by Leigh, Tara
Run.
A vice clamps over my arm. “Don’t even think about it.”
But it’s all I can think about. Running. Escaping.
Living.
I throw my head back, this time making contact with his nose. His howl of outrage ends in a grunt when my elbow jabs into his ribs. I bolt forward, lunging up the last step and looking for a door or a weapon. A way to escape or a way to kill. Either would be an acceptable option.
I don’t bother worrying about where I will go. Who I am running to. That doesn’t matter, not right now. All I know is that I have a chance at escape, at freedom—and I’m taking it.
The pressure from my elbow, or maybe just the fact that I dared to use it, catches him off guard. He lets go of my arm to grab for the banister attached to the side wall, stumbling down a few steps.
I bolt, automatically looking for a door, a window, something leading outside, away from here.
The details of my surroundings barely register as I see exactly what I’m looking for and sprint in its direction. A door. My fingertips graze the rusted, wrought iron handle for a fleeting second before I am tackled from behind. My head slams against the ground. Hard.
My vision blurs, tears stinging my eyes.
“Fucking bitch.” His insult is a guttural snarl, his mouth so close to my face a spray of spittle lands on my skin. “I should let Cruz’s men rape you.”
He hauls me to my feet, nearly dislocating my shoulder. I wince at the pain even as my eyes bounce around the space, looking for clues.
Although they only make me more confused. I’m in a church. An abandoned church. The space is long and rectangular, the small windows so dirty that, while sunlight gets in, it’s impossible to see out. It is obvious that no one has worshipped here in a long time, if ever. Broken sculptures line the walls three-deep, a thick layer of dust covers the floor, and cobwebs cling to narrow, arched windows like tattered lace curtains.
“Where are we?” I ask, my head swiveling from side to side. I don’t hear any traffic, no signs that we’re still in Manhattan.
“What difference does it make? A place no one can hear you scream—that’s all you need to know.”
I hold my head high, mustering my haughtiest glower and deciding to push my luck a little further. “You’re not in charge. That photo you took, it’s for Hugo Cruz, isn’t it?”
The hand holding my arm tightens, the vein at his jaw bulging.
But we both know that I’m right.
“I wonder what he would do to you if he finds out that I’ve been hurt. To Cruz, I’ll bet your life is worth a hell of a lot less than mine.”
He practically flings me toward a tiny bathroom at the back off the chapel. It is obviously a newer addition, although it looks to be at least thirty years old. And filthy.
If the door worked, I would have slammed it in his face. But it hangs crookedly by just one hinge, swinging awkwardly when I attempt to close it. “Would you mind turning around?”
His roar of laughter is answer enough, but he adds, “Forget it,” anyway.
I lift my torn skirt and hover over the seat, lowering my gaze to the cracked tile beneath my feet and wincing in shame as the sound of my urine hitting the bowl echoes against the walls.
Privacy is a luxury.
I remember King’s words as I flush the toilet and unsuccessfully attempt to squeeze a pump of soap from the empty plastic bottle at the sink. Water is a thin trickle from the faucet. I rinse my hands, then wipe them on my skirt.
He jerks his chin at the creaky steps I just came from. “Let’s go.”
A fresh surge of fear sends goose bumps scurrying across my skin, even the tiniest hairs at the back of my neck raising like antennae saluting danger.
I don’t want to go back downstairs, to that dark hole of a closet, back to the other men. I don’t want to feel the walls pressing in on me, to choke on the thick darkness that amplifies every fear living inside my mind.
But I have no weapon, not even a pair of shoes. I swallow my reservations and step out of the bathroom, moving slowly. All I have is my mind, my negotiating skills. I can do this.
“Please.” I lower my voice to a whisper, cringing at the edge of desperation that clings to each syllable. “You don’t have to do this. Let me go, now, and—”
“And what? You’ll go back in time and convince your father not to play me against Cruz?” He gives a humorless laugh. “Cruz would kill me before I’d ever get a chance to testify against him.”
“What if I could get you out of New York? Give you money to start over, somewhere else. Make a fresh start for yourself.”
“There is no escape from Hugo Cruz.”
“And you think Damon King is just going to let me go?”
He looks me up and down with a cold, appraising glance. “I think you’re easily replaceable. Give it a couple of days and he’ll forget all about you.”
I want to argue, to protest.
But the truth is, I’m not entirely sure he’s wrong. Without oxygen, the passion that raged between Damon and me will surely fade away. How long will it take before Damon decides I’m not worth the trouble?
Why shouldn’t he give up on me, too?
7
DAMON
“Did you get anything from that picture? Or the email?”
Computers pick up details the naked eye can’t. Even though I hadn’t noticed anything from my quick glance, I expected Finley would have some information by the time I got back to the office.
The swift shake of her head sends a crack through my chest. “Not yet.”
“What about that damn dog walker? Or the dogs, the vans, the fucking trash on the street? Do we have anything to go on at all?”
“The second I do, I’ll—”
The swell of my temper is a visceral thing, sending a hot and violent rage surging through my bloodstream like lava. “Fuck!” I slam my hand on the nearest flat surface. My palm makes a loud thwack, the reverberation shuddering through the bones of my arm. “There’s gotta be something, damn it.”
“We did learn something,” she says. “We learned Cruz is contacting Lytton directly, without going through you.”
My jaw is twitching from grinding my teeth. Finley is right. I am the middle-man between Cruz and Granville, not Lytton. “If Lytton’s trying to pull a fast one, let’s get more eyes on the Manhattan DA’s internal database.”
I head for my office, my steps heavy with disappointment that Finley hasn’t found something more concrete in my absence.
Using my servers, a fingerprint or photograph can be run through any database in the world. If Cruz’s men are on an international or domestic watch list, we might get a hit in minutes.
I’ve assembled a brilliant, highly qualified team accustomed to working outside the box. Surely Aislinn should have been found by now.
It’s already been hours.
From my own bank of computers, I check Finley’s work. Every search function. Every set of parameters. Every source code, subnet address, and security network.
Sweat beads on my brow as I meticulously review every damn thing Finley has done to track down Aislinn.
“Find what you’re looking for?”
I glance up to find her standing in my doorway, arms crossed as she leans against the wall, her face an impassive mask. “What do you think I’m looking for?”
“Proof that I’m not doing my job. Or that I’m stalling. Maybe even planting evidence to lead you in the wrong direction.” She shrugs her shoulders. “Sabotage.”
“Will I find it?”
“Have you?” she shoots back.
I push my chair back. “No.”
It is the truth. Finley’s work is above reproach.
“Did you really expect to find anything different?”
I don’t answer. I am a desperate man, desperate for the truth. The truth is: hope outweighs expectation. I wanted to find errors in her work, whether intentional or not.
Bec
ause I need something to work with, something to fix.
Something to do besides losing my goddamn mind.
Instead, I ask, “Are you doing everything you can to find her?”
Finley’s eyes slide away from mine, but not in a deceptive way. It is because her expression softens. “Aislinn tried to get to know me. Not just as a way to work herself into your life or your business. I think she was genuinely interested in me, you know?”
I kick my legs out in front of my chair, crossing them at the ankles as I tip my head back and drag my palms over my face. A heavy sigh shudders from my lungs. “Yeah. I know.”
Finley adds, “I’m ready to get to know her too. I want to. And not just because she’s my sister.”
“Half-sister,” I correct, a teasing note just barely audible in a voice that is rough with worry.
“Whatever. I want her back, Damon. Same as you.”
No one wants Aislinn back as badly as I do, but I’m not about to argue the point. It’s a weight off my shoulders to know that Finley and I are driving for the same goal.
I stand up and walk toward her now, clapping a hand on her shoulder and giving a light squeeze. “I’m heading out, going to see what I can find out on the ground. You’ll keep me updated.”
My gut clenches when I get close enough to look into her eyes. They are identical to Aislinn’s.
Identical, and yet entirely different.
Finley regards me with quiet, steady intelligence. Our relationship is based on history and mutual respect. She’s been integral to the success of my business and to The Network. Our exchanges are cool and productive.
There are no sparks between Finley and me.
There never have been.
With Aislinn, we are our own fireworks show.
Everything between us is a clash, a blazing battle of wills and wants. Our energy and ideas. Our approach to work and life. Our passion for each other.
She drives me crazy with her questions and doubts and conflict.
And I fucking love the challenge.
Aislinn makes me feel alive in the most intense way.
The thought of never seeing her again, never fighting or kissing or laughing or fucking or—
No. I’m not going down that path.
I will get her back.
“Where are you going?”
The belly of the beast. “Uptown.”
She blinks. “Los Muertos territory.”
“While I’m gone, pull together a list of every art gallery and private collector Sebastián Cruz has ever done business with.”
I’ve already dug into Cruz’s personal financials. Everything appeared clean. But maybe I shouldn’t be looking at them from his perspective. “Comb through their accounts. If they’ve ever received a single peso of Los Muertos cash, I want to know.”
“Consider it done.”
I stride past her and catch Burke’s eye. “Ready to kick some Los Muertos ass?” I ask, cracking my knuckles.
His face splits into a wide grin. “Fuck, yeah.”
“Let’s roll.”
Aislinn, I’m coming for you. The king will take back his queen.
Check. Fucking. Mate.
8
AISLINN
It’s been three days. The longest three days of my life.
No natural light penetrates the large closet, or maybe small storage room of this dark, dank basement, but I mark time by whether the food tossed my way is called lunch or dinner.
I did attempt a hunger strike, but by the second day, the dog walker, whose name I now know is Michael, said if I didn’t eat something he would need to run errands for the rest of the day, leaving me alone with his three compadres.
I hated giving in.
Hated the sneer of satisfaction that made me feel as greasy as the fried dough of the foil-wrapped empanada Michael chucked my way.
I hated myself most of all. For still being here.
Michael took away my chair, so I’ve spent three days sitting on a crib-sized mattress, my back wedged into the corner, my knees tucked under my chin, my arms wrapped around my shins. I barely move. I barely breathe. I barely sleep.
I listen. Alert for any opportunity to escape.
So far, there hasn’t been any.
But not a second has passed that I haven’t been grateful to Damon for our last night together. For all our moments together, but particularly our last. Because that night is saving me now. The night I asked him to be my monster. Prove to me that giving up control isn’t the same as having it taken away.
I have no control over anything right now, but when the darkness feels overwhelming, I close my eyes and remember the night it wasn’t. I remember the intimacy of those hours. The feeling that Damon and I were the only two people in the universe.
And I pretend I’m still in his arms, safe inside our dark cocoon.
The darkness isn’t quite as thick today. The door separating me from my captors is old and warped, difficult to close. Michael had been careless earlier when he brought me lunch.
A late lunch because my stomach was growling by the time he tossed me a greasy KFC bag. I’m nibbling on a drumstick when I hear footsteps on the stairs.
Footsteps that can’t belong to one of my kidnappers, because all four of them are seated around the card table.
My heart leaps with joy, with relief.
The hell with all my ideas. Fairy tales are the bomb. Getting rescued by Damon King, my dark knight, my Prince Charming—what’s wrong with that?
Nothing. Not a damn thing.
Excitement flares with each step. Michael and all his men, they are just walking corpses. Damon will crack their heads together. He’ll split their throats. He’ll snap their necks. I will stomp on their broken bodies. Spit in their bloody faces. We will walk out of here together.
I am certain those texts were just a misunderstanding. Damon is not a hired assassin, taking orders from Chad and my father. I was angry because of what I read and he was angry because what I read was on his phone.
As Marisol used to tell me, “Two wrongs don’t make a right.”
Our two wrongs took us in the wrong direction, and I am eager to clear the air with Damon.
I still want to get away from New York. Away from my father and Chad. Away from Los Muertos. But I want to get back to Damon more.
I press my face against the narrow opening, my eyelashes brushing the edge of the door with each blink, impatiently waiting for my first glimpse of Damon in three days.
I can’t wait to jump in Damon’s arms and—
No. No, no, no.
The footsteps don’t belong to Damon.
My heart sinks, dissolving at my feet as dread blows through me like an arctic wind. “Sebastián.” I jerk back, whispering his name as a haze of tears clouds my vision. “No.”
I haven’t wanted to think he might be involved in this. The Sebastián Cruz I knew wasn’t the son of a cartel kingpin. He was a nice kid. A childhood fling that went nowhere. A pleasant, but faded memory.
I force myself to look through the small opening again. Even in the dim light of the basement, the gold flecks inside Sebastián’s pale green eyes shine brightly. He looks like he’s made a wrong turn at the end of a runway, all immaculate clothes and perfect hair. The high sweep of his cheekbones leading to a strong chin, the perfect posture that conveys both arrogance and derision in equal measure. He pauses at the bottom step for a moment, inclining his head toward Michael and the other three men. “Where is she?”
Michael jerks his chin in my direction. “In there.”
Sebastián sighs, whether in disappointment or anger, I can’t tell. I hope it’s the latter. I hope all of this has been a surprise to him and he’s here to apologize and let me go.
“Stand at the top of the stairs, just in case she tries to run.”
I gasp, feeling like I’ve been punched in the stomach. Sebastián may not have grabbed me off the street—but he is definitely one of my kidnappers.
The door opens and Sebastián peers inside, his face arranged into an artful mask of concern.
But a mask is all it is. If Sebastián were concerned for me, he would never have allowed this.
My fingers curl around the fried drumstick in my hands, tempted to chuck it at Sebastián and make a run for it. Except that there’s nowhere to run. My would-be rapists are walking up the only set of stairs and have been tasked—by Sebastián—with blocking my exit.
But there’s no running away from the betrayal that wraps around my lungs, constricting them. The chicken leg drops to the ground from my numb fingers. “What have you done?”
He looks around, disappointment pulling at his brow as he takes in our surroundings. “You won’t have to stay here much longer, Aislinn. Just until King is convinced that I’m not—”
“Sebastián!” I interrupt, shouting his name this time. “What the hell is going on?”
He gestures toward the card table and folding chairs.
I don’t want to sit. I want to march right up the stairs and out the door to … wherever we are.
But I squash the instinct and sit down, flicking a tongue over my dry lips and pasting the interested yet aloof expression I use when meeting with new clients on my face. An expression that says: nothing you can possibly say will shock me, so tell me everything.
Sebastián lifts his eyes to mine. “Do you remember what I said to you when we were paired up in Biology—the day we had to dissect a frog?”
I blink away my surprise, although the twang of impatience is harder to hide. “I’m not exactly in the mood to reminisce about high school.”
“Humor me.”
I remember. Of course, I remember. “You said I have nice hands, I should keep them clean.”
He nods. “I thought I could keep my hands clean too. But when you’re born into Los Muertos, it’s next to impossible. There’s a chance though. A chance for both of us.”
For a moment neither of us says anything, but then I lift my arms, gesturing at the basement I’ve been stuck in for three days. “That’s it—you expect me to buy that cryptic explanation? Are you kidding me, Seb?”