Only a foot.
But a foot was all I needed.
I scrambled down off the bed, hand closing around the neck of the bottle, turning it, then rising up, swinging back, and slamming it forward, cracking it more off the side of the man's neck and jaw than head seeing as I wasn't tall enough to get higher.
"Fuck," he hissed regardless, head jerking back as I shoved past him, feeling his hand grab my wrist. Hard. Hard enough to bruise, making me whirl around, hand shooting out, nails bared, to scratch across the exposed skin of his neck.
"Jesus Christ, hellcat," he snapped as I yanked my wrist free, turning, mind set on running, getting out the front door, onto the street, finding some help. This town went to sleep late in the summer. Someone would be lingering around somewhere.
It would be okay.
I would be okay.
It was only a couple yards to the front door.
Heart hammering, brain swimming, muscles feeling foreign and shaky, I barreled through the bedroom doorway and into the hall.
Smelling freedom, I made a beeline for the front door.
Only I forgot one thing.
The goddamn braided rug that was set in front of the door. The same braided rug that had been there my entire life. The same braided rug that had always been a safety hazard, since no one ever bothered to put a pad beneath it to prevent movement.
I realized my mistake the second my front foot landed on the oval rug, and my forward-moving momentum made it slip backward even as my body kept moving forward, sending me flying.
I knew the second it happened that I wasn't going to go down, hit the floor, maybe be quick enough to brace myself on my forearms—not my hands, never the hands. No. There wasn't enough floor space left.
Nope.
I was flying forward.
And I was going to collide with the doorjamb.
Then, just a second later, that was exactly what happened.
There was the surge of fear, the crack of pain, and then... nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
Chapter Three
Lorenzo
I hadn't taken a vacation since I was some asshole teenager on spring break, taking one of my father's cars, packing it full of friends, and driving it down to Mexico.
Without the protection of my father, I was just some schmuck in a car worth a hundred grand with a suitcase full of cash.
Within a week, the car was stripped for parts, and my cash had been taken after I got my ass fucking handed to me, leaving me bleeding on some side street.
You'd think as I crawled out of that alley drinking my own damn blood that I would have called my old man, had him come down there, throw his power and money around, get revenge for me.
But it had been the most freeing night of my life, and a hell of a learning experience.
The family was a nice security blanket. I had layers of protection. But when push came to shove, and it was just two men in an alley, I'd been a skinny, useless kid with no way to win a fight.
I got back to the city, took my ass-kicking from my father, who'd been pissed about the car more than anything, then I found myself a teacher who made sure I would never be that useless again in a fight.
It was around that same time that I had started taking on more family obligations, which meant things like vacations were part of my past.
Hell, the year before, I'd worked every weekend, every major holiday. This year looked to be a repeat of the same thing.
Maybe the man at the top got to take it easy, but those closest to him had to bust ass to keep things running smoothly, to keep him in the lap of luxury. That was especially true when your job involved dozens—if not hundreds—of people who would gladly see every member of your family with slit throats, bleeding out on the doorstep as they moved into your house, your position of power.
But as I was driving into Cape May, an area that was overwhelmingly a vacation spot, I could feel the itch to get away, to take a day, to sit down on my own couch for more than five minutes; to hop a plane and say "fuck it all" to everything back home for a week or two.
I couldn't imagine how I would fill that time.
Maybe get some sleep for a change.
But that wasn't in the cards, I reminded myself, turning off the main drag by the shore to do a drive past the house, wanting to learn the layout, to be able to get in and out easier when the sun went down and the town quieted.
I didn't anticipate how late things would stay lively, leaving me twiddling my fucking thumbs until after three in the morning, which gave me a very small window before sun up to get the girl out and leave town unseen.
The ranch-style home didn't have any yard to speak of, but boasted an enviable side driveway, one of only three houses on the entire street that had one.
Cutting the lights, I backed in, so the neighbor didn't see me, coming to a stop with my trunk right near the side door. Climbing out, I popped the trunk, grabbed a lock-pick set, and worked on the kitchen door.
Why Leon Lastra kept a vacation home and didn't bother to protect it from even the most novice of petty thieves was beyond me as I opened the lock and moved inside. Who didn't at least have a deadbolt on a house where they only spent a couple days every year?
Though, that said, Leon Lastra was, by all accounts, a fucking moron, so nothing he did—or didn't do—should have surprised me.
The house itself was dated, in desperate need of a renovation. And a part of me was a bit pissed off that he hadn't put the work in, then used the house as a rental to help bring in the money he owed us. It didn't take rocket science to think of the idea. But Leon was never much of a thinker. People who had a good head on their shoulders didn't typically end up indebted to the mob.
We could have taken the house, instead of some convoluted plan to kidnap the bastard's poor daughter. But my father wasn't a fan of hearing my ideas.
Reaching into my jacket, I drew out my gun, hoping I wouldn't have to use it, that Leon would be smart enough not to charge at me.
A quick search said all the rooms were empty. But the car outside said someone was around.
Which meant that the girl or her father, or both, were in the master.
When I got in, though, all I found was a woman on the bed in a pair of short shorts and a tank, her leg cocked up, her long, dark hair fanned out over her back and shoulders.
Alone.
I moved into a corner, getting into the shadows, waiting to make sure Leon hadn't just walked around the corner to pick something up from the store or something.
I felt very much like a creep as I stood there, gaze moving over the sleeping girl's body, taking in the soft jut of hip, the round ass just begging for a slap, those fit but thick thighs, giving me ideas about getting leg-locked with my face buried between—all causing an inappropriate and distracting hard-on build.
Half an hour passed of nothing but the restless dreams of the girl in the bed, likely brought on by the fact that the room was hot as fucking hell, and the ceiling fan and the fan propped in the window weren't doing a damn thing but blowing around stagnant, hot air.
Finally, one of the dreams, or maybe some sixth sense finally realizing I was creeping in the corner, woke her up.
What happened next was a bit of a blur.
I expected to be on her and have her bound, gagged, and duct-taped in a matter of seconds.
But she had more spirit in her than I expected, more strength in her small body than seemed possible.
And I'd somehow missed the fucking whiskey bottle until it was whacking into my jaw and ear.
I was right on her heels when she raced through the house. It wasn't hard to keep up with someone who was about a full foot shorter than you. Each two of her strides was one of my own.
I saw the rug slide underneath her foot, felt the dread tighten my stomach muscles as my body seemed to brace for her inevitable collision with the doorframe.
"Shit," I hissed when she collapsed down to the floor, out cold.
On the one hand, it would make the binding and dragging part a lot easier.
On the other, if shit went down and the law came after me, I would get blamed for the damage.
But what was done was done.
On a sigh, I moved forward, grabbing her shoulder, rolling her onto her back as I flicked on the small entryway light so I could see what I was doing.
"Fuck," I hissed when my gaze fell on her face, really seeing it for the first time. "God fucking damn it," I growled, raking a hand through my hair.
My father had conveniently left out the fact that she was a fucking kid. Close to adulthood, sure, there was no mistaking that. But her face was young, plump in the cheeks. I bet she had dimples when she smiled.
Kidnapping someone was never good business. Kidnapping a child?
I just reserved my first-class ticket right to the centermost ring of hell.
Pissed, but resigned, I kneeled down, probing the cut on her head for a second to make sure no real damage was done. I'd knocked my head around enough to know something superficial from something serious. She would wake up with a throbbing headache, maybe a little nausea, but she would be fine.
I put the gag in her mouth, and a layer of duct tape over that for added security, then cuffed her arms in the front. Behind the back was always preferable, but I was feeling fucking guilty about the whole thing, and I figured it would hurt like a bitch to roll around on your arms and shoulders in the back of a trunk for hours.
That handled, I hefted her up into my arms, walked through the house, tucked her into the trunk, closed it, got into the front, and drove off.
Really, I should have known the little hellcat wouldn't be a model kidnapping victim.
I wasn't more than a half an hour into the ride when the back of the car started knocking around. I shrugged it off. Any rational person would start rolling around and trying to break free when they woke up in a trunk.
I would learn, eventually, not to underestimate this kid.
But at the moment, I was just driving along the fucking parkway, doing the speed limit, using my blinkers, making sure no one would peg my car as suspicious. I drove in the slow lane, for fuck's sake.
Then the back seat slammed forward, and a girl was worming her way out of the trunk.
"Jesus fucking Christ," I snapped, surprised, jerking the wheel, swerving toward the car in front of me, then over-correcting to avoid clipping his tail. I straightened the car, then pulled over to the shoulder.
"Mother fucker," I growled when the tire caught some sort of debris there, blowing out, making me brake hard before I did any damage to the rims.
Anxiety gripped my system, knowing we were in the broad goddamn daylight now, that cars were whizzing by, and anyone might stop and try to be a Good Samaritan. Or the cops might happen by.
And I had a girl trying to free herself through the backseat.
"Fuck," I snapped again, whipping off my belt, flying out of my side, opening the back, grabbing the girl's shoulders, shoving her back into the hole she'd wiggled out of, then slamming the seat back into place. Inwardly chastising myself for not thinking of that safety feature, I took a seat in the back, legs braced against the front seat so I could apply pressure to the back one as the girl slammed up against it.
Reaching for my phone, I dialed up the only person I knew I could trust with this.
"Having problems already?" Emilio asked, snickering.
"You have no fucking idea. This girl just burst out of the back seat from the trunk on the parkway. I flew off the road. Tire is shredded. I obviously can't get out to deal with it. Or call Triple A. I need you to come, trade cars with me, and handle this shit."
"Sounds like an awful lot of trouble," Emilio said, and I could hear the smirk in his voice. "And you know me, not a responsible bone in my body."
"Milo, come the fuck on. I don't have time for your fucking around."
"I'm on my way. I'm just saying, you're losing your touch with the ladies, man."
"Yeah, and if you were here, she'd come with you willingly," I scoffed, wincing at the muffled scream coming from the trunk.
"Well, I am much better looking than you. Not to mention charming," Emilio said, chuckling. "Give me a mile marker. I will be there as fast as I can."
With that, I sat and waited, leaving my station only for a moment, to reach for the stereo, turning it up in case someone did try to stop and be a decent human being.
Thankfully, though, no one wanted to be decent this day in particular. Which was good. I liked assholes. That was why I enjoyed where I lived. Everyone minded their own goddamn business.
"Yeah?" I barked into my phone seeing my father's right-hand-man, Terry's, name on the screen.
"Need you to pick up a package," he said, cutting to the chase.
"I am already dealing with a package," I reminded him.
"Yeah, well, make room for another."
"Not another houseguest," I said, stomach dropping.
"No. Just a care package," Terry said in that nasally voice of his, thanks to one too many nose-breakings when he was my age. Likely due to the fact that he always thought he was more important than he was.
"Terry, I'm fucking busy here."
"You want me to tell your old man that? You're too busy for orders?"
That was a challenge, a threat. Because Terry had been vying for the underboss position for years. And he was resentful that I had gotten it, albeit begrudgingly. Kissing ass would get you all sorts of places, as he would know, but it was no substitute for hard work, and aptitude.
"Where is the package?"
"P.A."
"P.A.? There is no one closer than me without a houseguest in the car with him?"
"No one your father wants handling it."
To be perfectly honest, my father likely forgot that I was doing this pick-up today. He wasn't exactly great about keeping shit straight. But Terry was right; I couldn't say no. I had to do what I was told to do, or I risked losing my place. Which likely meant losing my life. And I'd be fucking damned if brown-nosing Terry got my position in this family.
"I'll handle it. Give me an address," I said, figuring I could pawn the girl off on Emilio if I had to, deal with the car and the package myself and let him bring her back to the city, deposit her in my apartment, get a guard or two on her. Or fucking five, with the spirit she had.
Even more frustrated than I had been five minutes before, I plugged the address into my phone, checking the route, seeing I would be going a solid five hours out of my way before circling back. I would just barely be able to squeeze in the meeting with the New Jersey family before getting back to the city finally.
It would be a tight timeframe, but I could manage. Once I got rid of the girl.
"No can do," Emilio said when he arrived, standing in the open door, smirking at the jostling trunk.
"What do you mean 'no can do'?" I asked, watching the traffic flying by, wondering how the fuck we were going to transfer an actual human being from one trunk to the other without being seen and reported.
"I have that meeting I am covering for you with the D'Onofrios," he reminded me. Apparently, Vin hadn't been happy with the way things had gone with my father. He wanted to have a talk with me. And since I was busy, I had told him I would send Emilio. I couldn't exactly call him again and say that, on second thought, I was going to send someone else. Emilio had to go. Which meant I was stuck with a girl in the goddamn trunk across more state lines, for likely a full twenty-four hours, then all during my meeting in New Jersey, before I could finally get us back to the city.
"We are going to need to stop somewhere," I realized, knowing I could go a long while without sleep, but we would need a bathroom, and food. Privacy for all of that. I couldn't exactly pull up to the local gas station with her, now, could I?
"Where's the pickup?" he asked, knowing the area better than I did, having extended family scattered all through Pennsylvania. Rattling off the address, he thought it o
ut. "There's a motel off that way. Nothing fancy. Your average sleep and fuck type place. By the hour or the night or the week. Can't guarantee you won't get bed bugs, but can guarantee everyone will mind their own fucking business. I can call ahead. Make some arrangements to have a room open for you. You can just go right in then."
"I'd appreciate that," I decided, knowing stopping anywhere wasn't going to be ideal, but there was no way around it, not if I wanted to make the pick-up on time, get to the meeting on time.
"Not a problem. Oh, here he is," Emilio said, jerking his chin toward the massive pick-up that was moving in behind his car, making a bit of a metal wall.
"You brought your little brother into this?" I asked, shaking my head. Anthony was all of eighteen, a late-life baby who was desperate to be an official part of the family by more than blood.
"He's going to get the donut on, so I can drive this thing back to the city. And I figured we could use more of a shield from curious eyes," he added, waving a hand toward the cars whizzing past.
"Alright. Good thinking. Pop your trunk," I demanded, taking a deep breath, knowing we would only have a few seconds to get this right. "Anthony," I greeted the younger, more serious version of Emilio. He was wider, more strongly built than his older brother, someone who'd played football all through high school, and it showed. "I am going to need you to help me move her," I told him, tone serious, getting a nod from him.
If there was anyone in the world who wasn't a made member of our family that I could trust, it was someone as hungry to get there as Anthony.
With that, I shot out of my seat, hitting the trunk button then rounding the car and flipping open the trunk to find the girl staring up at us, eyes wide and unseeing for a moment, accustomed to the dark, before they landed on me, seeming to register something.
And I was pretty sure I wasn't imagining the pure, undiluted hatred there in her gray eyes as she looked at me.
"Ready?" I asked, snapping out of my curiosity, figuring I had plenty of time to work out that look later as I grabbed her shoulders and Anthony wordlessly grabbed her feet.
The Woman in the Trunk Page 3