Dimitri (The Italian Cartel Book 1)

by Shandi Boyes

  Confident I’ve got what it takes to divert disaster, I blurt out, “I’ve called the police. They’ll be here at any moment.” I didn’t call anyone. My cell battery died 1.8 miles from Hopeton. I just want them as scared as Mr. Petretti. “If you don’t want to be arrested, I suggest you leave right now.”

  My gall takes a step back when the man in the center of the group pulls a large black gun out of the back of his pants. I was prepared to face a handful of bruises from the whack of a walking cane, not a maiming bullet from a semi-automatic weapon. “Or perhaps I’ll just take care of business now instead of later.”

  The minute snippet of air in my lungs races out with a scream when he cocks back the hammer on his gun before he squeezes the trigger. He doesn’t just gun down the man he was in the process of shaking down. He blows off his entire face.

  Certain I’m next on the maniac’s hit list, I mumble out, “Never mind,” before pivoting on my heels and darting away.

  I make it three steps before a bullet whizzing past my ear stops me in my tracks. “The next one I’ll aim at your head.” Confident he has me scared enough I will do anything he asks, the lone soldier requests that I spin around. “I want to see your pretty face one final time before I blow it away.”

  After forcefully swallowing the bile racing up my throat, I do as requested. My knees weaken halfway around. The elderly gentlemen circling the now-faceless man aren’t the only men in the room. There are another four in the far corner of the dark space. They’re all wearing black and have guns much larger and more capable of hindering facial recognition in their hands.

  They appear bored until the only man seated rises to his feet. Unlike his mean-looking counterparts, he starts his assessment of my body from my snap-frozen toes to my whitened face. He takes his time, seemingly storing every little detail for future use.

  I wonder if he does that to all his victims, or am I special in some sick, twisted way?

  My hand unintentionally moves to flatten my frizzed hair when the stranger’s narrowed gaze shifts from my eyes to my hair. It’s longer than I normally wear it, and back to its natural red color. Waking up in a hospital room cuffed to a bed changed me. I’m not as straight as an arrow, but I’m most certainly trying to improve myself.

  Being ‘me’ was the very first step.

  I drop my hand like it’s a bomb when the dark-haired man pushes off his feet to cross the room. He has an arrogant walk full of cockiness and self-assuredness. It matches his persona, which is almost as suffocating as my lungs’ inability to suck in air when he stops to stand in front of me.

  Goosebumps rise across my skin when he raises his hand to my face. I’m anticipating for him to wipe away the blobs of wetness rolling down my cheeks, so you can imagine my shock when he merely brushes away the bangs I had cut to cover a scar no amount of concealer can hide.

  The room is cloaked by darkness—in more ways than one—but I can tell the exact moment the ugliest of my past rears its horrid head. The dark-haired man’s discovery of my two-inch scar screws up the face of the elderly man behind him. He looks sickened like I’m suddenly as ugly as I feel.

  I’d rather his disgust over the gleam his eyes held when they first landed on my face. Even someone with the purity of a saint couldn’t have mistaken the longing in his heavy-hooded gaze.

  I glance over the stranger’s shoulder when the man behind him says, “You seem to have caught the eye of my son. I’m not surprised. He has quite the fascination for redheads.” The man I’m guessing to be mid-sixties places himself between his son and me. His strut is as vile as the amused smirk on his face. “Is she one of yours, son? A little plaything for the night?”

  My throat aches to release a frustrated scream when the man whose eyes seem oddly familiar mutters, “I forgot I ordered her. What can I say? The schedule of women coming and going from my life every week often gets confusing.”

  Everyone laughs except me. I know he’s lying, but I can’t tell if that’s a good or bad thing. He’s a little hard for me to read. He seems to be protecting me, but there’s an undeniable amount of anger radiating from him. It’s as if he’s torn between wanting to soothe my panic or double it.

  I stop seeking answers in his beautifully tormented eyes when the man with the gun points it at my head. “Unfortunately, you’ll have to find another plaything for the night. This one knows too much.”

  I shake my head, assuring him I know nothing. “I won’t tell anyone what I saw.” I shakily cross my heart. “I swear to God.”

  “God can’t help you now.” He smiles a grin you should only ever see in hell. “But be sure to tell him I said hello.”

  I don’t breathe for a second when he curls his finger around the trigger for the second time. His expression is so impassive. He shows no emotion whatsoever.

  I can’t cite the same thing.

  The lady at the makeup stand lied earlier today. The mascara I paid twenty-two dollars for isn’t waterproof. I can’t see my cheeks, but I can feel the big black smears rolling down them. They’re mixed with the saltiness of my tears, but the chunkiness that comes from applying three generous coats of mascara is highly obvious.

  I stormed in here feeling as brave as a soldier.

  Now I’m on the verge of peeing my pants.

  That makes me ashamed of myself.

  “Do it. Kill me.” I step up to the man until the barrel of his gun digs into a dress too thin for this time of year. It makes the shudders reeking with my body more apparent, but has me proud I won’t die a coward. “Put me out of my misery once and for all.”

  “Do you want to die, little girl?” asks the man with a thick Italian accent.

  “No,” I answer with a shake of my head. “But I’m not going to beg for my life to be spared. That would have me dying a coward. I’d rather die than be seen as weak.” My words are strong, however my composure is anything but. I’m shaking so much, the black blobs rolling down my face quiver in the panted breaths when they cling to my top lip.

  “You should be happy you made it this far. Usually, I would have shot you in the back.” He shrugs like killing is something he does every day before he raises his gun to my head. “A change-up is as good as a holiday. I can see your eyes now.”

  I’m at a loss as to what he means, but his son has no issues understanding him. He grabs the barrel of his gun in an instant, shocking me so much my eyes bulge. “Let me.” His voice is extra deep like his cock is hard just from the thought of killing me. I’m not surprised. He seems like a man who gets off on danger. “It’s my fault she’s here, so it’s my responsibility to clean up the mess.” When his father hesitates, the stranger adds more authenticity to his assurance. “Then I can get my money’s worth during our trip to the woods. I paid good money for her, so I plan to find out if she was worth her price tag.”

  His father smiles a wickedly evil grin that has my stomach flipping even with him weakening his clutch on the trigger of his gun. “I understand your interest. She has such a feisty spark.” My chest labors through a challenging breath when he angles his torso to face his son. He isn’t peering at him in a loving manner. It’s as if their family has as many issues as mine. “She reminds me a lot of your wife.” He assesses his son’s face for a response. Like he’s hopeful his words will hurt him. “Is that what has you so fascinated, son? Or are you looking for a cunt to keep your dick warm for the night? Or a replacement spouse?”

  “A man has needs.” Even not knowing the dark-haired man, I’m confident in saying he’s exuding mammoth self-restraint. His dipping tone is indicating enough, much less how white his knuckles are. His hands are balled so tight, even if his father were to yank back the trigger, the bullet wouldn’t make it through the barrel. That’s how fierce his grip is. “I had them long before I married, and I still have them now.” His eyes are deadly, tainted with hate. “Do you have an issue with that?”

  The tension in the room turns roasting. It hisses and crackles in the air even
more than the energy that teems through me when the gray-haired man lowers his gun two heart-thrashing seconds later. “Fine. Do with her what you may, but be sure to have it done by sun-up.”

  Vomit scorches my throat when he fills the gap his gun no longer takes up. I never understood the term ‘skin-crawling’ until now. My skin does precisely that when he runs the back of his hand down my mascara-stained cheeks. If there weren’t so much evil in his eyes, I could have mistaken his gesture as kindness. It’s almost gentle, in a psychotic, mass-murderer type of way.

  “Just don’t be too gentle with her. I want to hear all about her screams.” He waits for his son to dip his chin before he sidesteps me and exits the gloomy room.

  I think I’m clear of danger.

  It was silly of me to ever believe.

  The door has barely banged closed when a white cloth is pressed over my mouth and nose. The scent vaping off it bombards me with horrendous nausea in less than a nanosecond, and even quicker than that, I black out.

  Chapter Twelve

  Dimitri

  I hold my finger in the air, cutting off the scorn I see in Rocco’s eyes before he can deliver. My mood is teetering on the edge of a very steep cliff. I’m the most unhinged I’ve ever been. Now is not the time for him to lecture me. I know what I saw, I know who Roxanne is, and I plan to make sure she takes responsibility for the death of my wife.

  I knew I had seen her mesmerizing green eyes before. The change in her hair coloring and the maturity of her looks threw me off the scent for over a year, but there’s no denying them now.

  Her mascara stained-face is undeniable.

  When she stood across from me minutes ago, riling my father like he wouldn’t gut her where she stood, it felt as if I had stepped back in time. I was once again entrapped by her beauty, stunned she could emanate such appeal on her darkest day.

  Roxanne was the woman standing on the corner of the restaurant Audrey was kidnapped from. The woman I gawked at for so long, I didn’t see my enemies creeping up on me until it was too late. She’s the reason Audrey is dead and the cause of me not laying eyes on my daughter in person since she was born. Now she must pay the penance for her stupidity.

  I just need my cock to get the memo first.

  It’s as hard now as it was when I watched her being fingered in the alleyway almost a year ago today, pulsating with an equal amount of desire and adrenaline. Its response can’t be helped. Roxanne’s paper-thin dress is pushed an inch above her tiny lace panties, and her thigh gap allows an uninterrupted view of a cunt I’m sure tastes delicious.

  Although her eyes are shut due to the strength of the chloroform Clover used to subdue her, I don’t need them to be open to know they’re the same emerald green color of her dress. I’ve studied them multiple times the past nine months in the many surveillance images Rocco took of her. I know every speckle and every flaw.

  I also know them well enough to know they’ll never be the same once I’m done with her.

  I can’t believe it took me this long to place all the pieces of the puzzle together. She’s always been there in the background of every scene. At the restaurant Audrey was taken from, in the alleyway when I instigated my ruse to make it appear as if I were moving on, and on the very ramp that led to the airstrip that ripped my daughter away from me for another nine long months. I just stupidly saw it as fate instead of the intricate ruse it is.

  My father left Roxanne’s punishment to me. He never does that. If he has the opportunity of watching the light in someone’s eyes be snuffed, he’s there with bells on.

  This time around, he walked away.

  That can only mean one thing. He doesn’t believe I have what it takes to kill her.

  I’m more than happy to prove him wrong.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Roxanne

  I wake with a groan, the punishing pound of my temples as noticeable as it was when I woke up in a hospital room with life-threatening injuries several months ago. Although my eyes have yet to follow the prompts of my brain, I am aware I’m in the backseat of an expensive ride and that my hands are bound behind my back with a thick, scratchy twine. The coolness of leather upholstery caressing the back assures me of this, much less the sickening drone of four tires rolling over asphalt. They churn over the road surface as intensely as my stomach wishes to expel the contents weighing it down.

  I don’t recall ever feeling this ill, and I’ve had some horrific hangovers. That’s why I rarely drink anymore. I’m not one of the lucky ones who wake up the next day feeling fine. For every drink I have, it takes me four hours to recover. That wasn’t a schedule I encouraged while endeavoring to keep my scholarship afloat.

  Sadly, I haven’t had to worry about that the past nine months, meaning I should have had more than my share of drunken benders.

  I couldn’t be ‘me’ if I were a drunk like my father.

  My eyes sluggishly open in just enough time to see the shadows of a city on the horizon. We’re surrounded by sandy plains and overgrown bushes—an ideal spot to dump a body.

  As my throat dries with worry, I divert my focus to the vehicle churning out the miles despite the bad conditions. Instead of the middle row of seats in the large SUV facing forward, they’ve been fixed to a privacy partition shielding the driver from the main section of the cab.

  The configuration of the cab ensures I have no trouble locking eyes with the dark-haired stranger when I raise them front and center. He sits across from me with a tight smile and balled fists. He doesn’t need to tell me where we’re going. I can reach my own conclusion. I told them I had called the police, so it makes sense they’d move my murder away from their business premise. No one will find me out here.

  Well, except the vultures, and that’s only if they make my grave shallow.

  If my death is anything like Eddie’s, there probably won’t be much of me to bury.

  I stop praying for a quick, painless death when an accented voice ripples through the air. “You shouldn’t waste your breath on him. He didn’t mention you at all.” When confusion crosses my features, the man with the evil, yet somehow appealing blue eyes says, “Eddie.” He smiles at the widening of my pupils, loving my unease. “Or Eduardo Emanuel Cordova as he was known to us.” When he says ‘us,’ he nudges his head to the men seated each side of me. Their shoulders are butted against mine like I’m the princess of their realm, and they swore an oath to protect me. “He didn’t mention you once. He merely groveled for his own pathetic life, so why are you wasting your last words on him?”

  Tears prick my eyes. I don’t know if they’re for Eddie or because the man glaring at me as if I am gum under a park bench just admitted I’m moments from my death. Eddie got what was coming to him, but still, the stranger’s confession is a hard pill to swallow.

  “I wasn’t praying for Eddie,” I force out through the sob sitting in the back of my throat. “I was praying for my death not to be as painful as his.”

  Humor flickers through the stranger’s eyes like ambers in a fire. “Who said his death was painful? There’s no body, so how would anyone know that?”

  My nanna always said my mouth would get me in trouble, which it does precisely two seconds later. “They said he was cut up into little pieces. That he was tortured for hours.” I lick my quivering lips before asking, “Is that true?”

  He nods without shame, angering me further. “Why? What did he ever do to you?”

  “He took my daughter away from me.” The expression on his face turns menacing when he spits out, “As did you.”

  I balk, suddenly sickened. “I did no such thing. I don’t even know who you are, much less know you had a daughter.”

  “Have. I have a daughter!”

  Since my hands are bound behind my back, I have to use my legs to kick him away when he suddenly lurches to my side of the cabin.

  Although I give it my all, his hand curls around my throat a mere second before his hot breaths batter my neck. “And if i
t weren’t for you, she’d be snuggled in her bed. Instead, she’s been bounced state to state, or worse, country to country.”

  When a dangerous gleam darts through his eyes, the reason behind their familiarity smacks into me. He’s the stranger who stood outside the alleyway, the man who toppled me into ecstasy even faster than Eddie’s hand. It was rainy, and my mind was blitzing about what we were doing, but I am confident he’s the same man.

  The already tight squeeze he’s clutching my throat with doubles when a horrid thought enters my mind. Did my stunt that night prompt the kidnapping of his daughter? He was watching me as intensely as I was watching him, so there was plenty of time for his enemies to undertake a well-planned attack. It takes less than a second for evil to launch.

  Oh, God, I feel sick.

  “I didn’t mean any harm. I was just fooling around. I had no clue about the controversy it would cause.” He firms his grip around my throat for every word I speak. His hold is so fierce, I feel seconds from blacking out, but I push on, determined to make peace with my guilt before my life expires. “I liked you watching me, but I wouldn’t have done it if I knew what would happen to your daughter. I’m sorry. So very, very sorry.”

  My apology seems to anger him more. His face goes red as the candor in his eyes fades to black pits of pure rage. “My wife is dead because of you. My daughter is missing. I should kill you now.”

  With my brain shut down due to a lack of oxygen, I ask, “Then why haven’t you? It’s been almost a year.”

  He must have a weird fascination for toying with his victims longer than necessary because I anticipated my question to increase the pressure he has on my neck, not weaken it. “My daughter has been gone longer than a year.” Although his hand remains curled around my throat, slithers of air still manage to make their way to my lungs. It’s only just enough to keep me conscious, but it’s better than being dead. “She was cut out of my wife’s stomach five days after she was kidnapped from the foyer of the Slice of Salt restaurant in New York.” When my pupils unwillingly dilate, the furious pulse shooting through his palm turns rampant. “Have you heard of that establishment before?”