by Nicole Fox
“What’s going on?” I ask.
The fireman points behind me. “You should be behind the tape,” he says.
“I’m the police chief’s daughter,” I say. “Tell me what’s going on.”
He looks me over for several seconds, the light of the fire making one half of his face glow while the other half is in shadow. “There were multiple explosive devices in the house. We haven’t located any survivors, but we can’t get that far into the house without risking our men because the explosions increased the risk of structural failure. All we can do is prevent the fire from spreading.”
They haven’t found Lev.
As the firefighter turns to look back at the fire, I run. I’m within ten feet of the house by the time the firefighters start yelling. The entrance door is gone—removed or reduced to rubble—so I run straight in.
It’s like stepping into hell. I check my arms and legs to see if I’m burning as the heat cuts into me like a knife. I should be thinking about the baby, something says in the back of my mind, but Lev is uppermost right now. I have to find him. He needs me. And I need him.
Lev favored three places in his house: his office, his gym, and his den. His office and his gym are both on the second floor, so I head to the den first.
The ceiling is splintering. I can’t recall what room is above this one, but it’s ready to come crashing through. I glance around the room from the archway.
He’s not here.
I backtrack, checking the stairs. I try to step on the first two steps, but they both collapse under my weight. I grab onto the railing, but the metal sears my skin. As I jerk backward, I bump into a solid body.
I spin around, a merry-go-round of elation. It’s not Lev. It’s a firefighter. He grabs me, throwing me over his shoulder. I start to struggle, but it does no good as he jogs me out of the house.
I’m too embarrassed to even raise my head as he takes me to the firetruck farthest away from the mansion and lowers me to a seat on the metal ledge on the back.
I cover my face with my hands, trying not to scream in frustration. The grief takes hold faster than I can control it. The tears sneak down my face, clinging to my cheeks before dropping into my lap.
The firefighter holds out an oxygen mask. I take it. I doubt I need it, but I’ve heard the horror stories of people killed by smoke inhalation.
The scent in the mask is oddly sweet.
Something isn’t right.
As my head starts to wilt and my eyelids become heavy, I try to peer up at the firefighter. He looks all fuzzy but I’m certain he’s not familiar.
I take one more breath before my body lets go of consciousness.
21
Lev
My head is a coal mine, explosions with echoes of pain, clouds of dust turning my vision into blurs and darkness, and gases churning all my thoughts into disoriented fragments.
I force my eyes open.
The blurry room slowly comes into focus. I try to move my arms. Steel on my wrists. I push my hands together, finding the chain of the handcuffs. I move my hands backward, touching what’s between my hands and my back. Large circular wood. Too smooth to be a tree. Support beam.
Round support beams. Hickory floor. Two doorways come into focus. I used to slam one of them shut, an angry teenager who only wanted to fuck and kill.
I grew up here.
This is Marco’s bullshit. In order to inflict mental torture, he thinks my childhood home is the optimal environment. It must be exhausting to keep coming up with torture methods instead of simply shooting someone in the head.
I run my fingers over the cuffs. They aren’t cheap, kinky ones or shoddy antiques. If the support beam was built out of brick, I might have a chance of smashing it apart, but otherwise, they’re too sturdy to break.
I slam the side of the handcuffs against the support beam, attempting to hit the part with the rivet. It may be impossible, but I’m not going to wait around to be tortured.
The house vibrates as I jab the metal against the beam. It shouldn’t surprise me when somebody comes through the front door, but it pisses me off that it’s Marco.
He walks up to me but keeps four feet between us.
“I bet with all of your careful plotting and bravado, you didn’t see yourself ending up here,” he says. His voice is casual, but his arms are stiff and all of his weight is on his right leg like he’s prepared to bolt. He takes a few strides to his right and points downward. “The wood is still stained with your mother’s blood here. And since that’s the smaller bedroom, I assume that was where you used to sleep.”
We stare at each other. I force a smile.
“If you thought bringing me back here would cause me to break down, you haven’t figured me out,” I say. “I’m more likely to get upset over a bad steak.”
“I also heard rumors that you killed your father,” he continues. “Which could explain why you had no qualms about killing mine.”
“I had no qualms about killing your father because he was insignificant.”
His nostrils flare. “You’re not going to deny killing your own father?”
“I killed a man who no longer had control over his emotions and was a liability to the Bratva,” I say.
He’s seconds away from snapping. If I can get him close enough, I can eliminate him completely.
“I understand why it might be shocking to you, but I wasn’t dependent on my father. Maybe I should have waited a couple of years, so you could grow a spine and kill the son of a bitch yourself.”
Marco charges forward. His fist slams into my jaw. The pain hits like a firework—condensed, then rapidly spreading throughout my face. The taste of blood slips over my tongue.
He takes several steps back as I swivel my jaw.
“How’s that for spine?” he challenges.
I swallow some of the blood. “I’ve had girls do worse damage while blowing me. If you think it shows spine to hit a prisoner while both of his hands are behind his back, your daddy didn’t teach you shit about being a man.”
“If I wanted to be a man, I’d be in the other room with Allison rather than here with you,” he says.
I sneer at him. “Your bullshit isn’t going to work on me. Allison is having dinner with her parents tonight. I’ve had people checking up on her.”
“Yes,” he says. “I know. I also knew that she’d come running if she heard there were explosions at your house. And she did. It’s quite admirable how willing she was to run straight into your burning house.”
I scrutinize his face. “You’re lying.”
“But you don’t need to worry. I had one of my men pull her out. Dressed as a firefighter, of course. You’d be amazed at who people are willing to trust as long as they’re in uniform.”
He’s not lying. I see it in his eyes.
He’s not fucking lying.
I lurch up onto my feet. “I’m going to kill you.”
“You talk about spine and cowardice, but all that courage didn’t do shit for you or your girlfriend.” He turns away from me, walking away. I lunge forward, the house trembling as the handcuffs jab against the support beam. “Thank you, though, for the idea about the jaw-breaking blowjobs. I’ll enjoy that.”
I hurl myself forward over and over again, even after he’s left. My shoulders feel like they’re ready to dislocate, but I keep going.
I’ll take this whole house down to get to Ally before he does.
My shoulders are burning. My arms are burning. My wrists are burning. My body is a wildfire, but I keep hurling myself forward. If there were a sharp object within reach of my hands, I’d start cutting off fingers to get my hand through the handcuff.
And it’s not for my sake, which is a change of pace.
Mariya’s Revenge is a testament to my work ethic that I can keep out in the open. The Bratva is a private monument to what I can do unfettered. I keep my enemies at heel and the police at bay, a whole city staring up at me like a frightened animal, u
nable to stop me from doing what I want. I care about my employees and my men, but in the end, it’s always been about me.
And I’d let it all collapse into dust and rubble to get Ally out of this.
I’d give up my freedom if it would ensure that she was happy. She’s given me more happiness and more purpose than I’ve ever had with anything else. She doesn’t deserve any of this violence.
We all have to die one day. I’d rather give it up for her than anything else. For her and our child.
I pause, hearing a rumble. I’ve tried to call out to Ally, but she’s either unconscious or Marco has her somewhere out of hearing.
A car door slams shut.
I press my back against the support beam. The door swings open. When Marco walks back in, his expression is composed. If I’m going to goad him into a fight, I’ll have to get far enough under his skin that he ends up cutting open his own flesh.
“You know, I respected your father,” I say. “He was indomitable. You’re immeasurably less impressive.”
“Oh, you got me, Lev,” A sneer on his face, he puts his fist over his heart. “That’s exactly how to break my heart. Keep talking about my father. I’d love to hear your psychoanalysis.”
“You’re far more interesting. Any shrink would wonder how a man as impressive as Duilio could raise someone as weak-minded as you,” I say. “It’s just sad that after so many generations, the Colosimos will wither and die this way. You were worthwhile enemies—for a time. But you will never live up to what your father did because your father wasn’t overwhelmed by emotions. Your father would never throw away the Mafia’s legacy—not even to avenge you if you’d been killed.”
“You’re projecting,” Marco interjects, taking a step forward. “Everyone knows your father couldn’t give two shits about his family. You think when he was beating your mama, she wondered where you were? You think she thought you knew about it and never came to save her?”
I shrug. “They’re both rotting in the ground. You’re the one concerned about the dead. On the subject of rotting corpses, I’m most shocked that you took over for your father. We both know he didn’t want you to be the don.”
His jaw clenches. He tries to laugh, but it sounds more like a cough. “My father had full faith in me. There was nothing he wanted more than for me to take over for him.”
“He didn’t think you had what it took to become the don,” I say. “He thought you lacked self-discipline.”
“You’re full of shit,” Marco says, a slight edge slipping out in his last word.
“You think I’m pulling some mind game, but I know this because your father sold you out to convince me that we were close allies.” I smile at him. “He told me that he knew you lacked self-discipline because you pissed the bed until you were ten.”
Marco’s face turns bright red. He charges up to me, our faces less than two inches apart.
“My father terrorized me,” he says, spittle hitting my face. “That’s the only reason I had any problems. He—”
I slam my head into Marco’s. Marco lurches back, clinging the bridge of his nose. Blood trickles down, skipping past his chin to his shirt.
“Motherfucker!” he shouts. “Fucking motherfucker.”
He rushes at me. His fist swings. The pain erupts. My legs buckle.
Before I fall, his other fist swings up. It collides with my jaw, my teeth slamming together. Adrenaline floods my system, blunting the pain. His fist comes at me again. I shift my head enough that it brushes against my jaw before hitting against the support beam. He makes a primal noise, taking two steps back.
When he kicks me, I know it’s coming, but he keeps kicking, gripping the support beam for stability. His foot jabs against my chest. I let my body slide forward the slightest bit. He hits my ribs. I move my leg down until it’s between his legs, letting him think the pain is crippling me.
It would be, but I focus on the memory of Ally’s face.
He hits my ribs again. As he raises his other foot again, I yank my leg back and stomp at his ankle. He stumbles, catching himself on the beam and pushing back, limping slightly.
He stares at me, his chest heaving. He’s a rabid animal. There’s nothing in his eyes but violence.
“We’re going to settle this,” he spits out. “And by the end of it, you’re going to regret every word that came out of your fucking mouth.”
He moves behind me. If he breaks one of my arms, I’m fucked.
Something small is pressed into the palm of my hand.
“Unlock the cuffs,” he says. I maneuver the key, getting it into the keyhole. The cuffs pop open. I bring my hands in front of me. My wrists have cuts in them from trying to break the cuffs.
Marco raises his fists, squaring off. I stand up slowly, testing the damage to my body. I drop the key on the floor.
I raise my fists, too.
My father used to tell me that pain was negotiable. He meant that anyone could handle pain if they weren’t soft, toughened by perseverance through previous pain, but I’m willing to negotiate now. I tell the pain to keep at bay now and I’ll let it conquer me after Ally is safe. I tell it that I’ll let it rip me to pieces—tomorrow. I’ll let it kill me—but later. Not now. Not yet.
Marco circles closer toward me. He wants me to move, to see where my weaknesses are. Just from his small stature, I know he’s going to be faster than me. There’s no point in trying to get around that, so there’s little point in moving first.
I lower my hands. He charges forward, swinging his fist. I block it with my forearm, grabbing onto the arm with my other hand. I yank him forward, jabbing him in the throat. When he bends over to gasp for breath, I thrust my knee into his face. His head snaps back with a guttural yell. I grab him by his hair, yanking his head down. I slam my fist down into the side of his head. He collapses onto the floor, his face stained red.
“Tell me where Ally is,” I say. He spits blood out. As he starts to stand back up, I stomp down between his shoulder blades. He falls onto his chest, his chin hitting against the floor. I grit my teeth together, rubbing my ribs where he kicked me, trying to ignore the pain that is demanding my attention in spite of my bargaining.
“Fuck you,” he snarls.
I slam my foot down again. He rolls out of the way and twists back around to grab my leg, becoming an anchor. I strike the side of his head as he tries to get up, but it only gives him an opening. He hits me in the ribs, the same place he kicked me twice. It sends shock waves of pain through me. I take several steps back, gripping my side, as he retreats as well.
My arms are heavy from trying to get free and he’s already faster than me. I need to end this now.
I lunge forward. As he ducks, trying to get under me to avoid my fists, I thrust my knee up into his head. He recoils. I grab him by the throat, thrusting him against the beam. My fingertips dig into his throat.
“Tell me where Ally is,” I hiss. “Or I’ll tear your throat out.”
I apply more pressure, feeling the muscles tighten in his neck. I loosen my grip when his lips try to form words.
“I’ll tell you,” he chokes out. His eyes flicker behind me. I start to turn, but an arm hooks around my neck, pulling tight like a noose. The other hand is close to my ear, fingers pressing against the back of my skull, telling me it’s a rear-naked choke, which is far from ideal. I back up quickly, slamming the other man’s back against the wall, but it barely loosens his grip. I try to ram him into the wall again, but he’s prepared this time.
As his grip tightens, Marco hurls forward, hitting me so hard against the head that the rear-naked choke loosens from my momentum. I jerk forward, grabbing onto Marco, but before I can hit him, the other man punches me in the back of my head. I fall to my hands and knees. Marco kicks my ribs over and over, lightning strikes of pain coursing through me. The other man stomps down, putting his weight into the attack, but it can’t compare to Marco’s rage.
Time sneaks in and out of my perception. At ti
mes, I hear my mother screaming. In others, I see Ally breaking down in Renovate boutique.
All the people I let down. All the people I couldn’t save.
“Cuff him again,” Marco’s voice floats through the disorientation. Hands grab me, dragging me until I feel the support beam behind me. The cuffs snap back onto my wrists, a final victory.
A hand wraps around my throat.
“Before you die, I don’t want you to think you won,” Marco hisses. “I didn’t want to kill you yet because I have other plans for that.”
He releases my neck. I hear his footsteps, moving away from me.
“Prepare the disposal site,” he tells the other man.
Footsteps.
Door opening and closing.
Silence.
I let the pain rip through me. I let it take over until my body can’t take it anymore.
22
Allison
Funny the things you remember when you’re tied up. Literally.
18 U.S. Code 1201 floats through my mind—the federal statute pertaining to kidnapping. It can lead to life imprisonment and, if the victim dies, it can lead to the death penalty in certain states.
This is not reassuring to most victims, especially when the victim wakes up in a bedroom next to two dead bodies and is informed by a large kidnapper that they were the house’s owners.
The cloth gag is damp against my tongue, but the dry sections still cut into the corners of my mouth. The cable ties press my wrists so tightly together, I can feel a patch of sweat between them behind my back. They’re tied to more cable ties, tethering me to the leg of a bed.
I glance over at the two dead bodies, my only companions now. After hearing thumping noises over and over, the kidnapper ran out of the room. I thought I heard Lev earlier, but I haven’t heard him again, which could mean that whatever gas they gave me caused me to hallucinate or he’s dead.