“You should get some rest, Otelia,” he replied dismissively. His condescending tone sent my anger into overdrive. My fingers itched to scratch his eyes out.
“I. Want. To. Go. Home,” I demanded again, slower, for the fans in the cheap seats.
“I see you’re still not getting this, so let me break it down.” MacCabe sat forward on his chair, causing me to involuntarily flinch. There was a sudden change in his demeanor—whereas before, he had been cordial, accommodating even, now, he was flat out vibrating with hostility.
“I own your ass. For the next forty-eight hours, everything you do, everything you say, everything you fucking think is because I allow you to do so. Your good friend Maribel owed me money, and her Netflix and chill of the week decided to butt into my business. You can choose to fight this and fight me, but in the end, you’ll lose. End of discussion.”
Oh, hell no.
“You got it all figured out, don’t you?” I challenged. “Marcus will never let anything happen to Maribel; he’d die before he’d let you get your hands on her.”
“Truer words have never been spoken. In fact, I’m counting on that,” he replied cryptically. “What you need to worry about is if he’d be willing to do the same for you.”
“Why would he? We just met. I’m nothing to him,” I argued.
His face gave nothing away as he coolly considered my question. “It’s simple, really. Marcus has a hero complex, a white knight flying around wearing a cape, saving the fucking world from the bad guys. He’ll play his part, you can count on that. Go along, and we’ll get along, understand? I have men posted at every exit with orders to shoot to kill if you try and walk out. My guests are permitted to leave only when I say so and never before. Try and remember, time flies when you’re having fun, or so I’m told.”
“You overestimate yourself, Mac,” I sneered, pushing further. “It’s going to be fun watching you scream like a bitch while Marcus plucks your eyes out with a rusty spoon. I may even film it for prosperity so I can watch it over and over while fingering my pussy.”
He stood from his chair, slowly, menacingly. In a pained whisper he replied, “Fight me, woman.” He leaned in closer. “Please, fight me.”
This was the part where he expected me to plead for my life, offering all kinds of favors like drug running and blowjobs in exchange for my freedom. That shit was not going to happen. I wasn’t the ‘fall down running from a killer in the woods’ type of female. I didn’t beg, and I certainly wasn’t afraid of a little thing like death. His threat was laughable to someone who was all too familiar with that horrible event. No, my strength was in the ability to see things as they were and adjust to them accordingly. Sure, this was a dangerous man, all modern and new in his Armani suit and shiny shoes, but he was also misguided in his belief that I feared leaving this world. As a matter of fact, I relished it. Bigger things awaited me on the other side, of that I was certain, promised even. Using subterfuge on a man like Darragh MacCabe was futile. He’d see right through that shit, and frankly, I wasn’t up for it. I was tired, my head was pounding, and the only thing I wanted to do was sleep.
“Are you done?” I demanded on an eye roll.
“As long as we’re clear on the rules, Otelia.”
“Crystal.” I flopped down on the edge of the bed and covered myself with the blanket. “If you don’t mind, I’m tired and would like to get some rest. It’s been a long day. Don’t let the doorknob hit you on the way out, Mac.”
I wasn’t trying to antagonize him into doing something wicked, like killing me. If he wanted me dead or injured, I’d already be on my back with a cord wrapped around my neck. No, he had other ideas, ones that would benefit him and him only. He looked as if he wanted to say something else but decided against it. Just as well. I was done with this shit. I scooted down into the bed still dressed in my uniform and turned my entire body away from my handsome captor. The pounding had gotten worse over the course of our little conversation, and I was afraid if it went on any longer, I’d say something I was going to regret. I’d have plenty of time to pick the brain of this asshole, two days to be exact. For tonight, I’d let him think I was his docile captive, yielding and submissive towards my predicament. I needed time to clear my head and come up with a plan of escape.
With that thought in mind, sleep came easy.
CHAPTER 3
MacCabe
I WATCHED HER through the monitor for hours as she slept soundly beneath the warm covers of the king-sized bed. She never stirred, whimpered, or cried out for help as any other woman might’ve given her situation. I imagined the soft sounds of her breathing, or perhaps a light snore as she slumbered peacefully, unconcerned with the day’s events. To say I was intrigued by little Ms. Otelia Mae would be an understatement. Hell, I was downright impressed. Bitch had a set of balls on her, that’s for sure. Tough as nails yet soft as cotton in all the right places. Several times, I wanted to punish her sassy little mouth with the head of my dick after she talked all that shit. I knew it was all for show—the way she trembled told me everything I needed to know. Like most, she feared me, and that alone made my cock stiffen with excitement behind my zipper. Too bad this wasn’t a social engagement and a shit ton of my money wasn’t involved, or I might’ve been tempted. Then again, if it weren’t for a set of unfortunate circumstances, I never would’ve met the feisty waitress.
She didn’t mesh with my world, full of fake tits and gold-digging whores ready to sell their souls for a piece of the pie. They were fickle, moving from underboss, capo, foot soldier, whoever had the most power and cash on hand. I doubt she’d even know where to begin that pursuit, much less execute. Mob families relied on tradition and principles to keep their bloodlines pure. Arranged marriages were contracted early on, at the time of conception in most cases. The oldest males destined to carry on the business were given the pick of the litter, so to speak. They were the future of the organization, and it was their job to carry on that legacy by producing enough offspring to ensure the family name for generations to come. Choosing the right spouse could make or break your ascension up the ranks if you weren’t careful. Modern times allowed for the dissolution of these contracts; daughters were given the right to choose whether or not to honor their parents’ wishes or move against the family. It wasn’t frowned upon as it once was, giving credence to the adage, marrying for love instead of money. I wondered which Otelia would choose?
By three in the morning, I phoned my tech guy and ordered a profile run on the beautiful blond waitress. I needed to know more, plus it wouldn’t hurt to be better prepared. I wanted the complete rundown—where she came from, her family history, her likes and dislikes, most importunately, who she was fucking. She was a nice distraction from the impending shit storm brewing. Too many moving parts, not enough time to prepare, not to mention a wild card in the form of Marcus Mecken. It could all go south really quick if I wasn’t careful. I decided to sleep on it, re-evaluate things after a few hours, and keep my shit as tight as possible.
My father received word that one of his men was no longer breathing and hadn’t stopped calling since. I hit the ignore button on my iPhone, intent on dodging him for the next two days until after the match. There would definitely be hell to pay, but I was willing to risk it.