Holy shit.
I focus on my body, trying to determine if anything aches. Outside of my head and shoulders, nothing hurts, and I pray that’s a good sign.
“If you start screaming or make a scene, my president will send someone in to dose your ass again.” He sighs, shaking his head. “Consider that fair warning of what’ll go down if you act up, not an actual threat. I hate threatening women.”
“What are you even talking about?” I choke out, trying to use my forearm to push myself up. It’s complicated with my hands being tied together, and I have even less coordination than usual, likely from whatever they used to drug me. I fall back against the mattress, and the jarring movement rips through my skull, making me whimper. “Oh, God. That was bad.”
“Shit,” he mutters, his hand landing on my arm. “Maybe you should give yourself some time before you try to move too much.”
“Yeah, thanks. I’ll take that under advisement.”
He snorts, and little crinkles appear around his eyes. “So, what’s the deal with you and the mafia guy?”
“You’re going to need to be a little more specific.” I groan, trying once again to bring my hands up to rub my temples. Only, I forgot they’re still bound. “Could you untie me? My head is killing me, and I need to pee.”
“You’re awful bossy for a kidnapping victim,” he says, sounding amused. “Tell me about your relationship with Moretti, and I’ll see what I can do to help you out.”
“I’m no one’s victim,” I snap, trying to kick him. That might be counterproductive, but it doesn’t do much since my ankles are also tied, which I hadn’t realized.
“Hey, you might be delusional, but I like the conviction.” He chuckles. “Come on, now. You help me, I help you. I’m sure you know how this works.”
My mind races, but I’m still not clear enough to think everything through with the drug running through my system.
Was I kidnapped because of Moretti?
That probably wouldn’t have crossed my mind—at least, not for a long time. My first assumption would be that my father pissed someone off, and I’m now leverage to get him to do what these people want.
If they think Moretti cares about me, will that make them more likely to treat me better, or will they torture me to get back at him?
“Moretti is an associate of my father’s,” I say, and it’s not exactly a lie. They just so happen to hate each other, but they are forced to make deals because of how Boston runs. “My father is Julian Chapman.” I search his face, but there’s not an ounce of recognition. “My brothers are Vance and Victor…”
Still nothing.
Fuck.
This is bad.
Almost everyone knows the twins.
“Are you part of one of the mafia families?”
“Yes.” I nod more vigorously than I should with my head throbbing the way it does. “My family will start a war to get me back.”
If for no other reason than they have plenty of disposable muscle they can sacrifice. I’m worth a lot more alive than I am dead, but I keep that part to myself.
“We kidnapped a fucking mafia princess.” He laughs derisively. “This vacation just keeps getting better and better.” His tone betrays his distaste, and I vaguely wonder if I can use that to my advantage in some way.
If he wants no part of whatever this is, maybe he’ll help me escape if I promise my family won’t punish him.
He leans over the edge of the mattress and holds my legs down, working on the binds around my ankles. “All right. Your legs are untied. I’m going to help you up, slow and steady.”
“Are you going to help me escape?” I blurt out, my mouth working faster than my brain.
I’m never this optimistic, and under any other circumstances, I’d be embarrassed at myself for asking such a dumb question.
“Not a fucking chance, but I am going to help you to the bathroom. You mentioned needing to take a piss,” he says, just as crass as all the other men in my life.
My nose wrinkles. “Fine, but you’re leaving while I use the toilet.”
