BOUND IN LOVE
ALEXIS ABBOTT
© 2017 Pathforgers Publishing.
All Rights Reserved. If you downloaded an illegal copy of this book and enjoyed it, please buy a legal copy. Either way you get to keep the eBook forever, but you’ll be encouraging me to continue writing and producing high quality fiction for you. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imaginations. Any resemblances to actual persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
This book is intended for sale to Adult Audiences only. All sexually active characters in this work are over 18. All sexual activity is between non-blood related, consenting adults. This is a work of fiction, and as such, does not encourage illegal or immoral activities that happen within.
Cover Design by Wicked Good Covers. All cover art makes use of stock photography and all persons depicted are models.
More information is available at Pathforgers Publishing.
Content warnings: mafia violence, human trafficking, murder. This is part 3 in a 3 part series.
Wordcount: 62,000 Words
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CONTENTS
Bound for Life
1. Serena
2. Serena
3. Serena
4. Don Abruzzi
5. Serena
6. Serena
7. Bruno
8. Serena
9. Bruno
10. Serena
11. Bruno
12. Serena
13. Bruno
14. Serena
15. Bruno
16. Serena
17. Bruno
18. Serena
19. Don Abruzzi
20. Bruno
21. Epilogue - Serena
Translations
What To Read Next
Prologue
Molly
Also by the Author
About the Author
Romance Novels to your Email
Before you read this, make sure you’ve read Bound for Life & Bound to the Mafia. This is a three book trilogy.
1
SERENA
He said he’d always keep me safe.
He told me everything would be okay in the end. He promised me that no matter what happened, we would face it together. Side by side. Hand in hand. Bruno and Serena, us against the world. After everything we’ve been through, it was easy to think we could overcome all odds and emerge victorious together. Love conquers all, doesn’t it?
He told me so. And I believed him.
Is this cruel world going to make a liar out of the love of my life?
Almost like an answer, the car jostles and thumps over a pothole in the road, causing the seatbelt to strain against my barely-pregnant belly. I instinctively lay my hands over my stomach. As though that might be enough to protect the child I’m carrying. As if I have any control over what happens to my baby and me anymore. A lump forms in my throat, aching as I force myself to swallow down another dry sob. I’m all cried out. In fact, I’m probably pretty dehydrated from crying for so long. How long, exactly, I’m not sure. Time stopped for me the moment that car bomb exploded. The hours stopped making sense when Nico threw Rafaela and me into his car and sped away from the scene of the crime.
All I know is that I’ve been in a car—various cars, actually—for what feels like an eternity. Hours and hours, probably. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve switched off into a different car, with a different driver. I don’t know where I am or where I’m going. The scenery outside my window, dimly lit by streetlights and the crescent moon, all blends together into nothingness. I can’t make the world around me make sense, not without Bruno by my side.
He’s all I can think about. It feels like there’s a massive, gaping hole in my heart, and I can’t find the missing piece to make it complete again. I’m trying to figure out what led me to this moment. How the hell did I get here? Alone and afraid and broken-hearted? I’ve replayed the scene a thousand times in my head: the hail of bullets, the explosion, the flash of bright light, the smell of burning metal and rubber. Nico pushing me to the ground to shield me from attack. Rafaela sobbing. The screams of the crowd, the bodies dropping in the street.
The sight of what used to be Bruno’s car, now a mass of flame and smoke, shrinking smaller and smaller on the horizon in the rear view mirror as we drove away and left the man I love behind in the impossible wreckage. Not a single sign of life. Nothing at all to give me some tiny glittering bead of hope that Bruno might have survived. I kept waiting for that sign, long after the burning car was out of sight. I expected Nico to assure me that Bruno was just going to the hospital. That he was hurt, but alive.
But it didn’t. Nothing happened. Nothing changed. That sign never came.
Nico drove for a long while. Rafaela finally stopped crying and we rode in silence. I was too shocked to even speak, just staring down at my hands. The ring sparkling on my finger. After an hour or so, Nico spoke up. He informed me solemnly that he was taking me to a drop point, where I would be transferred to another vehicle for the next leg of my getaway journey. I didn’t even respond. There was nothing to say. Sure, I could have asked where they would take me, where I would end up, who was going to look after me, how long I would have to be gone. Was this going to be permanent? What would happen to the baby? Would we just start over? Begin a quiet new life somewhere far away, try to forget the horrors I’ve witnessed?
But honestly? I didn’t care. Not then. Not right after watching the love of my life be devoured by greedy flames. Watching my whole heart, my future reduced to ash.
I have hardly noticed the faces of the many men who have driven me all this way. There were so many pass-overs, so many cars... They’re trying to be secure, and every couple of hours, I have to shift from one vehicle to the next, in a daze.
I haven’t even noticed which direction we’re going. I couldn’t tell you the make and model or even the color of the vehicles I’ve been traveling in for the past half-day or so. It doesn’t matter anyway. Wherever I end up, it’ll all be the same. Without Bruno, there is no safe place to go. There is no hope anymore.
I’ve stayed pretty much silent all this time, except for when necessity made me speak up and ask the driver to pull over so I could throw up. I don’t know if it’s pregnancy nausea or just my body reacting to the horrific scene I keep replaying in my head, but my stomach just won’t settle. I haven’t eaten for hours, and I’ve barely touched a drop of the bottled water Nico shoved into my purse before passing me onto the next driver. I know, deep down, eventually I will have to give in and start acting like a person again. If not for my sake, then for the baby’s sake. But right now, I just can’t bring myself to care.
When these current drivers took me into their car, they made me turn my phone off just in case the Cleaners might somehow tap my phone or track it. But after a while, I surreptitiously turned it back on. The threat of being tracked down by the bad guys doesn’t scare me like it probably should. It seems more important to have my phone on. Just in case. I keep thinking my phone will buzz with a text message.
Mia passerotta, not even death can take me from you.
I swallow hard and check my phone for the hundredth time. Nothing. Of course.
“Take this exit,” says the stocky guy in the passenger seat. The driver nods. I finally look out the window and catch a glimpse of the sun rising through the clouds. The sky is streaked pink and orange, casting a beautiful peachy glow over the
highway, the trees lining the pavement. We’re crossing state lines, heading west, I think. Maybe south? Not that it matters.
My stomach lurches again and I clap a hand over my mouth as I feel the bile rising up my throat. Ugh. Not again. I struggle to gain some composure for a moment, and then lean forward to tap the guy in the passenger seat on his muscular shoulder.
“Sir,” I murmur, my voice sounding rough from the hours of crying. He turns to look at me with mild surprise, almost like he’s forgotten I’ve been back here the whole time. “Could you guys pull over somewhere? I think I’m gonna be sick again.”
“You got food poisoning or somethin’?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. The driver reaches across the console to shove him on the arm.
“She’s pregnant, you prick,” says the driver, his voice low and gruff. “Remember?”
The stocky guy makes a face halfway between a grimace and a wince. “Oh. Well, what the hell do we want with a pregnant lady—”
The driver reaches over and punches him in the arm before he can finish the sentence. I roll my eyes and rest my forehead against the window, trying not to vomit all over the swanky leather interior of this getaway car. The trees flashing by are making me feel sicker, my head spinning. I close my eyes and just try to focus on breathing slowly. In and out. In and out.
After a few minutes of gradually slowing down, the vehicle pulls onto a shoulder and rolls to a stop. I hurriedly push open the door and run as fast as my cramped legs can carry me to the edge of where the woodsy brush begins to keel over and vomit. Once I’m done, I hobble weakly back to the car, finally use some of that bottled water to rinse my mouth out, and settle into my seat again. I click the seatbelt over my chest, a hand cradling my barely-there baby bump. As the car pulls back onto the road, the passenger-side guy turns around and offers me a stick of minty gum.
“Might help ya feel a little less gross,” he says, shrugging. I take the gum thankfully.
As I’m chewing it, I happen to glance up at the rear view mirror and notice the driver staring at me. As soon as we make eye contact, his eyes flick back to the road. Weird, but then again, I suppose it’s not every day these guys have to transport a random pregnant girl across state lines.
Especially if they know what kind of shit I’m running from.
It’s not like these Costa guys know how to comfort a grieving, emotional, hormonal woman. Stuff like this is probably not high on their list of priorities, and I can’t imagine their training prepares them for a situation like mine.
A stupid thought pops up in my head: they’re more afraid of you than you are of them. If I wasn’t so depressed and numb, I might have laughed. But no sooner does this amusing thought appear than it disappears, and the image of Bruno’s face, smiling down at me at the celebratory dinner table last night swims to the front of my mind.
That handsome, strong face. Those sharp cheekbones. Those sensuous lips. Those olive-green eyes lit up with flames of love, burning brightly for me alone.
Now a different kind of flame is burning. My eyes itch, wanting to cry but unable to pull any tears. There aren’t any left. I feel my cheeks going red, my heart skipping a beat and that pit in my stomach as I remember that I will never get to see those beautiful eyes again. He’s gone. Bruno is gone, and I am all alone in the world.
Well, not quite alone. Bruno may have left me, swallowed up by the fire, but I’m still here and this baby needs to have at least one parent alive. I know it’s what Bruno would want—for me to pull myself together for the sake of the child.
It would shatter his heart to think of me just giving up, throwing in the towel.
He would want me to be strong. This baby needs me to be strong. He or she is all that’s left of Bruno in the world, and if I were to just let my grief take over instead of keeping a brave face and doing what I have to do for our kid, what kind of wife would I be?
Sure, we never got to have a wedding. We were getting there. We thought we had time. Why in the world should we have expected things to fall apart so completely? Besides, even if we didn’t make it official in time, I will always consider myself Bruno’s wife. I’ve been his all along.
My heart has belonged to Bruno since I was sixteen years old, and that isn’t going to change just because he’s gone. No, I’ve got to hold it together somehow. For the baby. For Bruno’s memory.
Which means I need to drag myself out of this darkness bit by bit. I need to remember who the hell I am. I will never, ever get over losing Bruno. This pain is going to stay with me for the rest of my life. But if I let it dominate me completely, how can I be a good mother to our baby?
Nope.
I need a break from this constant mourning. A distraction, at least for a little while. Rubbing my stomach absentmindedly, I decide to distract myself and try to make conversation. The silence is getting a little awkward anyway.
“So where are you taking me?” I pipe up, barely able to even conjure enough energy to sound interested in the answer. But I’m trying.
The driver and passenger-seat guy look at each other for a moment without replying. I start to wonder if they even heard me. Then the stocky passenger says, “Uh, you know. South.”
“South,” I repeat flatly. That’s not much of an answer. Suddenly, I am a little interested.
“Mhmm.”
“Okay,” I mumble, frowning. “Could you maybe be more specific?”
“You don’t need to worry about the details,” the driver interrupts. “We’re handling everything. You just sit back and relax, alright?”
“Oh!” exclaims the passenger-seat guy suddenly. He opens the dash compartment and takes out a white medicine bottle, the pills rattling around inside. “You got a messed-up stomach, right? Well, I just remembered we got these pills here. You know. For motion sickness and shit.”
I catch the driver smiling into the rear view mirror. It seems strange, somehow.
The stocky guy turns in his seat and offers me two oblong olive-colored pills. I cock my head to one side, a little confused. Something seems off. When I was a teenager, I used to have horrible motion sickness. Bad enough that our family doctor prescribed me clinical-strength meclizine for it so that I could ride the subway without turning green in the face.
And I have never seen motion sickness medicine that looks like that.
“Wh-what is it?” I ask, hesitantly reaching for the green pills.
“Uh, what’s this shit called again, boss?” the stocky guy says.
“What’s it—oh yeah, Dramamine. Yeah.”
“Right, right. Dramamine. It’s Dramamine.”
The passenger-seat guy twists back to look at me over his shoulder, his eyes glancing down to see that I’m still just holding the pills in my hand. He waits expectantly for me to put them in my mouth, staring at me with beady black eyes.
“Whatcha waitin’ for? Don’t you wanna feel better?” he urges me.
Just as I’m second-guessing my paranoia, there’s a series of deafening cracks splitting the air, and a rain of shattered glass flies toward me from the left-side window. I scream and duck down, bending over my stomach and covering my head with my hands. The car jerks left, then right, hits a bump in the road, and starts spinning rapidly.
“Jesus Christ!”
“What the fuck was that?”
“Get your gun, get your gun!”
I close my eyes tightly and try not to throw up, my head swimming with dizziness as the vehicle careens out of control. There’s a horrible whooshing sound as the car slides off the road, over the rumble strip, and thuds across the grass. I open my eyes just as another staccato cluster of gunshots rings out and a spray of bright red blood stains the dashboard. The driver’s been shot!
The car rolls straight into a tree with a powerful thump. I’m flung forward, my head knocking into the center console with a nauseating crack. I feel my vision go dark and my body fall limp, all sound fading out into nothing behind the rhythmic thud of my heart.
&nb
sp; When the light starts to filter back in and my head tingles as I wake back up, the passenger door swings open and a pair of powerful arms reach inside to yank me out of the back seat. I scream, thrashing and flailing with what limited strength my body can conjure up, fighting with my assailant. My vision is still blurry, my head pounding painfully, and I have no idea whose hands are on me right now. There’s another gunshot, so close to me that my ears sting with a high-pitched ringing, rendering me both stunned and deaf and completely helpless.
2
SERENA
“L et me go! Get your hands off me!” I screech, flinging knees and elbows in every direction, hoping I can somehow dislodge myself from my attacker’s grasp. I don’t have much of a plan beyond that.
I mean, I may be only barely starting to show, but I’m still pregnant. What am I going to do? Take off running into the woods? Still, the fact that it’s not only my life in danger, but the life of my baby, makes me fight that much harder.
I’m fighting for two.
“Serena!” the guy says through gritted teeth. He knows my name? And not only that, he says it with some degree of familiarity. Like he knows me. It’s so off-putting that I stop struggling for a moment and turn to look at him square in the face. He sighs, shaking his head. His eyes are wide, exhausted, with purplish bags under them. He looks like he hasn’t slept for a long time.
I don’t immediately recognize him. I squint, tilting my head to one side. Confusion and curiosity have overtaken my fear at this point. He doesn’t seem malicious, at least towards me, despite the fact that he just shot my drivers and caused my getaway car to smash into a tree. Then it hits me. I’ve seen his face before, and recently.
“You were… you were at the party,” I murmur, my words slurring. Wow, I must have really hit my head pretty hard. His face swims in front of me and I have to blink a few times to focus again. He nods and gently sets me aside, but with one hand still locked around my upper arm, as though I’m a wild animal he needs to keep on a leash.
Bound in Love (Bound to the Bad Boy Book 3) Page 1