And then I see Dad in the golf cart, buzzing down the lawn.
“Dad! Watch out!”
Dad hears me, but he keeps driving his cart, which looks like a toy against the green. He knows what’s happening. Probably understands it better than I do.
“Turn back!” I yell.
Dad sees us now. Face grim.
“This is already better than I thought,” my captor says. “Such drama.” He nuzzles my hair, turning it on for effect on Dad. I’m just a prop. I always have been, in this world.
“You’re not going to get out of this.”
“I like the way you smell,” my captor whispers. My mouth goes dry as he slides a hand over my pink skirt, holding me tight against him. His body is packed so tight with muscles, he feels like stone underneath me—or he would, if not for the immense heat he gives off.
But his attention isn’t on me. It’s on my father, who’s out of the cart now, running, nearing.
Running is bad for his heart. “Daddy,” I whisper.
“Shh. Daddy’s coming.” My mouth goes dry as he slides the barrel of the gun over my cheek in a horrible, gentle caress.
He wants me to look scared for my father, so I do my best to look bored. Probably not pulling it off. I am scared.
My father slows and holds out his hands, a placating gesture. “Please—”
My captor surges up off the bench, taking me with him, practically pulling my arm out of the socket. We head to the center of the green, green lawn. I become aware of a few more men arrayed around the grounds, seeming to materialize from the shadows around trees and outbuildings. A lot of big guns. Assault rifles.
“Whatever this is, leave her out of this.” My father keeps his hands up. “I can give you so much. More than you can imagine.”
So my dad doesn’t know him, either.
My mouth goes dry as my captor again slides the barrel of the gun over my cheek, tracing a design over my cheekbone.
I see my father out of the corner of my eye, but I can’t keep my eyes off the gun, cool and deadly across my skin.
“Let her go,” my father says. “You looking for money, is that it? We could talk about that. Bank accounts. Boats.” Dad points at his cherished 1940s mahogany Chris-Craft, moored at the dock. “Beautiful, priceless things. Whatever you want.”
I heave a breath of relief when my captor finally takes the gun off my cheek. “Boats are just glorified cars,” he growls, “except they don’t go anywhere.” The next thing I know, he has it pointed at Dad’s million-dollar boat. He pulls me to his chest as the gunshots tear out.
Viktor is smiling, maybe laughing—I can’t tell. He shoots the boat, too. I cringe as the assault weapons start. It’s a war zone suddenly.
And then it’s over. And everybody’s attention is on my father’s precious boat, half-sunk.
He’s made his point. This is a man you don’t buy.
“Now for your dear daughter,” he says.
My father rushes toward me. Guys materialize from nowhere to grab him. Viktor pats him down, takes his Luger, his phone, his second Luger. He even finds what Dad calls his party favor, the gun tucked in a special pocket at the back of his jacket. They’re tight and well trained.
“Touch her and I will kill you,” Dad says. “I’ll have your balls.”
My captor releases me. I quickly work my hands out of the strap and throw it down, but my arm is seized by one of his minions. My captor doesn’t look; he knows where his men are.
He just strolls up to my dad—djall e bukar—a beautiful devil. That’s what he is.
“You’ll have my balls? Is that so?”
“We’ll string you up and—”
Crrrack.
I scream as his hard, cruel hit sends Dad stumbling backward, falling, blood dripping from his lip to his white shirt.
“Leave him alone!” I say.
“Stand up, Aldo,” my captor says.
“One hair on her head,” Dad growls. “If you hurt one hair—”
“Please,” I say. “He has a bad heart.”
“Poor Aldo Nikolla,” he says with a mocking edge. Mocking my father. No man would dare. Ever. It’s here that I know my world has changed.
I try to pull away. Arms tighten around me.
“Daddy,” I whisper, watching him through bleary eyes.
“It’s okay, Kitten,” Dad says.
“Kitten,” my savage captor sneers. I can’t tell whether he’s mocking Dad’s affection or whether it’s the name, which, admittedly, I never loved. I always saw it as wishful thinking on Dad’s part.
The intruder comes back to me, drapes an arm around my shoulders. The threat hurts Dad more than any blow. “Kitten,” he says, pulling me close.
Dad looks horrified.
I twist in his arms and get an elbow out, manage to shove him away.
He stumbles back. “Oh, Kitten!”
Different arms close around mine, new guys holding me from both sides, holding me too tightly. I try to jerk away.
My captor’s smile is all brutal beauty. He sparkles with hate, taking pleasure from Dad’s pain. This is very, very personal.
“You disgust me,” I say.
My captor comes to me, studying my face, my eyes, like he’s looking for something. Again I get this hit of familiarity. But how could I possibly know him? I turn away.
“Unh-uh,” he says. “You don’t get to do that with me.” He takes my chin and forces my gaze back to his, holding my jaw in a fierce grip, fingers thick and strong. I can feel his words like a knife in Dad’s heart. “You’re mine now to use as I see fit.”
I suck in a breath. Dad can’t take much more of this.
“And when I want you to look at me, you look at me,” he says.
I won’t go down whimpering.
So I look at him.
And I spit at him—right in his face—shocking myself. Never in my life have I done such a thing.
A bright dime of saliva glistens on the stubble-darkened skin under his cheekbone. It’s small—dainty, even—but it may as well be a nuclear bomb for how it silences everyone, stops everything.
What have I done?
The men holding me have gone stiff.
Even the wind in the trees above seems to still. Dad’s supporting himself on his elbow, hand at his chest.
The intruder doesn’t wipe the spit off—no, he’s too cool for that. He lets it glisten in the sunshine as he stares into my eyes.
His gaze is so powerfully intimate, I think I might not be able to move even if my arms weren’t being held by his guys.
My belly quivers as he takes a step toward me. One, then another, until he’s directly in front of me. His beautiful smile is cold as ice.
“No,” my father says from somewhere in the distance. “No.”
But I can’t look away. Nobody’s ever looked at me with such intensity. My heart pounds.
The intruder raises a finger, and I can see the thick pad of it. A white line bisects the inside of the knuckles; defensive wound, I think sort of automatically. I see a lot of them in my work.
Slowly he swipes it through the spittle on his cheek, then he holds it up in front of my face so that I can see. He seems happy. A furious angel at full blast, spit on his finger, gun down at his side.