Page 172 of Don’t Say Mafia

The man continued to glare at me, clearly thinking about how much he wanted to rip my head off, and the third one—the one by the panel—grabbed his wrist before he could swing again. “It’s not time to have fun yet,” he said lazily. “Boss wants her boyfriend to see it all happen. Every second. Every scream. We need to keep her pretty for the camera.”

I pressed my back against the wall, my chest heaving as pain throbbed across my burning cheek. A tear slipped free and tracked down my face.

The elevator lurched downward.

And all I could think was Jagger’s name, over and over, like a prayer he’d never hear in time.

CHAPTER 39

JAGGER

Iwoke up coughing.

Hard, violent coughs tore out of my chest, scraping my throat raw as my lungs seized against the choking darkness. Exhaust fumes flooded my mouth with every breath I dragged in, coating my tongue like oil. The air tasted of gasoline and burnt rubber, thick and foul as it filled my lungs.

My head pounded, a deep throb pulsing through my skull in time with my heartbeat. I tried to sit up and immediately slammed my forehead into rigid metal, the impact sending a burst of pain behind my eyes.

A trunk.

I was in a fucking trunk.

My arms were wrenched behind my back, zip ties cutting deep into my wrists until I could feel blood slicking my fingers. Every movement pulled at the raw, burning line across the top of my shoulder where the bullet had clipped me, the wound throbbing sharply with my pulse. My ankles were bound, too, forcing my legs together while my knees jammed painfully against the wheel well. The space around me was suffocatingly small, my shoulders wedged tight, my spine curved awkwardly as every shallow inhale pushed my chest against the lid above me.

Another cough tore out of me and burned my lungs as I tried to figure out what was happening. I was pretty sure whatever vehicle I was in wasn’t moving because I couldn’t hear any road noise . . .

I tested the bindings, starting with my wrists. The zip ties bit deeper when I twisted, the plastic grinding into my skin without the slightest give. I tried to work a hand beneath the tie, but the edge only cut sharper, cinched tight enough that whoever had done it knew exactly what they were doing.

My ankles were worse. They’d been pulled together so tight my feet were already starting to go numb. I rocked my body, trying to roll onto my side, but the space was too small. Every time I shifted, my knees slammed into the lid above me.

Motherfucker.

Okay, Jagger. Calm down. Breathe. Let’s think this through.

I cataloged what I knew. Gage had been shot—badly. Cruz had also been shot but had been mostly okay when I got knocked out. Declan’s crew had overwhelmed us. They’d said they were going for Eden.

Eden.

The thought of her hit like a fresh bullet, and my pulse spiked. Zachary had gone to the penthouse. He was good, and I had at least six other guards that had been guarding the doors. It was also in a public building, but . . .

I shoved my panic down. Panic got people killed. I needed to get out and get to her . . . get to all of them.

My bound hands swept along the trunk floor, searching for anything. A release latch. A spare tire iron. Even a loose screw. Nothing. The carpet had been glued down tight. There were no tools or gaps.

I rocked again, harder this time, and shoulder screamed in protest, but the bindings didn’t budge.

Teeth clenched, I tried the wrist trick again, flexing my hands and working the zip tie toward the heel of my palm. My skin tore and blood slicked my fingers and . . . still nothing.

I was stuck.

Trapped like a fucking rat.

And every second I spent in here, Eden was⁠—

The trunk lid suddenly flew open.

Bright light stabbed into my eyes. I squinted, my vision swimming as rough hands grabbed my shirt and hauled me up and out like I weighed nothing. My bound legs dragged across the lip of the trunk, and I hit the ground hard on my knees. Concrete bit into my skin, and I groaned as pain flared in my shoulder, my head . . . everywhere.

Blinking against the glare, I saw I was in another small warehouse, not one of ours, judging by how filthy it was. Hanging bulbs swung overhead, and I jerked when I saw Cruz was tied to a metal chair maybe ten feet away, his arms bound behind him. His head was slumped forward, and blood matted his hair, the whole front of his shirt, and one of his thighs. He wasn’t moving.