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If I really push this, they might shoot me, and the idea of being paralyzed from a shot against my spine—assuming I’d even survive it—has my heart hammering even harder in my chest.
I can see the security guard’s hesitation, and he scans our faces.
But I already know I look defeated.
The guard takes a step back. “Have a good evening, gentlemen.”
The pressure of the gun against my back stays there as a silent threat, and I bite my tongue as the man lingers for just another moment before turning and heading inside.
My last hope dies with his exit.
“Now, that’s enough,” the blond says, turning around to face me as he tucks the fake badge away. He clucks his tongue, and I see the glint of a metallic piercing in it as well. “We were going to do this all peaceful, but no. You had to involve someone else.”
“Not like it matters,” I snap as the man holding me finally moves the gun. I feel it as he slips it away, but I don’t jerk against him again. I don’t want any gun accidents when he has the thing at point blank range. “You two jackasses cheated.”
To my surprise, the blond laughs, flashing dimpled cheeks at me. “Would you have been happier if we’d just shot him?”
Honestly? I wouldn’t have cared if it had helped me get away, but he’d had the gun onme, not the guard.
“That’s what we thought,” the dark-haired man rumbles against my ear. He jerks me toward the car they’d just unlocked. He opens the back door and shoves me inside, and there’s nothing I can do as he slides in behind me and slams the door.
The blond gets into the driver’s seat, and utter defeat takes over me. They got me into the car. This was the one thing I couldn’t let happen, and they’d managed it because of two fake police badges.
People are such gullible sheep, and that’s why I’m sitting in the back of a car with two men I don’t know who very obviously have nothing good in mind for me.
Fuck my life.
2
Angelo
Lucia is pretty, I’ll give her that. More than pretty. The photos didn’t do her justice, even with her dressed-down look. She thought she’d be able to disguise herself with the boyish clothes, but her face stands out. The plush lips, the bright green eyes, the way tendrils of her dark hair fall around her oval face—it’s all gorgeous in a way that can’t be hidden.
I keep my arm around her in the back seat of the car, forcing her to sit pressed against my side. She’s glaring, like I give two shits about how angry she is.
“My father will have you killed,” she threatens, and it’s kind of cute how she thinks that might sway us.
We’re already prepared for that possibility. If we weren’t, we wouldn’t have kidnapped Giorgis Bellini’s oldest daughter, his pride and joy. Or so they say; I’m still not convinced that fucker cares about anything except money and power.
“He’s gonna try,” I answer, and I run the barrel of my gun along her jaw. She tenses deliciously, and there’s actual fear in her eyes. Good. I’m still smarting over her little kick, and I’m going to get my payback ten-fold. “How much do you think he’s going to pay for you? Half a million? A million?”
We don’t actually care about the cash, but she doesn’t need to know that yet.
In the driver’s seat, Saint laughs, and I meet his eyes through the rearview mirror. “Don’t mess her up too much, or she won’t even be worth ten bucks.”
Lucia shudders and curls her shoulders. “You can’t touch me,” she says, and that just makes me laugh.
“Can’t touch you? Princess, you don’t make the rules here.” I take the gun into my other hand, the one around her shoulder, and casually leave it pointing down. The safety’s on, but the threat is still there.
With my other hand now free, I start fondling her. I start with her face, tracing the line of her cheek with the backs of my fingers, then down her neck. I can feel her vibrating with anger—or fear—but she doesn’t pull away. The large sweater she’s wearing gets in the way, but it’s too big for her. I tug down one sleeve to expose her shoulder. She’s only wearing a tank top underneath, the strap so thin I easily rip it.
“Don’t,” she demands, biting her lip as soon as the word is out.
The aborted begging pleases me though. “Go on,” I whisper into her ear. “Tell me again what I can’t do. Tell me to stop.”
She sets her jaw stubbornly and shakes her head. Apparently she’s a feisty one. That’s very, very good. I don’t like them passive, not like Saint does.
I rip the other strap too, then reach under the sweater to pull the tank top down. I take that opportunity to run my hand over her soft stomach and to her breasts. The bra feels lacy, something a woman might wear to show off over preferring comfort.
