But I wouldn’t let it. Not this time. This time I wouldn’t be a victim. This time I would win.
Franco manoeuvred his body, hobbling to a knee. A rush of guilt swarmed at not helping him, but I stood concreted to the carpet. So many things inside. So many conflicting, terrible responses as my body and mind battled with what to do.
I’d never felt this way. This lost, angry, terrified kind of way. As a victim, the choice to fight was stripped the moment I was captured. But as the one left behind I had choices, decisions—hope.
But then fear struck, crushing that hope. What if I made the wrong decision? What if I trusted Franco to help but the window of time to get Q back was already gone? I played roulette with Q’s life depending on the decision I made.
Action.
I needed to do something.
But being a statue was all I seemed capable of as scenarios rushed through my head, all ending in horrific ways.
Chasing after Q to find a bullet lodged in his forehead in the lobby.
Not chasing after Q to find they’d sent a ransom note and it would be a simple matter of an exchange.
Chasing after Q only to watch him be tortured—all because of me.
They took him because of me.
“Oh, my God.” Why hadn’t I seen it? I was so stupid. I’d done this. I’d ruined his life. Destroyed it. Demolished it. A sob began, building in girth and volume until I knew I’d explode into pieces if I let it go.
Arms wrapped around me, jerking me close to a metallic smelling shirt and tense broken body. Franco pressed me hard against him, giving me a rock to cling to while my misery threatened to drown me.
“It’s because of me. It’s my fault!”
“Of course it’s your fault.”
My eyes popped wide. He agreed! I couldn’t do it. I curled over, nursing the ball of agony in my heart, wishing to die.
Franco gathered me closer. “It’s your fault he’s happy. It’s your fault he’s finally accepting his past and looking forward to a future he no longer has to hide from.” He winced as his body wobbled. “This would’ve happened with or without you, Tess. You’ve only seen a smidgen of men involved in this industry. But Q knows thousands. He’s personally ate with them, done deals with them. He was welcomed into a world where admission is for life and any misbehaving means death. Yes, hunting for you so recklessly sped up the realization of who Q really was, but it would’ve happened. Eventually.”
He pulled away, looking into my gritty eyes. “And when it happened, he wouldn’t be where he is today. He wouldn’t fight as hard as he will now because he has love giving him power.” His emerald eyes softened. “If they’d come for him, and you weren’t in his life he would’ve fought—of course, but ultimately, he would’ve given in. Because in some fucked-up way he believes he deserves it.”
I shook my head. “He doesn’t—”
“You know him—the parts he lets you see at least. But I’ve been with him for nine years. And believe me when I say, he’s always gone through life knowing he would die young. He never came out and said it, but he wasn’t planning for a long life, Tess. He just didn’t have the strength to keep battling whatever is inside him.”
My heart felt as if it’d been mined of all the goodness inside, leaving it riddled with holes. Only Q could patch those holes, and it didn’t matter what decision I went with because the conclusion was all the same.
I would get him back. Just like he saved me. I didn’t have the luxury of second guessing and denial. It was time to go.
Clutching my torn dress, I pulled away from Franco. He stumbled a little, drawing my eyes to his torn trousers and blood-stained shirt. “Shit, Franco. I’m so sorry.” I reached out to touch a gash on his arm only for him to flinch back.
Then I saw it.
A crimson-soaked tie wrapped around his thumb. Or rather…lack of one.
My eyes darted to his, filling with liquid. “What—what did they do?”
He shrugged. “It’s the only access to your room. Key-coded fingerprints. I refused when they asked. Guess they didn’t like that.” Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the severed appendage.
Bile swashed up my gullet and into my mouth.
I ran.
Skidding into the bathroom, I threw the toilet seat up and purged my system of lychee martinis and Italian entrées in a wicked wave of vomit.
Cold sweat dotted my spine as my stomach convulsed.
Franco’s thumb. They’d cut off his thumb.
I retched again.
If they did that to get to Q, what the hell would they do to him now he was in their clutches?
I moaned, convulsing harder; my soul tried to claw its way out of my mouth.
Gentle fingers whispered across my neck, tugging damp strands, twisting them into a messy bun.
I looked up, still hugging the porcelain. Franco gave me a sad smile. “It’s probably a good thing it’s all out of your system. But we need to go. Do you think you’ll be okay?” I couldn’t help looking at his left hand, saturated in blood, wrapped with his tie around the stump of where his thumb used to be.
My stomach rolled as an image of Q’s fingers being cut off consumed me, but I swallowed hard.
Stop being a fucking girl.
I refused to waste another minute. Wiping my mouth, I stood up and made my way to the sink. Franco shuffled with me, holding my hair so I could wash my face. The broken dress gaped and flashed my breasts but I was beyond caring. Franco and I were well past a bit of flesh. He’d just become my lifeline in order to get Q back.
“Give me one minute,” I croaked through my bile-scalded throat.
Franco nodded, releasing my hair.
Rushing to the wardrobe, I grabbed a thick black jumper and jeans. Shoving the dress down my hips, I quickly yanked the jeans on and threw the sweater over my head, before wedging my feet into some ballet flats.
Franco limped toward me, a slight smirk on his lips. “Have to say that brought back memories of watching you dress into that slinky gold number for Q’s dinner party.” Then his eyes darkened. “Has he told you why he did that yet?”
My mind flashed back to the past—the mermaid filigree dress that hid nothing and offered everything to the Russian in the white jump suit. Shaking my head, I muttered, “No. But whatever his reasoning, I accept it. I knew even then he wasn’t as bad as he came across. I think I loved him the moment you forced me to bow.”
Franco half-smiled. “I only forced you because I understood the look in his eyes. He’d never had that look before.”
Going to him, I slung his arm over my shoulders, taking some of his weight. “What look?” We hobbled to the exit.
It was good to keep my mind on other things. It distracted me from what Q might be suffering—kept me levelheaded.
Franco sighed. “Lust…attraction…maybe even love. Who knows.” Giving me a quick smile, he said, “Either way. I knew he wanted you, and I wanted to see him happy.”
Franco opened the doorknob; we made our way slowly into the corridor.
This is going to take forever. He’s too injured.
I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for having Franco’s help, but we needed to go. We needed to hunt. How could we do that if Franco could barely walk and needed urgent surgery?
Franco hissed as I propelled him faster. “There’s a plan in motion. It’s not just us. So you don’t have to panic.”
My heart raced. Q—hold on. “What plan?”
“We had a discussion after Q rescued you. We knew the likelihood of them coming for him was high, so we had a system put in place. It’s already started.” Franco looked at his watch. “I’d say about twenty-five minutes ago—the moment they barged into my room and beat the fuck out of me.”
My body grew hot then cold, roasting then frigid. I wanted to split myself into an army of people and scour Italy for Q. I wanted to know what plan was in effect.
He can’t die. I won’t let him.
T
he elevator up ahead pinged, delivering its cargo like a tsunami of weapons and badges. Franco and I slammed to a stop.
“What the—” he muttered as a hoard of policemen all in smart black uniforms and silver brocade rushed toward us.
We stood like an island as a sea of police officers darted past, disappearing into the room we’d just vacated. I blinked. Was this part of the plan? Enlisting the local force to help us track Q?
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. If they were here to help then great…but if they weren’t…
Franco tensed, pushing me away to stand on his own two feet. His jaw ticked as he shoved his bloody, thumb-missing hand into his pocket.
A detective with slicked black hair and greying temples climbed off the lift, coming toward us. He narrowed his eyes. “Are you okay, sir? Ma’am?”
My heart latched itself to my voice box; I squeaked some stupid reply. My instincts were prickling, warning. I didn’t like him. I didn’t like this. Which was ridiculous as they were the law. We’d done nothing wrong—we were the victims. So why did I suddenly feel like a criminal?
The detective’s gaze fell on Franco, taking in his bloody clothing and protective stance. “What happened here tonight?”
Franco glowered. “Nothing. What are you doing here?”
The officer scowled. “We don’t have to explain our presence to you. Especially when it looks as if we’ve come to a scene of a serious crime.” His eyes pierced mine, looking me up and down.
I was aware of how I must look: white face, smudged mascara, and a jitter that looked as if I was high and needing my next fix. How could I explain the adrenaline in my system was from watching my lover be shot and marched away?
“Ma’am. Did this man hurt you?” His hand fell to his holstered weapon.
“What? No!” I leapt in front of Franco. “Not at all. Look we—”
“Tess—shut up.” Franco yanked me back by my jeans loop. Looking at the officer, he snapped, “You’re interfering. This is a private undercover operation. Now, let us pass.”
The officer’s eyebrow rose; his chest puffed out, swelling with testosterone. “You’re not going anywhere until I determine what occurred here tonight.” Taking out a notepad from his breast pocket, he scanned his notes. “Do you know anything about an indecent exposure incident that happened about thirty minutes ago? A passer-by said they saw a disturbance in one of the suites on this floor.” His eyes zeroed in on Franco. “According to witnesses, a woman whose face was covered was forced against the glass while an unseen male had intercourse with her. That wouldn’t be you, would it?”
Franco threw me an incredulous look, his eyes yelling a message: Q did what?
I would’ve blushed if I had any blood left in my head—it’d all congealed in my feet leaving me ice cold. The one time I let go and it landed me in police custody.
Shit, what could I do? Lie.
My instincts said to run. I needed to run before they—
“You’re under arrest,” the officer announced. “I don’t care if you had nothing to do with that charge. You’re covered in blood and running from the location of a complaint. You’re both coming with us until we can find the truth of this matter.”
Oh no. No!
“Sir, it isn’t what you think. Please—” I begged.
“Tess, shut—” Franco began, only to groan in agony as the officer grabbed his elbow, tearing his hand from his pocket to secure metal handcuffs.
“Che cazzo?!” The officer’s mouth fell open, staring at Franco’s butchered hand. The tie wrapped around the stump dripped crimson all over the pristine snowy carpet. The detective glared at us, confusion and a slight thread of fear entering his black gaze. “Someone better start talking about what happened here tonight.”
I wanted to wake up from this nightmare. This was beyond the realms of comprehension. Q had been stolen by men who would kill him—and we were being detained by a foreign police force who would delay us until it was too late.
A bubble of insane tearful laughter threatened to break.
Franco snapped, “Get me to the hospital. I’m not in a position to answer questions, as you can clearly see.”
Policemen returned from scouting our suite. “All clear, boss. No one’s there. However, we found blood and believe there were a few men who have left the premises.”
My heart lurched. Yes, they’d left. With Q. Hell, this was awful. My mind raced with thoughts of stealing a gun. I could hold one of them hostage to get out of the building.
But Franco couldn’t run. Shit.
“Arrest the woman. Take her for questioning. Take the man to the hospital.”
Franco and I yelled at the same time: “No! I have to go with him.” “She has to come with me.”
The detective pursed his lips, deliberating. Finally, he muttered, “Fine. Take them both to the hospital. I expect to be able to interview them in a few hours.”
I bit my lip, fighting the horror that had become my life as my arms were wrenched behind my back and the cold lick of handcuffs settled around my wrists. Franco wasn’t cuffed, only barred by two large policemen, caging him in with black uniforms and unclipped guns.
“Come on,” a policeman grumbled. I trembled, fighting another wave of nausea. Once again—this was my fault. It was my breasts strangers had seen. My little exposé that ended with us being marched away like heathens.
Then livid anger filled me. If these men turned out to be the reason Q died, I would hunt down every last one and murder them in their sleep.
I wouldn’t let them stop me from finding him. I’d become a wanted fugitive before I let that happen.
Franco looked over his shoulder. His emerald eyes looked like terrible glinting gems. “Ne dis rien. Tout est sous contrôle.”Don’t say a word. I have everything under control.
I wanted to trust him. I wanted to believe that whatever plan was in action it would save Q even while we rotted in some Italian cell. But pessimism was my new friend and the black void of grief tempted, called to me.
We were stuffed into the lift side by side. Franco bent his head to my ear. “He isn’t lost, Tess. He put a tracker in your engagement ring—did you not think he’d do the same precaution for himself? Especially when he knew he’d stirred up the attention of fuckwits who would try to kill him?”
I froze, his hot breath on my ear giving me much needed information.
I kept my voice low, aware of the six other men in the lift with us. “He’s got a tracker in a ring?” Q didn’t wear jewellery. And we weren’t married yet so he didn’t have a wedding ring.
Franco shook his head. “Not a ring. Deeper than that.” He tapped the underside of his wrist, raising an eyebrow. The puzzle slotted into place.
Oh, my God. Q wore a tracker.
Not in jewellery or clothing or something that could easily be removed. He’d gone further than that. He’d given himself the best chance at being found even if they stripped him naked and threw away all his possessions.
He’d tagged himself like a pet—micro-chipped his body so his army of guards could follow his trail and bring him home.
He wasn’t lost.
It was just up to us to find him before it was too late.
Time had become my number one nemesis.
Four hours.
Four long, excruciating, teeth-clenching hours.
Every second drifted me further away from Q. Every minute built a wall I would have to clamber over to find him. Is this how he felt when searching for me? This crippling helplessness?
Tick…
Tock…
Franco had been rushed to surgery to reattach his thumb. He refused to allow them to put him under, settling instead with a local anaesthetic to endure the procedure.
His list of injuries curdled my stomach.
Mild concussion. Dislocated shoulder. Twisted kneecap. Missing thumb. Not including the multiple contusions, bruises, and scrapes from the assholes who’d almost killed him in o
rder to get to Q.
I lived an entire lifetime in those four hours. More than one. Multiple.
I went insane—hemmed in a private room, barricaded by two police officers waiting for Franco. At least they’d removed the handcuffs, but I was no less a prisoner.
My mind was my enemy, constantly flinging horror and torture of Q’s demise. I finally gritted my teeth, humming nonsense under my breath, just to keep my brain occupied and not conjuring such awfulness.
Three times the officers tried to question me. Three times I refused. I wouldn’t talk—not until I knew what Franco wanted me to say. I wasn’t privy to what was in motion outside our sad little group. I didn’t want to ruin Q’s chances any more than I already had by being so reckless in a foreign country and getting arrested.
I looked up as the white door swung open. Franco was wheeled into the room by an orderly. One arm was in a sling, leading to a thick bandage around his hand. Only the tips of his fingers showed.
His face was black and yellow as bruises painted him like a watercolour.
I shot off the bed where I’d been going mad with waiting. The door swung closed behind the man in scrubs. “Are you okay? Did it work?” I looked at the bandage, eyeing it for any sign of a thumb tip. My eyes widened. “But there’s no…”
“They tried, but the way the cocksuckers smashed the joint means it’s pretty much useless. Plus, this is a local hospital. They don’t have too many specialists on call unless I’m flown elsewhere.”
I was torn. Completely cleaved down the centre. I wanted to run after Q but I didn’t want Franco to live a thumbless life. Hell, that was the most important finger. I would be on my own. “Well, go. Tell me what the plan is and leave. I’ll do the rest.”
He shook his head. “I signed the paperwork already. Even if they did manage to attach it, I’d have to stay in for observation for a week. This way, I only have to pop in for a check-up in twenty-four hours.” His eyes flashed. “I refuse to sit on my broken ass. Not while he’s out there. A thumb can wait—we don’t know…” his voice trailed off, filling me with terror.
Twisted Together Page 33