and August.”
“Seven months? And you’re just now telling me this?”
“He made me promise I wouldn’t tell you. What would you do if your dad was dying and someone offered to get him the best care in the country? What was I supposed to do? Let my dad die? Say no to Knox Savage?”
I let out a long sigh as I hug my knees. “It’s impossible to say no to him.”
“Are you mad at me?”
I shake my head and rest my cheek on my knee. “I’m not mad. I’m scared.”
“So am I.”
“We have to find a way out of here.”
She shakes her head. “There is no way out of here. You know that. We’ve already tried.”
“No. We have to strategize. We have to find a way for them to move us. They can’t keep us down here forever.”
I glance into the corner of the basement where the dingy sink and toilet stand open with no walls or curtains for privacy. Next to the toilet is a stack of about two hundred toilet paper rolls. Just a few feet away is a wooden worktable where we’ve been eating standing up. A plastic plate of breadcrumbs and two empty plastic bowls sit on the table. Underneath the table there are about forty gallons of drinking water.
We’ve been surviving on various soups, pastas, and bread rolls. At least the food isn’t terrible; even if we do have to eat it with our hands. They must be getting the food from a restaurant. Or they could be giving us a portion of whatever they cook for themselves.
Whatever the case, they don’t plan on letting us starve to death. It doesn’t even seem they want anything to do with us. Other than sliding our food through the slot in the door, they never interact with us. They don’t beat us or threaten us. They don’t talk to us. We’ve never seen their faces. We’ve never heard their voices.
For all I know, it could be Knox out there.
Chapter 7
Bensonhurst hasn’t changed much in eight years. A good portion of 18th Avenue is closed off tonight for the Santa Rosalia Feast. A food fair Jerry Mainella and I used to love attending, if only because it was a great place to get into trouble and pick up girls.
Some days I still miss this place. Today is not one of those days.
We pass by the shop where John could usually be found sipping sparkling limonata and insisting that everyone “sit and eat a fucking meal.” Now, he’s hiding like a fucking rat in a basement in Newfoundland. We were only able to arrange the terms of his house arrest because his life was in danger. And his lawyer made an excellent case for why I could protect him better than any witness protection program.
We turn the corner and pass up my old house. The house where my mother was beaten to death. A “for sale” signpost stands leaning to the left, as if it’s been standing there so long it’s exhausted. The grass is a parched beige from the scorching August heat. At least, back when my mother was still alive, people would water the grass if a house was empty. But I guess this one has been empty too long for anyone to care.
It’s hard to sell a property where a murder has occurred.
Bruno pulls the car up next to the curb of a white two-story house on 19th Avenue, just down the street from my old house on 80th Street. It’s one of the biggest houses in the neighborhood. John bought up the lot on either side of his house so he could expand. The result is an eight-bedroom house with a yard about six times the size of the tiny yard my mother and I had.
Everyone envied the Veneto’s house when we were kids. Now I have at least five houses bigger and nicer than this scattered across the globe. But I don’t rub my wealth in anyone’s face. Especially not John’s.
No matter what I’ve achieved, I’m still the dumb kid who couldn’t kill Tony Angelo before he got to me. The one who went crying to John after his mother was murdered. And John will always be the man who killed Frank Mainella for helping Tony escape. All because of a promise he made to me to make Tony pay.
John is a man of his word. It’s time for me to become a man of mine.
Bruno opens the gate that surrounds the property and we walk up the pathway toward the front door. He stands to the side, facing the street, as I ring the doorbell. A moment later, I hear light footsteps tapping on the tile just inside the door.
The door swings open and Marie Veneto looks up at me without a smile or a greeting. She opens the door a bit wider and steps aside for me to come in. I didn’t expect her to jump for joy when she saw me, but this cold reception only confirms my trepidation about coming here.
“Marie, I’m so sorry about Rebecca.”
She doesn’t speak as she leads me back toward the kitchen. I follow behind her and the aroma of strawberries and sugar are thick in the air. The kitchen is white and pristine. On the island, a line of strawberry tarts topped with whipped cream is being assembled. I take a seat at the breakfast table as Marie heads for the refrigerator.
She’s a tiny woman. Wispy and beautiful, but a powerful presence. She spends all day cooking and baking stuff for people in the neighborhood, but she hardly ever eats any of the stuff she makes. And I can see
by the dark circles under her eyes that this situation with Rebecca probably has affected her sleeping patterns as well.
She pours me a glass of lemonade, none for herself, then joins me at the table. Setting the glass down in front of me, she takes a seat and lets out a long sigh. Is she ever going to say anything?
“Listen, Marie. I know I’m not the face you were hoping to see today.”
“She hasn’t called me in a month.”
“What?”
She looks up from the table and meets my gaze. “Rebecca. She hasn’t called me in a month. What is going on? Does this have to do with her father? Is this John’s fault?”
“This isn’t John’s fault. This is my fault.”
“Your fault?”
Her brown eyes widen as she waits for my explanation, and in that moment, I see what Rebecca will look like twenty-five years from now. I can’t drag this out. I have to tell her the truth.
“Marie, I’m not who you think I am. I’m not Knox Savage.”
She shakes her head. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that… I’m Marco Leone.”
She squints her eyes as her gaze roams over my face, examining all my features. Her nostrils flare slightly as her eyes begin to water.
“Marco? Ella’s boy?”
My stomach drops at the sound of my mother’s name.
I nod slowly. “It’s me.”
She covers her mouth and shakes her head again. “I thought you were dead,” she cries. “After Frank died, I kept wondering and asking about you. You were always coming around, and then you just disappeared. I thought you were dead.” I reach out to pat her shoulder and she grabs my hand. “I want you to know,” she begins, the tears falling faster, “I didn’t find out about the affair until years after your mother died and I never blamed her. Never.”
“I know.”
“No, you have to believe me. I’ve been sick about what happened to your mother. I always felt like maybe it wouldn’t have happened if I’d been smarter. Maybe if I had found out while it was going on, I could have stopped it.”
I don’t know why she’s making a huge deal about the affair. Everyone in the neighborhood knew that John was unfaithful to Marie. She’s making it seem as if she didn’t know anything about it. Was she really that clueless?
“Listen. I’m not here to talk about my mother. I’m here to talk about Rebecca.”
She loosens her grip on my hand and lowers her head. “The last conversation we had a month ago, I kept pressuring her. I told her she needed to tell her boyfriend to set a wedding date. She kept telling me, “Ma, you need to stop talking about this, or I’m never going to introduce you to him.’ Then I never heard from her again.”
The last thing I wanted to happen during this visit to Marie is get in a fucking conversation about Rebecca and August’s wedding. Especially since that little fucker just shot to the top of my hit list. But I have to be respectful. I can’t scare Marie. I need her on my side.
“Marie, I’m here to tell you that I’m going to get Rebecca back. And I don’t mean back in Manhattan where she’ll never call you again. I mean back here, in this house, where you can hug her and measure her for her wedding dress.”
“Is she engaged?”
“Not yet.”
“Oh, Marco. Bless you.” She rises from the chair and wraps her arms around me. “God bless you, Marco. I know your mother is watching over you. I can feel a good presence all around us. I know you’re going to bring Rebecca back. I know it.”
“I will. If it’s the last thing I do.”
Chapter 8
The last thing I need right now is a fucking watery-eyed FBI agent and his chubby sidekick busting my balls over John’s case. But cooperating with federal investigations is part of my life as Knox Savage. A life I hope to leave behind very soon.
“Can I offer you two something to drink? Some water, a pop, some bourbon?”
Agent Armstrong blinks his watery eyes as he chuckles. “No, thank you. This won’t take long.”
I look at his sidekick, Agent Verduta, and she shakes her head, not at all impressed.
Armstrong takes the lead. “So we just have a few questions we need to ask you about John and Rebecca Veneto, then we’ll get out of your hair.”
Armstrong is playing the role of the good cop today.
“Anything you want to know that’s not covered by my confidentiality agreement is all yours.”
Armstrong raises his eyebrows. “Confidentiality agreement? Is this something all your clients sign?”
“Yes. It’s for their own protection.” From me.
“Oh, okay. I get it. They have to keep quiet so they don’t compromise your security operations, which are meant to keep them safe while they await trial?”
“Look at you, Armstrong. You are one smart cookie.”
Armstrong shrugs, pretending to be humbled by my compliment. “What can I say? I’ve been doing this for twenty-two years.”
“Good for you.”
Verduta still hasn’t smiled or spoken a word, and it’s starting to creep me the fuck out.
“Okay, I’ll try to keep my questions brief and, hopefully, we won’t steer into any breeches of contract,” Armstrong continues. “When did you take on John Veneto’s case? A precise date, please.”
I lean back in my chair and shrug. “I don’t know. Sometime in March or April.”
Armstrong looks at the notepad in his lap and smiles. “But the charges weren’t brought against him until July.”
“The investigation and reopening of Frank Mainella’s case began in March. And John was always considered the prime suspect.”
“Okay. Next question: Was Rebecca Veneto assisting you with John’s case at the time of her abduction?”
I take a few beats to maintain my composure. “What do you mean by assisting? Rebecca had taken an interest in her father’s case, but I wouldn’t say she was assisting with his security detail.”
“Okay. Let me rephrase that. Are you, or were you, in a relationship with Rebecca Veneto at the time she was abducted?”
This is where I have to consider getting a lawyer. I don’t want to incriminate myself. And the biggest rookie mistake is thinking that you can’t get pinched if you didn’t do anything. There are plenty of innocent people in prison who will tell you one thing: Never talk to the authorities without a lawyer.
But there’s nothing wrong with living a little dangerously.
“Yes. Rebecca and I are together.”
Verduta finally breaks into a tiny smile. Armstrong glances at her and they exchange a minuscule nod. Then he writes something on his notepad.
They want me to get nervous and offer more information and justifications, but I’m not a fucking idiot.
“Is that all?” I ask as Armstrong closes the flap of his notepad.
“That’s it for now,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “Do you mind if I ask you something off the record?”
Off the record. Does this guy think I got this empire by falling for weak ploys like that?
“I don’t mind,” I say, standing up from my chair. “As long as you don’t mind if I grab myself a drink.”
“Of course not.”
I move to the shelf behind my desk and pour myself a scotch in a highball glass. “So what is it you want to ask me?”
Armstrong glances around my office for a moment, then he looks me in the eye. “Who is Knox Savage?”
I smile at this question, then take a slow sip of scotch. “I’m just a guy with a soft spot for helping people.”
He nods and smiles as he realizes he’s not going to get shit out of me. He looks at Verduta and nods toward the door. They both stand from their chairs and I offer Armstrong my hand. His handshake is as weak as his method of questioning. Verduta doesn’t shake my hand, and I’m glad for that.
“You two have a nice day. It’s gonna be a hot one.” I wink at Verduta as she exits my office. She rolls her eyes as I close
the door behind her. “Fucking feds.”
Chapter 9
Questions I know I can’t answer. Promises I’m not certain I can keep. Accomplices I’m not sure I can trust. Just a typical day in the life of Knox Savage.
Who is Knox Savage?
I lean back in the chair at Mr. Black’s Gentlemans’ Club and contemplate this question as the first girl takes the stage. This blonde with the loose hips would say that Knox Savage is a hotshot billionaire with a cock the size of her forearm, and he tips well. Bruno and Billy would say that Knox Savage is the one guy in the world you don’t want to piss off. Agent Armstrong would probably say that Knox Savage is an alias, though he hasn’t figured out anything beyond that.
What would Rebecca say about Knox Savage?
She’d probably say I’ve fucked her in more ways than one.
But I haven’t fucked Rebecca in five days. I don’t usually go this long without a fuck. It messes with my head. But I’ve never been in a monogamous relationship.
The blonde looks at me and licks her lips as she circles the brass pole. She runs her hands down the sides of her breasts and all the way down to the sides of her hips. Then she turns around and bends over to give me a good view of her G-string.
I can’t help but think of Rebecca and the night she danced for me in my club room. We’d just had a breakthrough in the dungeon. She understood that she would never dance for or with anyone but me. So I knew that when she stood up from that sofa in the club room, I was going to get a show.
Her legs were still shaky from the multiple orgasms I gave her in the dungeon as she walked toward the pole. She clutched the pole with both hands and paused for a moment. Then she turned around, and just the sight of her plump breasts bouncing made my cock twitch.
“Dance for me, baby.”
She reached over her head and grabbed the pole behind her, then she slowly sank down into a low crouch. Keeping one hand gripped on the pole, the other hand caressing her body as it moved down over her breasts, over the soft part of her abdomen, and finally between her legs. Her eyelids closed as her mouth fell open, releasing a soft whimper.