AMBER_His to Reclaim_Ruthlessly Obsessed Duet New York Pt. 2

by Theodora Taylor

  AMBER - His to Reclaim

  (The Ruthlessly Obsessed Duet, Book 2) 50 Loving States, New York Pt. 2

  Theodora Taylor

  Contents

  AMBER: His to Reclaim

  I. My Way

  1. Mean To Me

  2. I Won’t Dance

  3. Mood Indigo

  4. I Don’t Stand A Ghost Of A Chance With You

  5. I Got Plenty O’ Nuttin

  6. Pennies From Heaven

  II. Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate The Positive

  7. Do I Worry

  8. Gotta Be This Or That

  9. This Is No Dream

  III. There’s No Business Like Show Business

  10. That Old Black Magic

  11. Thanks For The Memory

  12. These Foolish Things

  13. That’s All

  14. Taking A Chance On Love

  IV. Love and Marriage

  15. Bim Bam Baby

  16. Spring Is Here

  17. I’m Beginning to See the Light

  V. Everything Happens to Me

  18. Ill Wind

  19. After You’ve Gone

  20. The Saddest Thing Of All

  21. Out Beyond The Window

  22. Desafinado

  23. Ave Maria

  The Best Is Yet To Come

  DAWN

  Also by Theodora Taylor

  About the Author

  AMBER: His to Reclaim

  The Thrilling Conclusion

  to the Ruthlessly Obsessed Duet!

  Since our divorce, my ex-husband has morphed into one of the most powerful crime bosses on the eastern seaboard. He's not someone you want to cross, and I did a good job of avoiding him for five whole years.

  But then I lied to him.

  When he caught me in that lie, I admitted it. Finally told him the truth.

  And he immediately made me his prisoner.

  Because Luca Ferraro doesn't forgive and he doesn't forget. And as far as he's concerned, revenge is best served twice.

  But I'm going to get out of his prison. I am determined to escape.

  I just don't know if I'll be able to get away with my heart intact. Or my soul.

  Yeah, I think it's pretty safe to say... Worst Divorce Ever.

  Part I

  My Way

  1

  Mean To Me

  Amber

  “What does everything else mean?”

  Cold granite silence. Then…

  “Everything else means you’re coming with me.”

  My stomach drops. I’m not disabled—that’s what I always insist when I’m invited to speak at schools, classrooms, and programs for the blind. If anything, I tell them, the loss of my sight has made me more ambitious, more intelligent, and more confident than I would have otherwise been if it had remained. Stronger. My blindness has made me stronger than I could have ever hoped to be otherwise. It’s a very inspiring speech.

  But Luca has rendered me completely powerless in the blink of a sightless eye. My three years of law school, five years of martial arts training, and six years of occupational therapy all became useless at his negotiation table. Pointless talents that might as well have never been cultivated at all.

  He’s no longer the vengeful boy who couldn’t let go of what my father did to him. Now, he’s a ruthless don. And in the end, there’s no real negotiation between us. Only Luca’s display of absolute power.

  “You’re going to get up now and walk calmly out of this house to my car,” he informs me as this new reality sinks into my brain. And clever as I usually am, I just can’t come up with a rebuttal to his order. At least not one that won’t put my best friend’s life in danger.

  A few minutes after his pronouncement, I find myself in Luca’s backseat. Again. It could be a different car. I’m sure he’s racked up several by now. But I’ve got a sick scene of the crime feeling in the pit of my stomach as we drive off, some “yeah, you fucked up, girl” sixth sense tells me this is the same backseat where we had sex a little over five months ago.

  But I’d die before asking him to confirm that suspicion. “Where’s Naima?” I ask instead.

  No answer.

  “Why isn’t she here?”

  No answer.

  “What did you do with her?” I demand in my best courtroom voice.

  But that question gets answered the same as the others. With a big ball of silence.

  He’s also not wearing cologne today, and I can’t even hear him breathing beside me, no matter how much I strain my ears. It’s like sitting next to a statue, emitting nothing but concrete silence as the driver—who didn’t bother to introduce himself this time—ferries us to someplace unknown. Stop and go city streets, intermixed with the short glides and slows of highways. Eventually, we come to a stop.

  “This is where you get off,” Luca tells me.

  Before I can respond the car door opens and a voice says, “Hey, Amber, it’s Rock. I’m going to help you out of the car now.”

  Either Rock’s good with the visually impaired or he read up. Like a perfectly trained boy scout, he places a hand at my elbow before clasping my palm to help me out of the backseat. Then he keeps his hand right below my elbow as he guides me forward.

  Though nothing’s been explained to me, I sense we’re in Manhattan based on the late morning quiet of the street I step onto with Rock, and the lack of accent, foreign or New York, from the doorman who lets us into the building with a cheery good morning.

  We walk into a lobby, hushed, cool, and crisp. It smells like a modern construction project to me, thoroughly insulated and without any of the musty damp grandma’s attic smell that most of the 20th-century buildings in New York carry.

  Rock guides me to an elevator that goes up and up and up for an impossible number of floors. So, either it’s slow, or I’m in a skyscraper. I get the feeling it’s the latter when the doors open on what turns out to be the apartment itself. My mobility cane plinks against marble floors. The real kind, I guess from the dense sound when my stick strikes it. Not the cheaper, plastic laced stuff that’s so popular these days.

  “There’s a set of winding stairs coming up,” Rock informs me a few steps into the apartment. “We won’t both fit, so you’ll need to hold on to the handlebar—”

  “Where’s Naima,” I demand, interrupting his helpful tip. “I want to be taken to her. Make sure she’s safe.”

  A dull electronic thrum interrupts Rock’s answer. Fabric rustles as he pulls his phone out, and then comes a heavy sigh. “I have to take this. She’s already up in her room. First door past the stairs on your right. I’ll let you go alone, but keep in mind, there’s only one way out of this apartment, and we’ve got a guard at both the bottom of the stairs and the elevator 24/7.”

  Way over my daily limit for threats, I walk away from his warning, and carefully navigate my way up the tricky stairs. But as soon as I reach the landing, all precaution disappears. I rush to the right, swinging my cane until I hit a door.

  Pushing down on the handle, I let myself into a room that already smells like Naima’s citrusy perfume.

  “Nai?” I say, hoping it’s not just a lingering scent.

  She rushes into my arms, crying. She’s only four years older than me, and the maturity gap has all but disappeared as we’ve gone from a social worker and visually impaired college mentee to best friends, ready to move in together in order to raise my baby.

  But right now our original roles have completely reversed. In fact, I feel like a helpless mother, holding her tight as my swollen stomach will allow as I assure her, “
I’ll figure a way out of this, I promise you. I’m sorry. So, so sorry.”

  I tell her everything. About the unprotected sex with Luca and the “hey, you’re already pregnant, dummy” shocker when I went in for my fertility consult. Naima had been right about one thing she told Stone. That first visit had been out-of-pocket, so I’d ended up paying hundreds of dollars for a blood test that told me I was already pregnant with Luca’s baby.

  Basically, our momentary hookup had been a perfect storm of bad timing. After the miscarriage, I’d gone the condom and pill route with Pascoal and never had so much as a scare. But after our break up I’d immediately stopped taking the pill in preparation for fertility treatments. That was just a few weeks before Sylvie’s party, which gave any birth control still left in my system plenty of time to wear off before I accidentally hooked up with Luca in the backseat of his car.

  “I was so stupid, and I didn’t know how to tell you, so I just didn’t. But this is all my fault, and I’m so sorry you got dragged into this.”

  Strangely, my confession is what stops Naima’s panicked tears.

  She takes a deep breath. “No, this isn’t your fault. Who wants to co-parent with a mafioso? I would have kept it secret, too. And now that I know the whole story, I’m glad that azaroso with the gun decided to take me prisoner too. If Luca’s going to straight kidnap you, I want to be here, trying to help you get out of this—not back in Jackson Heights worried to death about you and the baby.”

  This right here is why I love Naima. Why I consider her a sister, even though we’re both only children and not related by blood.

  “Plus, if we’re going to be kidnapped and imprisoned, this place isn’t bad at all,” Naima says, her voice taking on a new cheer. “Like three of the walls are all window, and the room looks like a five-star hotel! There’s only one bed, so we’ll have to share, but it’s huge! And there’s not too much extra furniture. A few chairs and one of those half-couches, half-loungers—I think they call them settees. Anyway, I can just move them against a wall so they won’t get in your way—”

  The door suddenly clicks open, and Naima cuts off with a scream. “Stone’s back!” she says, panicky as she wraps her arms around me.

  I shake my head, because Stone’s scent is a whole bunch of soap and “not really here,” without a trace of cologne. But the man who’s entered our room smells more like Luca. Expensive, refined.

  “No, that’s not Stone,” I explain to Naima.

  “No, it’s him. It’s definitely him. He’s back to kill me now that they’ve got you trapped here!”

  Before I can answer her, Rock says, “Hey, hey, don’t be scared. I’m not Stone. I swear I’m not Stone.”

  I feel Naima’s body loosen inside my arms. Then she pulls away from me.

  “You look just like him,” Naima says. She sounds both cautious and pitiful.

  “I know. Have since the day I was born. He’s my identical twin.”

  “Oh…” Naima says, her voice becoming even smaller. “Uh…sorry I screamed.”

  “No, I’m sorry, sorry he scared you,” Rock answers emphatically, his voice careful and gentle like he’s dealing with a cat too petrified to come down from a tree. “There wasn’t any need for that. Your name’s Naima, right?”

  “Right,” she says. And though she’s a thirty-six-year-old woman, she sounds more like a shy teenager now. “And you are…?”

  “Rock,” he says, “It’s really nice to meet you, Naima—though of course, I wish it could’ve been over something like dinner.”

  She giggles, and I just stand there, stunned. Because I swear, it sounds like I’m back in the Longacre Theatre, listening to Jane and Calogero meet cute in the first act of the A Bronx Tale musical with my assistive app.

  After exchanging introductions, Rock and Naima go over the details about packing her bags and mine and bringing them here. Like this is a previously planned vacation, not a total snatch and grab.

  “Is it okay if I make a list?” Naima asks shyly. “There are a few extra things I’ll be wanting, including a picture of my parents.”

  “Nai, c’mon,” I say. “We won’t be here that long. I’m going to figure a way out of this.”

  “Of course, I can make sure we get you that picture of your parents,” Rock answers as if I didn’t say anything. “Just tell me which one or I can have our guys bring over all of them. Whatever you want,” Rock answers. Somehow he sounds more like a concierge than a warden, totally at the bidding of my monstrous ex-husband.

  At least he does when he’s addressing Naima. There’s a lot less enthusiasm in his voice, when he informs me, “You should also make a list, Amber. Luca will be having dinner with you tonight and every night from now on, and he says he wants you to cook.”

  My brow furrows. “He wants to have dinner with me? And he expects me to cook it?”

  “Yeah, he does,” Rock replies. Final answer, as if cooking for my kidnapper should’ve totally been on my list of expected outcomes.

  I stand there stunned, and Naima snaps out of her super early case of Stockholm Syndrome to say, “There’s no way Amber’s going to cook for that man. He’s holding her prisoner! Yeah, in a crazy nice penthouse, but still, that’s an outrageous ask.”

  However, as Naima protests, my mind works, and after a few moments of deliberation, I come to a decision with an evil inner smile.

  “Fine, I’ll cook, just show me to the kitchen.”

  2

  I Won’t Dance

  Luca

  “Sorry, but the video’s in the wind,” Stone tells me on my secure burner of the month a few hours after Joey drops me off at my Ferraro Disaster Management office, which sits right above the largest of our Jersey-side Hudson River warehouses.

  I curse softly because having video evidence of my enforcer pulling a social worker out of her home is the last thing I need.

  “Has it shown up anywhere online yet?” I ask as I push out of my chair and go to stand at one of the casement windows that line my work space’s outer wall. This warehouse set up ain’t exactly Holt’s corner real estate at the New York Cal-Mart offices. But hey, at least I don’t have to answer to shareholders. Also, I’ve got a pretty nice view of the other side of the Hudson, which helps to calm me down when I get news I don’t like.

  Not today though. A container ship with Chinese characters plastered all over it trundles along in the cold grey water. No logos though, so I’m guessing Chinese mafia. Maybe even those Silent Triad motherfucks who’ve been encroaching on more and more of our territories ever since setting up shop in Rhode Island a few years back. Probably just bad timing for staring out the window to calm the fuck down therapy, but the shit feels ominous. Like a sign, especially when the boat crosses right in front of my Tribeca apartment building in the distance.

  Not a skyscraper necessarily, but close enough to be called obnoxious by a few of the residential buildings behind us, who got their view ruined when Zahir and I decided to go in on the building project together.

  At the time, I’d wanted something to call my own. A bachelor pad to impress the ladies before kicking them out after sex.

  But now I’m using that state-of-the-art real estate acquisition to hold my ex-wife prisoner, because…hell, I’m still not sure why I’m doing this.

  There’s revenge, yeah. However, I’m also working the proximity formula again with this dinner every night move. And this time my end goal ain’t nearly as clear as when I went after her like a big game hunter in grad school.

  All I’m sure of is that I don’t have any intention of letting her go. She’s pregnant. With my baby. And she lied to me about it. Her duplicity cancels out all previous agreements. That means she’s mine now. Whether she likes it or not.

  “Not yet,” Stone answers my question about the video. And he sounds just as grim as me as he says, “Lemme get Rock on the three-way.”

  The story doesn’t get much better with Rock on the line. Apparently, Stone and a few of
the Ferraro soldiers bust into Amber’s office to find…well, nothing but a cold cup of coffee and one stale cronut still in the bag. There was no sign of the assistant we’re pretty sure caught everything Stone said and did to Naima on tape. Stone phoned Rock, who immediately sent a hacker to join Stone at the office—or as Rock calls it, “hack up.” Meanwhile, Rock and Joey went to case Amber’s place.

  Rock was able to use Amber’s computer to announce to her entire mailing list that 1) she was pregnant, 2) I was the father, and 3) she’d decided on doctor’s orders to take a leave of absence from work for the rest of her pregnancy, and 4) move in with me. So my tracks are covered, but neither Rock nor his best hacker contact could pull anything related to the possible assistant off Amber’s laptop or work computer.

  “Whoever set her up with those sunglasses wiped her desktop. They might have even done a remote job on Amber’s laptop, too,” Rock tells me, sounding a little impressed. “I’m still thinking it’s an assistant, though, because according to Amber’s bank records, she’s been sending a bi-weekly direct deposit to an offshore account.”