Rocco sounds as uneased as I feel when he says, “That bitch is playing at something.” He lowers his voice to ensure his next set of words are only for my ears. “Theresa didn’t ask Ellie to wait here for no reason. She wanted both you and your time occupied.”
I jerk up my chin, agreeing with him. “But for what reason? And how did she know I’d be out looking for…” Anger burns up my words.
She didn’t pick this location for no reason.
She’s fucking playing me.
“I’m going to kill her.”
My arm is clutched for the third time today. It isn’t Smith this time around. It’s Rocco. “You’ll never win the game if you keep letting your opposition blind you with false razzle and dazzle.”
“She’s playing me.”
He doesn’t deny what I’m saying because he knows it’s the truth. “Because she needed you distracted. Find out why, and then you’ll have all the pieces you need to win.” When the groove between my brows doesn’t budge, he chuckles out, “You’re always running a million miles an hour, Dimi. Slow down, take a breath, and look at the entire picture.”
He nudges his head to Ellie and Smith during his last sentence. They’re no longer going to war with words. They are working together, side by side, their natural connection making it obvious they don’t just make magic between the sheets. They could be just as explosive outside of them if I’m willing to give them a chance.
“If this backfires—”
“It won’t,” Rocco assures, slapping me on the shoulder. “Because firecrackers don’t implode with despair. They make a starry night seem bland.” In a rare show of affection, he pulls me into his side and whispers, “They’ll come out of this, D. They’re too strong not to.”
8
Roxanne
The dry throat I’ve been struggling to ignore the past seven or eight hours becomes unbearable when the dark-haired stranger pulls his car down a long, dusty driveway. I haven’t seen a house in miles. There may have very well been ranches dotted along the many roads we traveled, but with winter arriving early, the sun commenced lowering over an hour ago. Farmers aren’t a fan of burning the midnight oil, so I may have missed their ranches during our drive. Even the house we’re approaching is scant on lighting. Only the flickers of a candle on a second story can be seen.
I swallow harshly when the black-haired man gleams a blinding grin. “It’s not the Ritz, but compared to where you’re going, it’ll seem like it.” He tosses a lint-riddled sweater into my chest before grunting for me to hurry up and get dressed. “If you walk in like that, you won’t make it through the night untouched. Castro won’t like that. He always gets first dibs.”
The burn of my throat is horrendous. I’ve heard that name before. It was mentioned by members of Dimitri’s crew many times when they discussed the crew holding his daughter captive.
I’m grateful I am about to meet the little girl I haven’t stopped thinking about since Dimitri showed me her photograph, but I’m also worried. This place is derelict and rundown. If my confines are worse than this, there’s only one place I’m going. Straight to hell.
The stranger does a final glance at the shadows between my legs before he throws open the door of his truck and steps down. As he makes his way to my side of the retro-vehicle, I slip the sweater over my head, breathing easier when it falls to my knees. I’m not just grateful to have my modesty back, I am thankful for the warmth. It’s a lot colder here than it was in Hopeton.
“Did this region have early snow as predicted over Thanksgiving?”
It’s the fight of my life not to pout when he answers my question with a grunt. I was hoping he was as stupid as he looks. The fact he’s going against a man as powerful as Dimitri reveals he’s lax on smarts, he just doesn’t want me to know that.
“Out.” I fall out of the cabin of his truck too fast for my dead legs to keep up with when he tugs on my arm. My body isn’t just sore from being motionless for hours. The press of my thighs as I’ve fought to hold back the screams of my bladder make it seem as if I have run a marathon.
“Can I please use the restroom?” I request from my station on the sloshy ground. “I can’t hold it any longer.”
“Soon.” He hoists me from the ground by my arm. Although his reply wasn’t what I was hoping, it’s better than a straight-up no.
The reason for my unrequired deprivation of liberty is exposed when he guides me into a room on the lower level of the rundown ranch. The lights are switched off, but since my eyes have become accustomed to the dark, I can see the equipment in front of me as if it is daylight. A bed similar to the one in Dr. Bates’s office sits squashed against the back wall, and an ultrasound monitor and paraphernalia is on its right.
“Get on the bed.” I barely shake my head for a second when the goon rips my hair from my scalp with a brutal clutch. “I wasn’t asking.”
My eyes don’t know which way to look when he drags me across the room by my hair—at the shadows above my head revealing there are people peering at me through the cracks in the floorboards, the shadow I hear snickering in the corner of the room, or the obvious ruckus of drunken men below me.
When I’m tossed onto the bed as if I’m weightless and tied down like a mental patient in a psychiatric hospital, I settle on the shadows dancing above my head. They’re as silent as my frozen heart but somehow comforting. They wouldn’t watch if this was about to be gory. Only horrible, vile people would stand by and watch someone be tortured.
A cool breeze wafts against my thighs when the man raises the waistband of the sweater, drawing my focus back to him. He bands the over-used material under my breasts before he squeezes a generous dollop of clear fluid onto the middle of my stomach.
“Lower,” says a voice at the side, her tone very much feminine and unique. “If she’s only a few weeks along, you need to scan just above her pubic bone.”
Her knowledge of ultrasounds makes me sick.
