“My point is that I know how confused you are, but you can trust him. With anything. With your life.”
I whisper, “But he’s a gangster.”
She leans back in her chair and gives me the secretive eyes thing again. “He’s a gangster like you’re a thief.”
“What does that mean?”
“I told you: it’s Killian’s story to tell. But, sweetie, if you’ve been giving him a hard time about his line of work…be prepared to do some apologizing.”
“Seriously? Does anyone in your family not talk in riddles?”
She laughs. “If you’re lucky, pretty soon you’ll be talking in riddles, too.”
My voice climbs. “Lucky?”
She picks up her briefcase and stands, smiling. “C’mon. Let’s get you home. I’m sure you can use some sleep. When Killian gets back from Prague tomorrow, he can tell you everything.”
“Prague?”
She looks at me with raised brows. “You didn’t think he’d send anyone else if he were in the country, did you?”
“I didn’t think anything. Because I am no longer capable of comprehensible thought. Because…Killian.”
She says drily, “Trust me, I understand.”
I rise, blinking, utterly confused. “Didn’t you just tell me you lived in Argentina? Or am I hallucinating that, too?”
“We wanted to visit before the baby was born. We arrived last week. And I can’t tell you how many times your name has come up in conversation. Killian keeps pestering me for examples of what drives women crazy.”
I’m momentarily horrified. “What, like in bed?”
“Ha! No. If he’s anything like his brother, he’s got that covered, I’m sure. He asks about what kinds of things will make a woman want to push a man into traffic.”
Relieved, I mutter, “He’s got that covered, too.”
“I think he’s trying to annoy you less.”
“I don’t think that’s humanly possible.”
We leave the room and walk down the corridor. I feel like I’m in a dream. A strange, nonsensical dream, featuring car chases, pregnancy scares, gang shootouts, and unicorn ponies.
Tru’s already posted my bond, so I just have to complete some paperwork before I’m released. Then I’m following her down the front steps of the police station toward the waiting SUV, still in a fog.
Which is why it takes me longer than it usually would to react when the men step out of the shadows around the side of the building.
They grab me.
I open my mouth to scream, but the chemical-smelling cloth is already smashed over my nose and mouth.
As my legs turn to Jell-O and the world fades to black, one of the men says something to the other in a language I don’t recognize.
But I don’t have to recognize it to guess that it’s Serbian.
29
Jules
When I regain consciousness, I’m lying on my side in the trunk of a moving vehicle. My hands and feet are bound with something, maybe rope. A rough black cloth hood covers my head. I’m barefoot. Except for a splitting headache and some mild soreness on my biceps where the men grabbed me, I’m unharmed.
My first instinct is to scream.
I fight it, concentrating instead on remaining as calm as possible. I breathe in squares to control my panic, as I was trained to do as a child.
Inhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Start over again.
There’s nothing to be done yet but try to keep track of time. If I can estimate how far the men drive before stopping at the final location they’ll hold me, it will help the police search for me later. If I can somehow get that information to the police.
If the men don’t kill me first.
Inhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Start over again.
I tell myself that it’s likely I won’t be killed. If the men who took me are with the same Serbian gang that Killian said were looking for collateral in a war with my father, I have value. As long as I’m alive, they can negotiate terms. And to negotiate terms, they’ll have to provide proof of life to my father.
He won’t just take their word that they have me. Pictures won’t do it, either, because they could have been taken any time. Years ago, even.
They’re going to have to film me.
Or, worse, put me on the phone with him.
Once they’ve agreed to terms, my captors will have to produce me—still breathing and in mostly one piece—in order to get what they want.
Unless Daddy Dearest doesn’t want me back. Unless he tells them that I’m dead to him already and they can do to me whatever they want.
Inhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Start over again.
He’ll want me back. It would dishonor the family if he allowed his enemies to harm his only child. It would weaken his reputation. He’ll pay what they ask, if only to save face.
Then…oh god.
Then he’ll have me.
And there’s no way in hell he’ll ever let me go again.
I’ll be locked up. Locked down. Forced to live as a captive. He might even send me away to Italy. To live with the Sicilian side of the family, far out of reach of his enemies in New York.
I’ll be married off to one of my brutal, hairy cousins. I’ll be forced to have sex with him. Have his children. Cook his meals. Scrub his toilet.
Inhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Exhale for four counts. Hold it for four counts. Start over again.
I can’t let myself despair. I have to remain positive. Remain calm. Take things one minute at a time. Stay alert and non-combative. Stay alive.
And, no matter what, I can’t let myself think about Killian.
I can’t think about his beautiful dark eyes and his heartbreaking smile. I can’t think about how his voice grows husky when he wants me. I can’t think about how he touches me, or how he kisses me, or his incredibly intoxicating combination of masculinity and tenderness. How gentle he is when we make love. How passionately he fucks me.
How he has an identical twin brother.
I definitely can’t think about that, even if I wanted to, because my brain keeps bouncing off the possibilities. The impossibilities.
The total insanity of what two of them could mean.
What they could do.
Who they could really be.
Or what.
The car pulls to a stop. Doors open and slam closed. Heavy footsteps crunch on gravel. The trunk lid opens, and a rush of cool night air blows in. A male voice addresses me in a heavy Eastern European accent.
“Rule number one: be good or I cut something off.”
His tone is businesslike. Almost bored. This is the kind of threat he makes regularly. Makes and follows through on.
My heart palpitating, I say, “I’ll be good.”
I hate myself that it comes out in a whisper.
He grunts his approval. Grabbing me by the upper arm, he hauls me to a sitting position, then roughly up and over the lip of the trunk. My ankles are tied, so I almost fall forward onto my face when my feet hit the ground, but he yanks me upright and steadies me. Sharp, icy gravel cuts into the soles of my bare feet.