Page 100 of The Hidden Heir

They toss me into the back of a black van, and just before they shut the side door, I hear my son crying somewhere close to me.

“Oh, God, Michael!” I cry out and spot him in the front, his car seat strapped next to the driver.

Everything happens so fast, I only have a few moments to register the details—the little things that really matter. I gasp when I see Victor on the ground by the car, blood pooling beneath him. His head moves slightly. He’s still alive, though I’m not sure for how long.

“Hurry!” one of the men says.

Pop. Pop. Pop.

Gunshots ring out.

The driver gets behind the wheel. Two of the men jump in the back of the van with me, while the fourth lingers for a couple of seconds to fire back at Luca before he joins us and slides the door shut with an unbearable clang.

“GO! GO! GO!”

The tires screech, and I smell the smoke before the van skids away, the engine rumbling furiously as we hit the road and leave the motel behind. I’m shaking like a leaf, my mind split between Luca, Victor, and Michael. My whole body is rigid, my joints stiff and my heart racing.

“What is this?” I manage, wincing from sore knees and elbows and listening to my son’s cries. “It’s okay, honey, everything is going to be okay, baby. Mama’s here!” I call out, hoping to soothe him.

It tears me apart that he’s so scared and confused right now.

One of the men crouches next to me to bind my hands.

“What the fuck is going on?” I snarl in his covered face.

He stills and looks at me, his eyes wide and warm brown.

“It’s best if you keep quiet. You don’t wanna make our boss mad,” he replies in an irritatingly calm manner.

“What’s this about? Where are you taking me?”

“That’s none of your fucking concern, Mrs. Petrucci. Your primary concern right now is for you to shut the fuck up if you want to reach your destination alive,” the driver shoots back sarcastically. “And somebody give this kid a lollipop or something. He’s driving me nuts!”

One of the guys moves closer to the front, reaching over the passenger seat to soothe my son.

“Don’t you dare fucking touch him!” I shout.

“It’s for his sake and yours. Shut up!” he growls and, to my surprise, produces a sucker from his pocket to give Michael.

Relief washes over me, albeit briefly, once I realize the sucker does the trick, keeping Michael busy and quiet while I crane my neck to get a view of the road ahead. My captors notice my curiosity and pull me down to keep me from seeing, two guns viciously trained on me.

“Who are you?” I ask again. “Why are you doing this?”

“The less you talk, the better,” the driver states.

“Who hired you?”

“What did I just fucking say?” he groans with frustration.

For my son’s sake, I need to tread this line carefully. But we’re in danger, that much is obvious. Victor was shot. They left him to bleed out on the ground, then they took my son and rushed to catch me and Luca in a vulnerable moment. This was timed with Swiss-like precision, and it’s terrifying.

They knew everything.

I need to focus on something, anything, to keep my mind from spiraling out of control, so I look at the guy who wrapped me in the bed sheet. He sits across from me; his gun pointed at my chest and a sour look in his eyes. I can’t see his face because it is covered with the balaclava, but his frame tells me enough.

He’s big, brawny, built for violence but light on his feet.

“Where are we going?” I decide to ask, if only to keep them talking, to get one of them to slip up.