NO, NO, NO. I refuse to fucking die like this.
I swing my foot back hard and connect with his knee. I hear the satisfying crunch of bone but his hold on me remains tight. A sinister voice growls in my ear, “You’ll pay for that, motherfucker.”
Then the attacker brings a cloth to my mouth and
everything
goes.
black.
Chapter 79
Kai
Iopenmyeyesandimmediately wonder whether I’m dead. But if I were dead, I don’t think I’d feel any pain and I’m in so much of it. My head is throbbing and fuzzy, like cotton has been stuffed between my ears. It hurts to breathe, to blink, to exist. My chin rests heavy against my chest while I get my bearings. It stings and aches. I’m sure it’s covered in bruises and cuts. My shirt is torn and soaked in blood.
I try to move my hands but they’re being restrained by something. Zip ties maybe? I can’t move my legs either. They are shackled to what I think is a wooden chair. And wherever I am is dark and dingy. The entire place feels musty and closed off, everything covered in a thick layer of grime.Maybe I’m underground? The floor feels wet and so do my sneakers. Glancing down and squinting, I realize the concrete is saturated, from a mix of my piss and blood.
Jesus fucking Christ. I’m going to die here.
In this dirty, disgusting shithole.
And just as I begin to slip into a panic attack, a rough hand grabs my jaw, yanking it upward.
“Nice of you to join us, pretty boy,” the man sneers, giving me a menacing smile. It’s the same disturbing voice of the person who attacked me in the parking lot. He slaps my face hard, making sure I’m paying attention.
“Where am I?” I mutter, turning my head out of his grip. I lick my bottom lip where blood trickles out, the metallic taste flooding my mouth.
“We can’t tell you that. That would take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it, lad?” he speaks with a heavy Irish accent, confirming what I already know. I was right to be paranoid. There is no doubt in my mind that the man or men who kidnapped me are connected to the O’Rourke mob. I saw this coming. I just didn’t want to accept it.
“What do you want?” I snarl, staring up at him. He’s tall, maybe an inch or two shorter than me, with muddy brown hair and empty emerald eyes. He has a gun in a holster on his hip along with black steel-toed boots. Tattooed biceps bulge underneath his t-shirt. I could probably take him, or outrun him, but not in the condition I’m in. That’s assuming I could even break free somehow.
“Listen mate, you thought you could fuck around with the O’Rourke’s and we wouldn’t come to collect?”
“I paid 30,000 dollars more than the debt. I would hardly call that fucking around,” I respond. He moves quickly, even with his slight limp, taking a knife stowed in his pocket and bringing the sharp edge to the side of my face. He kneels in front of me, pressing it into my cheek.
“It wasn’t your debt to pay, lad. And it wasn’t your business to fuck with.”
“But it’s paid,” I told him, trying to understand what this was all about.
“It’s not about the money anymore, lad. We’ve been waiting for Aiden to pay his dues for years now. Do you know how muchof our time he’s wasted? And the boss doesn’t like his time being wasted.” I swallow, unable to form words. “The debt's been paid. But disrespect?” He clicks his tongue, dragging the knife down my cheek, a stain of blood following it. “That's a different kind of bill entirely.”
“Please, I will give you whatever you want. Please,” I beg. “Don’t kill me.”
“Don’t worry, pretty boy, we aren’t going to kill you. You’re of no use to us dead,” he says standing.
“So then what do you—what do they—want?” I sputter.
“You know, just a cool million.”
The number lands like a punch to the sternum. A million dollars. I run the math before I can stop myself, liquidating my accounts, breaking my CDs early, bleeding out my retirement fund. The house in Thailand. Maybe then. Maybe.
“I don't have that kind of money liquidated right now,” I say carefully. “That's not something I can pull up on my phone in the next five minutes.”
He tilts his head, unbothered. “No one said anything about five minutes.”
“I'm serious. That's… I'd need time. Days, maybe. To move things around without triggering flags.”
