“No,” I reply with a frustrated sigh. “I mean you can’t keep me here without the people who care about me getting suspicious. How long do you think it would take for police to figure out that my father owed you a lot of money? That connection will lead them right to your door.”
Diego snorts and rolls his eyes. “You still don’t get it. Listen to me very carefully, Elena. The threat of police doesn’t scare me. I have half the force in my pocket. No one is coming to save you. Not daddy, not your friends, not the police. The only thing that will end this is the money your father owes me. If I were you, I’d spend less time telling me what I can and can’t do, and more time praying Santiago manages to scrape up my cash sometime in the next month.”
With that, he storms from the room, slamming and locking the door. I let out an enraged scream like a banshee, picking up one of the paperbacks I was given and hurling it against the closed door. Diego’s laugh comes at me from the other side, low and rasping. It’s really more of a growl, but I can hear the amusement in it.
“Fuck off, you bastard!” I yell at the door, not caring how futile it is. I’d rather scream than cry.
Silence is my response, and I can’t even hear Diego’s footsteps, which means he’s probably long gone. I go to pick up the novel I threw and stare down at its cover. The title is The Villain, and the cover features a redhead woman wearing a flowing, eighteenth-century ball gown in the arms of a bulky, hot, shirtless man with flowing dark hair.
“You lucky bitch,” I grumble at the swooning cover model.
Turning the book over, I scan the blurb and realize the couple gets together when the hero keeps the heroine prisoner in his Gothic Scottish castle. Apparently, this leads to true and lasting love.
With a snort, I plop on the bed and open it to the first page, deciding it can’t hurt to indulge in a little escapism. At least things will turn out well for the redhead. I’m not so certain what my fate will be, but I know it won’t be anything like what I’ll read between the pages of this novel.
This is no romantic love story. There is no happily ever after.
7
Elena
I bide my time for three days. Trying to lose myself in books and movies while waiting for my meals is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Everything inside me screams for freedom, and my thoughts go in circles for a little while before landing on the same outcome: if I don’t run, I’m going to die.
My yoga mat arrives on the second day, but morning and evening practice only distract me for so long. I’m going out of my mind by day four—pacing and biting my fingernails down to ragged stumps. I have to get out of here, and it can’t wait.
Desperation makes my heart pound so hard I can hear the rush of blood in my ears. My hands are shaking as I circle the room, looking for a weapon, or something I can use to pick the lock. I pause at the window and peer through sheer white curtains. I hadn’t taken the time to really study my surroundings outside this room, so I whip the curtain aside and stare out over the area making up the backyard.
To call it a ‘backyard’ seems like an insult. Carved through the landscaped grass is a pool with the bluest water I’ve ever seen away from the ocean. Chairs and umbrellas are arranged around it, and a few pathways lead to other parts of the oasis—a pergola covering a table and chairs, an outdoor kitchen complete with grill and smoker, a bar where I can imagine someone making drinks during a party, a bathhouse. The whole thing is surrounded by fencing, but from this height I see clear, open land. It eventually gives way to the country club golf course, which takes up most of the center of the island. I can’t see any neighboring houses from here, but I know they’re out there. This neighborhood is arranged around the golf course in a circular pattern, which means there are several houses to the right and left of me.
All the residents of this island aren’t mobsters and hardened criminals. I only know this because when a celebrity, politician, or rich heiress builds or buys a house on Indian Creek it gets publicized in the news. If I find my way to one of the neighbors, maybe I can convince someone to get me off this island. If nothing else, I can sneak onto someone’s boat at the dock. One of them has to be headed to the mainland at some point.
Making a run for it when there are so many unknown variables at play is risky. But I refuse to sit here and wait for death. If I don’t at least try to escape, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life—however short it promises to be.
My room is on the third floor, but there’s what I assume to be a covered patio right below it. The patio covering is probably about twelve feet below me. The thought of breaking a limb or bashing my head open makes me wince, but it’s just another risk I’ll have to take. The only other way out of this room is the door, and I know less about what to expect on the other side than I do about what’s outside the window.
I wait until Antonella delivers my lunch and my daytime guard locks the door behind her. Ignoring the tray, I then race to the bed and start tearing the comforter and sheets off it.
“Bless you, Mariana,” I whisper, retrieving the tiny scissors from the manicure kit she gave me.
Kneeling on the floor, I cut and tear at the sheets, then tie my fabric together to make a rope. Glancing periodically through the window, I notice that beyond the fence, two men patrol from opposite directions. Each are dressed in black and wearing sunglasses, armed with frightening-looking rifle. They pause to chat for a minute before continuing on and disappearing from sight. After ripping down the curtains—because I’m certain my sheets tied together aren’t long enough—I stand at the window and wait for them to reappear, counting the seconds. They must be on a patrol of the entire perimeter because it takes them about five minutes to come back, meeting in the middle just like before.
Two guards, a five-minute opening to climb from the window while they’re out of sight, then another five to get over the fence before they come around again. From there, I’ll have to run hard and fast. No looking back.
Clenching my teeth so hard my jaw aches, I go to work on the curtains. By the time I have them shredded and added to my tether, the guards have come around twice more. I would probably work a lot faster if I didn’t flinch at every noise, prepared to hide my little project in case someone comes barreling through the door.
I tie my rope as tight as I can around one of the bedposts, tugging and leaning and dropping to the floor to test it with my weight. The furniture in this room is old but well-preserved—the kind of thing my abuela would say doesn’t get made anymore. It’ll hold my weight just fine.
From there it’s just a waiting game. I slide the window open, my eyes fixed on the spot where the patrol guards meet. Every muscle in my body tenses as they pause to talk, just like they have every other time. Only now, it feels like they’re taking forever to move on and I’m practically bouncing on my toes with impatience.
Finally, they disappear and I seize my opening.
Hurling the blanket-rope out the window, I throw my legs over the side, then turn and shimmy my way down while holding on for dear life. My arms ache, but if yoga has done anything, it’s trained me to support my own body weight. I clamp my knees around the blankets and inch my way downward, gritting my teeth as the breeze makes me sway from side to side. I move faster once my feet hit the top of the patio covering, sitting on my butt and inching toward the edge. The backyard looks deserted, but I can’t be sure if the patio has glass doors that will allow people inside the house to see me. Once I hit the ground, I need to be ready to run.
I dangle about ten feet from the ground, getting a full view of the patio. There’s furniture scattered around a fire pit, and just as I suspected, a pair of enormous French doors and set of panoramic windows allow me to see inside. An open concept makes up the kitchen and a spacious great room, but surprisingly no one seems to be moving around in there.
Letting go, I remember not to lock my knees, going into a crouch and then falling onto my side. Once on my feet I move slowly away from the
patio, scanning my periphery for any approaching threats. I can’t believe I haven’t been discovered or stopped by now. For a mafia boss’s house, this place is surprisingly unsecured.
Hope welling in my chest, I’m about to take off at a run when I nearly collide with another person coming from the pool area. Freezing in my tracks, I feel like I’m choking on my tongue as I come face to face with the woman from Diego’s phone screen.
She’s even prettier in person, short and petite with a waifish figure—which is flaunted by a stylish hot pink bikini and matching sunglasses. Her dark hair is wet and clinging to her neck and jaw. A pair of dark eyebrows wing upward as she lowers her frames.
“Holy shit! Did you just climb from that third-story window?”
When I only stand there, stunned and open-mouthed, she laughs.
“That’s hardcore. You must be Elena. Jovan told me all about you.”
“Please,” I whisper, fear making me tremble. “I have to get out of here. Help me.”
She offers a sympathetic look and glances into the house. “No can do, honey. I’m sorry, but … if you happen to climb that fence, I won’t stop you. If anyone asks, I haven’t seen you.”
It’s more kindness than I expected from anyone in this house. “Thank you.”
“You better hurry before the guards come back around,” she says. “They just passed a few seconds ago.”
I was so busy worrying about the mysterious woman that I completely forgot to watch for the guards. With no one else around to stop me, I take off for the fence, skirting the pool and picking up the pace once my bare feet touch grass.
I make my way to the corner where the side fencing meets the back and crouch down, gulping in deep breaths. Certain the guards are still making their circle of the house, I see that my savior has stretched out on one of the loungers next to the pool. It’s now or never.
I start to climb, not caring about how the wood hurts my fingers, or the splinter that slips into my palm. I’m so close to being free; nothing will hurt badly enough to stop me from putting Diego Pérez, his mafia, and my prison room, behind me.
The second I come down on the other side of the fence, male voices ring through the air in Spanish. They sound far off, but I react as if they’re breathing down my neck and take off at a run.
No, no, no!
I knew it was too good to be true. I’ve been spotted and now my chances of getting away have been cut in half. I won’t stop unless someone apprehends me or kills me. Running faster than I ever have in my life, I wait for a bullet that never comes, a death sentence that will put an end to all of this. I can see where the property line ends in a brick wall, and on the other side of it is the golf course. It’s humongous, and I’ll still have a long way to run to reach the club itself, but being out in the open might save my life. Diego’s men won’t shoot me with witnesses around.
Will they?
About a hundred yards short of the wall, something slams into me from the side, throwing me to the ground. The weight lands on top of me, and all I can do is lay there and try to recover from the wind being knocked from me.
“Goddamn it! What the fuck is wrong with you?”
Recognizing Diego’s voice, I find the strength to fight. The patrol guards with their rifles were frightening, and the thought of the other men living here are intimidating … but none of them make me as uneasy as Diego.
I try to squirm from beneath him, but he’s just as determined as I am, just as stubborn and unwilling to lose the fight. He rolls me onto my back, and I bring one knee up between his legs, producing a startled huff and an enraged growl from Diego. My shot to his balls isn’t enough to slow him down, because he keeps wrestling with me while swearing in a mixture of English and Spanish.
“Elena! Stop this before you hurt yourself! It’s over … I have you!”
“No!” I scream, swinging my fists as he crouches over me and uses his knees to pin my legs together. “Get off me, you asshole!”
One of my blows grazes his jaw, and with wide eyes, he takes hold of my wrist and pins it over my head. He dodges my other fist, securing my second hand just like he did the first. Despair has taken over at this point and I can’t stop fighting him even though I’ve been caught. I arch my back and twist one way and then the other, trying to loosen his grip.
Diego’s weight grows heavier, every hard inch of him flush against me. “Elena,” he says, gentler this time. “Stop it.”
For some reason, that’s more effective than his yelling. I go still, gasping for breath and sobbing, hot tears leaking from the corners of my eyes and into my hairline.
“Fuck you,” I cry, squeezing my eyes shut and shaking my head as if that can make this all go away. “Fuck you!”
“I know,” he croons, his lips skimming my forehead. “I know, Elena.”
What’s this? Tenderness from my captor? A moment of acknowledgment for how this business concerning my father is ruining my life?
“Let me go,” I beg. “I won’t tell anyone … I’ll make sure my dad gets you the money, just … please let me go.”
His nostrils flare as he pulls in a deep breath, and he slowly shakes his head. “I’m sorry, gatita. This is how things have to be. It’ll go easier for you if you stop fighting.”
“Never,” I hiss, narrowing my eyes at him. “As long as you try to keep me in this house, I won’t stop trying to get out. I’ll make your life a living hell.”
Diego’s mouth softens into that almost-smile of his, and he chuckles. “You can try, gatita.” He sits up so he’s straddling me, arms folded over his chest. “Will you come quietly, or do I need to send someone for zip-ties?”
There’s nothing left to do but accept that I’ve been beaten this time around. It would be stupid for me to push my luck when I have no idea what the repercussions for this first rebellion will be. Better to bide my time.
“I’ll come quietly,” I grind out through clenched teeth.
Seeming satisfied with that, Diego stands and grabs my arm, hauling me up beside him. As he marches me back toward the house, I’m mortified to find a golf cart parked nearby with two other men sitting inside. One of them is Jovan. He’s dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, his smile wide beneath a pair of blacked-out aviator sunglasses. His shoulders quiver with laughter, and the man with him is shaking his head and choking back his own chuckles as they watch Diego approach with me in tow. Of course, there had to be witnesses to my embarrassing scene.
Diego shoves me in next to Jovan, before taking the front seat beside the driver. “Let’s go,” he barks.
The driver takes off, and within minutes we’ve come back to the fence line—where I watch Diego open a hidden doorway. There aren’t any latches or knobs, but a panel of the fenceposts swing open when he presses in a particular spot, allowing us into the yard.
“Enjoy your little adventure Rapunzel?” Jovan teases as we step down from the golf cart.
Following behind Diego, I wrinkle my nose at Jovan and flip him the bird.
8
Diego
I don’t encounter my sister until hours after Elena’s escape attempt. Reviewing the security camera footage, I clearly saw Marcella speak to Elena, then pretend not to see her running for the fence. I’ve been in a foul mood all day—ever since my daily workout was interrupted by a phone call. I would have missed it if I hadn’t been taking a break between reps on the bench press. There wasn’t time to think; I ran from the workout room while barking orders on my phone, fury pushing aside muscle fatigue. The golf cart was waiting the second I stepped through a set of glass doors off the side of the house, with Jovan and one of my security team inside. Chasing Elena down was more of an annoyance than anything else, but I preferred it to having to search the island for her.
Everything I told her about the inescapable security of the island was true, but had she stumbled on the wrong person or found her way to the wrong house, she might have slipped right through my fingers.
Before
locking Elena back in her room, I had that goddamn window boarded over from the inside, hopefully discouraging any further attempts at a risky, stupid, impressive escape. From there, I went off in search of the person partly responsible for my prisoner getting over that fence, but she had made herself scarce. I went about the rest of my day fuming over the incident and taking my anger out on everyone around me.
There’s still plenty of it left when Marcella appears in my private nook at Calentar. I spend at least three nights a week at my club—not to manage it; I have a business partner who keeps the music current, the specialty drinks interesting, and the dancers who work here plentiful and sexy. My position on the elevated balcony overseeing the first floor is for the convenience of cartel business. Anyone who wants an audience with me knows I can be found in this very spot Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights. I’ve just finished approving a loan of five hundred thousand to the desperate owner of a shipping company—one that will see me better rewarded than the idiot agreeing to my terms. Control of the shipyards along the coast ensures easy entry for my cargo, so it pays to have a man like this in my debt.
Marcella appears at the top of the stairs, flanked by two of her school friends. It’s hard to push aside deep affection for my little sister. Since my mother first let me hold her, newborn and tiny and fragile, I vowed to move heaven and earth to keep her happy and safe. I was only thirteen at the time, but Mother made it clear that once my father took his last breath, I became the man of the family.
A few months shy of her twenty-first birthday, Marcella has grown into a beautiful woman—one who turns heads wherever she goes and makes me want to twist every one of those heads off their necks. She didn’t inherit our dad’s height like I did, but a pair of four-inch, red heels elevate her a bit. She’s wearing a dress to match the shoes, and it leaves little to the imagination. I’m seeing more of her cleavage and legs than I’d prefer, which means all the guys within these walls are getting an eyeful and thinking about things that would make me want to rip their balls off. It’s irrational to look at her face and still see the little girl who used to follow me and Jovan everywhere when we were kids. She’s a woman now—a college student, and one of the toughest people I know.
Marrying the Mobster: American Gangsters 1 (Leave Me Breathless) Page 5