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9
LEO
I wake up in a chair,stiff and uncomfortable. All things considered, it’s not the worst way to spring back into consciousness. My eyelids feel heavy as I pry them open, blinking a few times to clear my blurred vision.
It feels like someone took a jackhammer to my head, pounding a staccato rhythm like a seventh-grader who got a drum kit for Christmas. I squeeze my eyes shut in a vain attempt at easing the thundering of my head. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t help.
Something restricts my movements, and I look down to see my wrists zip-tied to the chair I’m currently sitting in.
I blow out a breath and tip my head back. “Fuck.”
It’s one of those heavy wood desk chairs from a ritzy hotel room that weigh way more than they should. At least the cushion is soft, not that it matters since my ass is numb.
I crane my neck around and get an eyeful of where I am. Two double beds with those gross beige coverlets, two nightstands most likely bolted to the wall, a low-profile three-drawer dresser with a decent-sized TV on top of it.
Two doors to my left—bathroom and closet, I assume—and closed curtains to my right. Waning sunlight filters in through the small slit of space where the curtains weren’t pulled flush to one another.
So I’m in a hotel room of sorts. Or motel even. Okay, I can work with that. It could be much worse—like torture dungeons and forensics nightmares worse. But I can work with this.
I wiggle my arms, trying to get some blood flow back into my hands. I’m not sure how long I was out or if they knocked me out again and I just don’t remember it, but I’ve been sitting here long enough for my hands to lose circulation. My stomach chooses that moment to growl, giving me another clue.
Fuck. Maybe this is just part of the whole thing, like a mindfuck. I stretch my neck from side to side and try to shore up my defenses for whenever someone comes in here.
For the first time in my life, I’m grateful that Matteo didn’t pull me in sooner. I’d be a fucking liability right now. I’d like to think that I could withstand torture, but I don’t really know if that’s true. I have no way of knowing when I’ll cave or what my limits are.
Will I withstand waterboarding but break when they start ripping off my fingernails?
Sweat breaks out on my brow and the back of my neck. I reach to wipe it off reflexively, and rage flares at my confinement. Like an itch that begs to be scratched, my attention zeroes in on the physical proof of my fear sliding down my neck.
I breathe through my nose and scan the room again, trying to think like Matteo would. No, I should try to think of what Dante would do. If I could only have one person in my corner, he’s the one I’d pick. That guy is fucking ruthless and stealthy as hell.
Okay, you can do this. Just take a breath and think like Dante.
As far as pep talks go, it’s not my best, but I’ll take it. I exhale and straighten my shoulders as much as I can, sitting up taller as I survey the room once again. I don’t see any red or blinking lights of any kind to indicate a camera, so that’s something.
I also don’t see a single personal item here. It’s like they just dumped me in here and left without a backward glance. At some point, someone has to come in though. Otherwise, what’s the point?
So for now, I’ll just wait and formulate a plan.
I don’t have to wait long, maybe twenty minutes, before there’s a whirring noise and a click. The door swings open and a guy walks in holding a fast food bag in one hand and a cardboard drink tray in the other. He pauses just inside the door and stares at me.
“Oh, you’re awake. Perfect timing then, yeah?”
I cock my head to the side and take him in. He’s too happy for someone who found a man tied to a chair in a hotel room. So either he’s the one who put me here or he knew about it.
Dark hair, dark eyes, dressed in a black tee and dark jeans—he looks like a normal guy, except for the murderous gleam in his eye. I don’t recognize him, but that doesn’t mean much considering I only decided to join the family recently. Another point for Matteo. He kept me out of all the limelight that comes with being Angelo Rossi’s son, as much as he could, I guess.
He crosses the room and sets the food on the end of the bed closest to me. The smell of greasy burgers and French fries fill the small space, and on cue, my stomach growls.
“Damn. I should’ve brought more. I bet you’re hungry, yeah?” He smirks as he takes out the food and methodically lines it up. Four cheeseburgers, two bags of french fries, and a side salad in a plastic container.
I nod and watch him with narrowed eyes as he approaches me with a burger in one hand and a gun in the other. My brows hit my hairline, and not because I’m not familiar with guns. “Where did that come from?”
“Oh, this?” He wiggles it in the air like he’s waving to a friend and not casually holding a deadly weapon a foot in front of my face. “I don’t leave home without it. Like that credit card commercial from years ago.”
He stares at me with hopeful eyes like I have any idea what the fuck he’s talking about. Jesus Christ, what’s with this guy?
“I must’ve missed that one,” I murmur, side-eyeing him as he sets the wrapped burger on the chair of the arm and swiftly cuts the zip tie off one hand. I flex my fingers instantly, anxious to get the blood flowing again.
